From the day my family decided to visit Japan to the day we actually departed on said journey was about a year and a half. Needless to say it took a lot of planning–around our house we called it “Japlans”–some unholy combination of doing your taxes, applying for colleges, and a military operation.
When my wife asked me point blank, What’s the one thing you want to do most in Japan? I didn’t hesitate.
Same thing I do on every vacation.
See a baseball game.
Baseball’s been played in Japan since at least the 1930s, famously sparked by Babe Ruth and his traveling party on a 1934 barnstorming tour. In a word, it caught on, and, just as we did here in the U.S., even kept the thing going through World War II as a way to boost national morale.
Japan’s current highest level of ball, Nippon Professional Baseball (NPB), was formed shortly after the war, replacing the Japanese Baseball League which operated from 1936 before reorganizing as NPB in 1949. Unlike in the United States, where football, basketball, hockey, etc. gave baseball competition, baseball in Japan for decades was pretty much the only team game in town. (Sumo dominates as individual sports go.) Even today, when its best players come to the U.S., NPB is still a model for individual celebrity, team loyalty, and national pride.
I can now vouch for this.
Last Thursday I was in Tokorozawa, what I would call a “suburb” or perhaps exurb of Tokyo, seeing the Seibu Lions host the Rakuten Golden Eagles at the oddly named Belluna Dome. For what it’s worth it wasn’t “Belluna” I found odd; it was dome. It’s only about 90% dome as I see it, for while the stadium has a roof, it doesn’t quite touch the top of the stands. There’s a gap of probably 20 feet or so (it varies), allowing open air to reach the field, a cool effect metaphorically and perhaps a cooling effect literally, though not this particular night as gametime air temperature was above 90. The window also provided great viewing for the lightshow that occurred later when we were treated to some Biblical thunder and lightning. At that point I was very thankful for the roof, because a raincheck to a future game wasn’t going to do me much good.
As with many U.S. ballparks, Belluna Dome has gone by several different names over the years. When it opened in 1979 it was known as Seibu Lions Stadium, as the roof wasn’t part of the original design. That piece was added in 1998, and the park was rechristened Seibu Dome.
Still not really a dome as I’d picture it–you can’t deflate it–but close enough.
And Belluna?
A Japanese mail order company.
Eh. Think of the silly names we’ve got on stadiums here and it doesn’t seem weird at all.
As for the game itself, I really didn’t know what to expect on my first foray into Japanese baseball. I walked into the stadium with two things: forty years of baseball knowledge, and nearly that number of years collecting stereotypes of modern Japanese culture.
Turned out that was a pretty close guess.
Take every stereotype you have of modern Japan: tech-savvy folks with their cameras, anime, Pokemon, karaoke, sushi, EDM, etc.
Now paste that on top of Triple-A minor league baseball and you’ve got NPB, or at least a weeknight in Belluna Dome.
I’ve been to hundreds of pro baseball games in my life, but never anything quite like this.
Number one difference?
Vendors.
Yup, this was my biggest takeaway.
Your classic call of “hot dogs, Cracker Jack, cold beer…”
Non-existent.
The food doesn’t come to you (at least for the most part). The food vendors (and there are many) are around the outside ring of the park, and there’s not a hot dog or hamburger in sight. They’ve got what Americans would consider wild options of sushi and ramen and various exotic seafood and spices; then again, in the modern age, MLB ballparks try to outdo each other with that stuff too. The only constant wares at your seat come from the uriko, or what Americans would call “beer girls.” This you’ve got to see to believe. That like, petite college-age Japanese girls sling kegs on their backs and come around pouring drafts for fans at their seats. Silently. Beer girl raises her hand, you raise your hand… it’s amazingly polite and just so Japanese. What happens after the beer starts flowing is another thing, but the transaction is very polite. This I found everywhere in Japan. At first everyone is quiet and polite, then on cue they let loose. When it’s appropriate to cheer they cheer like mad. When it’s appropriate to sing the team’s anthem (yup, that’s a thing) they belt it out. When it’s time to wave your flag they wave their flags. Theatrics on the field (cheerleaders!) and in the stands are part of the show, and everyone but me seemed to know the routine. (Forty years of baseball knowledge gave me no insight into these rituals, but damn it was fun to watch.)
The whole atmosphere was more like a high school or college game. Any sport. Not the level of competition but the idea that there would be home and visitor sections of fans. In the outfield there was a sea of maroon supporting the visiting team that you’d just never see in an MLB park. You know what you would see in an MLB park? Drunken idiots throwing stuff at opposing fans. (Try wearing a Red Sox cap in Yankee Stadium.) Didn’t happen here. There’s a healthy respect among rivals. I understand this might not be 100%, but in general it’s what I witnessed. And again, just very Japanese.
One thing I expected to see but didn’t was the thing that’s bothered me about American baseball the past 10 to 20 years (or more): non-baseball silliness between innings. Given the above I was worried such would be even more pronounced in NPB.
I’m happy to report it wasn’t, and honestly the between-inning goofiness that occurs in American minor league ballparks is far more annoying than what I saw in Tokorozawa. The cheers here serve a rallying purpose; they’re not gratuitous or over the top.
Maybe part of this is due to the lack of families and kids at the games. That was another piece that surprised me. In American baseball stadiums sometimes half the people there are under the age of 10. The game I saw last week? Not anywhere near that. Maybe it’d be different on a weekend, but from my sample size of one it was mostly adults, and of that it was mostly your stereotypical Japanese businessmen on their way home from work. The game started at 6:00, not the seven or seven-thirty we see in the states. The game went along at a pretty fast pace, and fans were (presumably) home at a decent hour. Pitch clock? If there was one I never saw it. They didn’t need it. Like many things I experienced in Japan such a rule would just be redundant. Everyone knows the unwritten code and doing otherwise is just absurd.
The particulars of the game itself? Pitching and defense rule. Our starter took a no-hitter into the sixth inning and at that point the game was a scoreless tie. This is the same pitcher that was 0-11 last year, proof that anything can happen in baseball.
That part’s the same.
And at the risk of burying the lede I should note that the home team won 5-1, meaning that I’ve got a perfect record in Japanese baseball games.
The most interesting thing I saw, though, wasn’t the outcome or even the potential no-hitter. The most interesting thing I saw was former MLBer Luke Voit.
Yeah, Luke Voit, formerly of the Yankees and Nats (my teams!) among others, now plays for the Rakuten Golden Eagles. I definitely did not realize this before hearing him announced.
The last time I saw Luke Voit? Also a random sighting four years ago in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He was making a rehab appearance for the Yankees’ triple-A affiliate, and I remember texting a friend that night proclaiming my random Luke Voit sighting.
Thursday night I texted the same friend: It happened again. I’m seeing Luke Voit… in Japan.
Voit was one of only a handful of Americans I saw anywhere in the park. NPB teams are limited to four foreign players on their rosters–can’t imagine that one flying here even with Trump in office–and the crowd seemed similarly native born. Unlike Tokyo, which had a mix of races and nationalities, in Belluna Dome let’s just say I stood out. Nobody spoke English, but that ended up not mattering, as I’ve gotten pretty good at gesticulating during my time here. I can point at a menu pretty well, and though the barley tea I had was not what I expected the ice cream was great. (They got one American food item!) And I’m happy to report they’ve copied at least one American baseball custom, as you better believe I got said ice cream in a flipped over plastic helmet.
My most treasured souvenir of the trip.
And it was the equivalent of like three American dollars. MLB vendors could learn a thing or two.
For what it’s worth my ticket was pretty inexpensive too, even considering the bizarre system of retrieval. A ticket purchaser receives an e-mail with a code to present to a clerk for printing out at a 7-Eleven. (I thought it was a gag at first too). Luckily the 7-Elevens here are ubiquitous, and the paper ticket gave me another souvenir. And a great story to tell. My only extravagance was my foolish cab ride to the park, something that could have easily been avoided had I trusted myself in the slightest riding the Japanese railways. Eh, I got to pretend to be a rich American tourist for a night.
And finally, on the subject of railriders versus cab riders, I should note the egalitarian nature of the stands. Sure, there were cheaper seats and more expensive seats, but there was definitely a more communal setting among the congregants. If there were luxury boxes I didn’t see them, and if there were secret hospitality rooms under the grandstands (as occurs in MLB parks) they hid them even better than we do in the states. And I loved the quaint little “living room” areas (not sure what they’re actually called) that groups could utilize as though picnicking in some kind of grassy meadow. “Flexible seating” is what we’d call that one at school, and though I usually scoff at such things, here it played. The areas weren’t cut off from the hoi polloi, and I found the arrangement charming.
I’ve been going through my entire Japan trip assuming this is the only time I’m ever going to make the journey here. It’s not that I’m opposed to returning; it’s just that it took me 43 years to do it once, so best not to assume a second. Same goes for seeing an NPB game. I’d love to do it again some time, but I realize there are no guarantees in life.
Like baseball, it’s unpredictable.
And I do have a perfect record to protect.
