From the Publisher
"Whiting has hit upon a brilliant way of demonstrating the very different psyche of our major trading partner across the Pacific."--The New York Times Book Review
From the Inside Flap
An important element in Japanese baseball is wa--group harmony--embodied in the proverb "The nail that sticks up shall be hammered down". But what if the nail is a visiting American player? Here's a look at Japanese baseball, as seen by baffled Americans
About the Author
Robert Whiting is the author of You Gotta Have Wa and is one of the very few Westerners to write a regular column in the Japanese press. He has appeared as a commentator in documentaries about Japan and on such shows as Larry King Live and The MacNeil-Lehrer Newshour. He has also written for The New York Times, Sports Illustrated, Smithsonian, Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report, and Time, among other publications. He lives in Tokyo.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1
The Visitation
I don't know whether the Japanese system is good or not. I just don't understand it.
—Bob Horner
He walked off the plane at Narita Airport, wearied by his long flight, blinking in confusion at the waiting crush of cameras, lights, and microphones. Reporters on the scene that warm April afternoon remarked that no foreign visitor to Japan had ever received such a tremendous welcome—not Ronald Reagan, not Princess Diana, not even Michael Jackson.
The visitor was not a head of state or a movie star. He was only an American baseball player. Nevertheless, to many Japanese, his appearance in their country was an event of national proportions and historical significance.
Japan was at the height of its economic muscle. Japanese interests owned 54 percent of all the cash in the world's banks, 65 percent of all Manhattan real estate, and 3 per cent of the entire U.S. national debt. A staid Japanese insurance company had paid 39 million dollars for Van Gogh's painting Sunflower.
And now, in what one TV commentator had called the pièce de résistance, a Japanese baseball team had outbid the American major leagues for a prime American player: James Robert Horner.
Bsubru was unquestionably the country's national sport. It was the most talked about subject amongst Japanese after the weather, the yen-dollar rate, and sex. And while imported sluggers were by no means new to Japan—name players like Frank Howard, Dick Stuart, and Reggie Smith had all emigrated to the Land of the Rising Sun after their own suns set in the West—no one in Horner's class had ever deigned to come over.
Horner had hit 215 home runs in nine seasons with the Atlanta Braves. A player of All-Star proportions, at twenty-nine, he was at his peak. After decades of benchwarmers and faded stars, here, finally, was an American product worth paying for.
Horner had snob appeal among people who were notoriously finicky about buying foreign goods. The Japanese preferred only brand-name imports and did not care how much they cost. A bottle of Napoleon brandy sold for two hundred dollars after going through Japan's infamous, complex distribution system. A BMW cost a hundred thousand dollars, and a packet of glacial ice cubes went for twenty bucks. Yet there was never any lack of buyers because possessing such items brought one prestige.
To the Japanese, this bona fide major leaguer from Atlanta was the ultimate status symbol, for he gave their game a credibility it lacked and, at two million dollars a year, was also by far the most expensive player they had ever acquired.
That Horner had come to Japan was a simple matter of economics. After a reasonably good season with the Braves in 1986, in which he had hit .273, with 27 home runs and 87 RBIs, Horner tested his worth in the free-agent market.
When no club met his asking price of two million dollars, Horner turned to the Yakult Swallows of Japan's Central League, who did—at least for one season. It was the fattest single-year contract in the history of Japanese professional baseball, more than twice what the highest-paid Japanese star was getting. His signing was such gigantic news that the pilot of the JAL flight that carried him to Japan had personally requested his autograph.
The Swallows were based in Tokyo, a city of tremendous energy and enthusiasm for baseball. However, nearly all of its 12 million residents were fans of Yakult's crosstown neighbor, the Yomiuri Giants, Japan's oldest professional team, winner of thirty-three CL pennants, sixteen Japan Series titles, and something of a national institution.
The Swallows, with but one championship in their thirty-seven-year history, drew around twenty-seven thousand fans a game, far behind the Giants' nightly average of nearly fifty thousand.
Their owner, Hisami Matsuzono, was a flamboyant entrepreneur who had acquired a massive fortune purveying a yogurt health drink called Yakult. In 1965, he had bought the team from the Sankei Corporation, a major multimedia group, as a means of promoting his company His ideas about running a baseball team, however, were somewhat unorthodox. He was an unabashed Giants fan and was frequently quoted as saying the ideal situation would be for the Giants to finish first and the Swallows runner-up.
In the spring following the Swallows' lone victorious year of 1978, he called a team meeting to tell his players that he did not expect them to win again. Second place would be just fine. Said one outfielder, "He sort of implied that it was the Giants' turn to win."
There were, it appeared, practical reasons for Matsuzono's sentiments. Statistics showed that whenever the Swallows defeated the Giants, sales of Yakult products dropped. It was true with other teams as well. If the Swallows swept a series, say, from the Hiroshima Carp, sales would fall temporarily in the Hiroshima region. Beating the Giants, however, meant a business nosedive all over the land. Giants fans were everywhere.
The Swallows had finished last in 1986, which was, not coincidentally, a profitable year for the parent company. Thus when Matsuzono signed Horner and proclaimed he wanted nothing less than another flag, fans and reporters were not sure what to believe. "It's a PR stunt," said one writer, "That's all."
None of this was yet known to Horner, who, frazzled and nearly blinded by camera flashes, submitted to an impromptu press conference—facing nearly two hundred print and TV journalists. When it was over, a convoy of press cars followed his limousine the hour-and-a-half drive to his hotel in Tokyo, where they camped outside for the duration of the evening.
That first day was only a hint of what was to come. Horner later told a friend that if he had known what he was in for, he might never have signed.
Horner was not the only gaijin (foreigner, outsider) to play in Japan that year. There were a total of twenty-one others under contract to the twelve teams of the Central and Pacific leagues (two per varsity team was the limit). Many of them greeted the arrival of their illustrious colleague with skepticism. Said Warren Cromartie, a former Montreal Expo who had hit .363 for the Tokyo Giants the previous year:
"Guys like Horner don't know what adversity is. He never played in the minor leagues. He's used to chartered airplanes, big locker rooms, and at least one day off a week. It will take him five months to get over the shock."
It took a special kind of person to play in Japan. A man had to deal with a different type of pitching, a wider strike zone, and unpredictable umpires. The life of a ballplayer was so regimented by club rules that many Americans compared it to being in the army . . . or worse.
It required a certain emotional adjustment that many found difficult to make—as Ben Oglivie would attest. A former American League home run champion who was no longer wanted by the Milwaukee Brewers, he had signed on as a free agent with the Kintetsu Buffaloes in 1987. But Oglivie, thirty-eight, was traumatized by the move. One day in late March after he returned to his new apartment in Osaka from a long preseason road trip, he packed his bags and, without a word to anyone, boarded a plane for his home in Phoenix.
Oglivie, a serious, introspective man who read Thoreau and Kierkegaard, told a writer that he was just not "mentally ready" for it all.
It was a terrible time. My whole life had been a commitment to the major leagues and I had no other ambition than to stay there. I would have played for Milwaukee or any other big-league team for half of the money I had been making. But the Brewers wouldn't even talk to me. The owners were clamping down and they didn't want to pay my salary of $500,000 when they could get ten younger guys for the same money. I kept waiting for some kind of offer. Then the Kintetsu Buffaloes approached me in January.
I really didn't want to be in Japan. It was totally off the wall. I went through a period when I couldn't figure out what was going on. It was just so different.
Everything built up and it all hit me that day. I was super-tired, more mentally fatigued than physically from being in such an alien environment. I'd been training since early February. And I just said to myself, "I don't belong here." So I left and I wasn't planning to come back.
Harried Kintetsu officials flew to Arizona and enticed Oglivie to return. Just exactly how, no one would say, but speculation had it that a significant increase in Oglivie's half-million-dollar salary helped make a difference.
Although most Japanese put Horner's arrival in the same category as the Second Coming of Christ, and assumed there would be no Oglivie-like problems, there was peevish opposition in some quarters, especially when it was discovered that Horner had not practiced in seven months.
It did not take long for reporters to dredge up Horner's reputation for weight problems, for chronic injuries, and for being something of a swillpot. One TV morning talk show host pounced on him: "He says he's six feet one inch, ninety-seven kilograms. Hmmmm. He looks a lot heavier to me. He looks like a pro wrestler if you want to know the truth. He also looks like he likes to drink. We hear he's been hurt a lot, that he has a bad elbow, that he has broken his wrist twice. It makes me ask the question, Why is he here? It must be because he's not wanted in the United States."
Owner Matsuzono ignored such criticism and made it clear he expected Horner to hit fifty home runs, even though a month of the season had already gone by, and issued him a uniform with the number 50 on the back, lest Horner forget his assignment.
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