Tim Noonan
It's the moments between the moments that make baseball what it is and either you get it or you don't. Some people will shrug and ask; when did baseball get so damn introspective? We thought it was just boring. But me, I like the pauses that give you pause. It can take roughly 15-20 seconds between pitches, sometimes longer. You can look away from the action and miss nothing. You can talk, you can drink and you can dream. Baseball, where nothing is happening but everything is happening. Where it's happening right now is here in Tokyo's Meiji Jingu Stadium as the home team the Yakult Swallows play the Hiroshima Carp.
The antiquated ballpark sits in the middle of the city in a sprawling green area. Neither the Carp nor the Swallows will be qualifying for the post season and there seems to be one booze vendor for every two members of the sparse crowd. It's hot, ridiculously so. If the rest of the world is frying than Japan insists on being part of the global meltdown as well and the unprecedented heat wave smashes a 113 year-old-record. I need a little bit of heaven in this hell, so one more frosty beer please. Thank you. The Swallows fall behind 3-0 early to the Carp before we even settle into our seats. At the plate is Swallows centrefielder Norichika Aoki. He takes his time digging into the batters box, which gives me a second to devour this environ. Bucolic, alcoholic, rhapsodic, it works for me. First pitch to Aoki is low and away, ball one. I am joined by my brother-in-law and his son and daughter, who are part of the 'new' Japan. How you choose to live the moments between the moments at a baseball game is up to you and, not surprisingly, my 17 year-old nephew spends those moments on his I-Phone furiously texting his friends.
Foul ball, slapped into the crowd. Aoki is a master, the best Japanese hitter not named Ichiro Suzuki. He is measuring the pitcher right now, seeing what he has. He wants him to throw as many pitches as possible so he can tire him out and also so his teammates can see what this guy has. While the nephew is engrossed with his I-Phone, I am thinking about my ever-expanding stomach and what I have been treating it to over the last few days in Japan. In a word - gyozas. Pronounced properly, the first syllable is the same as the French version of the name Guy (hard G, double ee). Repeat after me: Gy-yo-za. The sound is just as important as the taste.
The pitcher tries to get Aoki to chase a wayward toss, but no dice. Ball two. Gyozas are pork dumplings lightly grilled to perfection at a place called Harajuku Gyoza. They are served in a plate of six with a glass of exquisite nah-ma bee-roo (draught beer) and a side of chilled cucumbers in miso sauce. The whole experience is nothing short of orgasmic and a few years back I took a Hong Kong-based friend to this particular shop and when he finally came up for air, he asked, 'How many of these gyozas have I eaten?' I lost track at 40, I told him. We both agreed that a man can get wide in a hurry in a place like this. Surprisingly though, no one else other than us was. The mysteries of Japan.
Aoki doesn't like the next pitch, even though it's a strike. Two balls, two strikes. I don't believe in bucket lists, I find them patently morbid. But if you are making one then add Harajuku Gyoza to it. You can thank me in the next life. Aoki fouls off a pitch again. The pitcher may not know it yet, but he does have a pitch that Aoki likes.
It's not exactly a revelation, merely an observation but all you need to know about modern-day Japan is on display at a baseball game and at Harajuku Gyoza. Change is feared, denial is everywhere. Japan's economy has been going backwards for over 20 years and this past month China blew past them to become the world's second-largest economy. It's difficult to see Japan's relevancy in the new world order and yet the thin crowd is cheering raucously for two teams going nowhere in a country going nowhere.
Aoki looks at a pitch that just barely misses. Three balls, two strikes, full count. He steps out of the batters box and takes a brief stroll while my stomach visits memory lane and the sprawling queue to get into the non-descript gyoza restaurant in the bowels of ultra-trendy Harajuku. Louis Vuitton bags are a dime a dozen while the outrageously attired youth of Japan align with sweat-soaked construction workers. All of them wait, orderly, for a taste of heaven.
I sit at the counter next to a kid with spiked-up hair dressed in all black. He eats, he pouts, he smokes. Even in their rebelliousness, the youth of Japan reek of conformity. Like the adults they seem to disdain, they smoke with impunity in a country that refuses to do anything about it. The rest of the civilized world has enacted draconian anti-smoking measures. But here in Japan, they manage to exist in the present while stubbornly living in the past.
Aoki deftly flicks his wrists at a pitch and drives it the other way down the left field line before trotting into second base with a stand up double. The crowd cheers madly. My brother in-law smiles and asks; 'Tim-san, Harajuku Gyoza later?' Why not, it will be my second visit today but I've been there in spirit for most of the game anyhow. Sometimes the moments between the moments can taste oh so good.
