A Child of Baseball : Part 1

Hideki Matsui: Sportsmanship, Modesty, and the Art of the Home Run
by Shizuka Ijuin

In this unique and meaningful book, Shizuka Ijuin, an award-winning author and a friend of baseball legend Hideki Matsui, profiles the beloved New York Yankee - a world-class athlete who exemplifies a quality that Ijuin believes is central to success and well-being: modesty.

Hideki Matsui embodies the Eastern virtue that combines compassion and self-effacement with high achievement. Born in a northern coastal town of Japan, Matsui was a phenomenon by the time he was a teenager, playing baseball in the famous high school league tournament at the Koshien Stadium and nicknamed "the wunderkind from the North." His character was formed early on: Matsui's father once taught him not to complain about an opposing pitcher who had intentionally walked him five times in a row, for, his father asserted, the other boy was enduring something even worse. As class president and high school team captain, Matsui spoke out against verbal abuse and bullying.

Turning pro with the prestigious Yomiuri Giants, Matsui became the best hitter in the league, a national hero whose feats on the field lifted fans' spirits. Matsui feared that his admirers would feel betrayed when he joined the Major Leagues in America, but instead they urged him on, asking only that he continue to make them proud.

And Matsui has done exactly that, with his accomplishments and the dignified manner in which he has behaved. Matsui has set a high public standard, visiting Ground Zero soon after his arrival in the United States, sending relief money to earthquake victims and tsunami survivors, and always acting with modesty.

But this book is more than an inspiring portrait of a sportsman with the soul of a stoic modern samurai. Shizuka Ijuin explains the role modesty plays in Japanese culture, showing, for instance, how Japanese Little Leaguers start games by properly greeting their elders, thereby learning that respect is more important than scoring.

Hideki Matsui: Sportsmanship, Modesty, and the Art of the Home Run is a book sure to stand the test of time, transcending sports to express a philosophy of life.

Chapter 1

April 8, 2003. I don't think I will ever forget that day.

"What a gorgeous morning," said my wife, Hiroko, as she stood on tiptoes, holding open the curtain of the window that looked out on the garden to the east of our house in Sendai, the beautiful City of Trees. Glancing up from the chair where I was sipping fragrant Chinese tea while reviewing the manuscript of my latest novel, I saw that it was indeed a beautiful spring day. The snow clouds that until yesterday had hung low over the landscape were starting to break up, and the sun was peeking through.

"It's been so long since we've seen blue sky," Hiroko continued, excitement in her voice. "I have a feeling that it's a good omen. You wait and see. Today will be a day to remember."

I knew better than to contradict my wife on such matters. Besides, I was hoping that her prediction would come true. "Just remember not to touch the television in the living room," I cautioned her. "It's all set up, okay?"

Several days earlier, an electrician had installed a new tuner that enabled us to receive more television channels than ever before. In most families, there are one or two young people who are technically savvy, but our house consisted of only a bungling writer in his late fifties, a former actress who had little experience with homemaking, and a hard-to-please dog who had the face, and often the temperament, of a dour philosopher. Between the three of us, it would be hard to say who was the least competent when it came to electronics. Ever since the new tuner had been installed, Hiroko and I had been afraid to do anything more complicated than turn the TV on and off. The reason for all of this caution was simple: Our television was set to receive live coverage of the New York Yankees' home opener against the Minnesota Twins, almost seven thousand miles away from our home in Japan. If anything went wrong with the new tuner or the TV, we would miss the major-league debut of Hideki Matsui, a moment that we had waited seven long months to see. It was a moment that Hideki, whom my wife and I had grown close to over the course of his extraordinary career in Japan, had been waiting for his entire life.

In fact, the game had been scheduled for yesterday, but there had been heavy snow in New York, and it had been called off at the last minute. Hiroko and I had been sitting expectantly in front of the television at three o'clock in the morning-the fourteen-hour difference between New York and Japan made watching the game in real time an exercise in sleep deprivation-when the announcer had broken the bad news. Now, thanks to the inscrutable ways of the baseball gods, we had almost an entire day to get through before the postponed game was played, and my wife and I were jittery with anxiety and suspense . . . and a lack of sleep. I couldn't concentrate on my novel. Hiroko busied herself about the house to no purpose that I could see. Even our dog, Ice, had picked up on the mood, wandering between us with a quizzical, slightly pained expression on his face that seemed to indicate he was pondering questions of profound philosophical significance.

"Maybe you should go to church," I suggested to Hiroko after a while.

"Why? I just went to Sunday worship yesterday."

"You could pray for Matsui."

"I already prayed for him yesterday."

"But that was for the snowed-out game," I said. "Those prayers might not count anymore. Just to be on the safe side, I think you should pray again. You know, sort of to remind God."

My wife gave me a look I knew well. It said, "What kind of idiot did I marry?"

I would have prayed for Matsui myself, but there wasn't any reason for me to think that God would listen to my prayers, much less grant them. I had been raised in a home without religion, then had led a life of debauchery until the age of thirty, at which point I had become a writer. And deep down inside, despite my wife's influence and example, I knew that I hadn't really improved too much in all the years since. No, I would leave the praying to Hiroko, a devout Catholic.

"It's disrespectful to 'remind' God," she informed me. "Anyway, I prayed very hard that Matsui would have a good game. Everything will be all right, you'll see. Try not to worry so much."

Hours later, I was wondering if Matsui was in need of her advice. There he was in Yankee Stadium, his cap held to his chest, a tense expression on his face as he listened to "The Star-Spangled Banner" performed by the United States Military Academy at West Point Glee Club.

"He looks a little nervous," Hiroko said, sounding more than a little nervous herself.

"Well, of course. He's standing in the ballpark of his dreams for the first time, the famous 'House that Ruth Built,' " I replied. Over the years, my wife and I had come to consider Matsui more than just a friend. This gifted young man had won a special place in our hearts. And now, watching him, I felt my heart swell with pride. The past year had been filled with difficult choices for

Matsui, but he had faced them with dignity and bravery. Now, after everything, there he was, standing tall and proud in Yankee pinstripes. Look how far you've come, I said silently, as if he could hear my thoughts all those miles away.

As the names of the starting lineup were announced and Matsui trotted out to his position in left field, loud cheers and applause rose up from the stands. The Yankee fans were doing everything they could to make this young man from Japan feel welcome in his first home game. I knew that some fans had come all the way from Japan to see their hero play, and there were many Japanese-Americans in the stands as well. Yet despite the outpouring of support, Matsui looked a bit tentative to me as he ran to the outfield. He seemed to be reassuring himself that the grass beneath his feet was real. Or perhaps he wasn't used to the cold. According to the announcers, the temperature was a frigid thirty-five degrees.

Facing the veteran pitcher Joe Mays, Matsui's first at bat was a ground ball to second base, and though he ran hard, he was thrown out at first. He got on base his second at bat, but only by a walk. I had a feeling that the fans were beginning to wonder if Matsui could really hit major-league pitchers after all. Was his reputation as a slugger, the hitting power that had earned him the nickname "Godzilla," nothing but hype? Hiroko and I exchanged worried glances. I thought about bringing up the subject of prayers again but decided that would not be wise.

Going into the bottom of the fifth inning, the Yankees had a 3-1 lead. With one out and players on second and third base, Bernie Williams came up to bat. The Twins' catcher, A. J. Pierzynski, stood up.

I couldn't believe my eyes. "What, an intentional walk?!" I shouted incredulously at the television.

Copyright © 2007 by Shizuka Ijuin.

About the Author

Shizuka Ijuin aspired to be a professional baseball player before a shoulder injury thwarted his boyhood dream. After successful stints as an advertising executive, a commercial director, and a pop song writer, Ijuin became an acclaimed author. He met Hideki Matsui after receiving the Naoki Prize for Ukezuki (The Waxing Moon), a collection of short stories about baseball. Other honors include the Yoshikawa Eiji Literary Award for new writers for Nyubo (The Breast); the Naoki Prize for Ukezuki (The Month of Accepting); the Shibata Renzaburo Award for Kikansha Sensei (Locomotive Teacher); and the Yoshikawa Eiji Literary Award for Goro goro. He lives in Tokyo with his wife.