Mike O'Connell

On Math and Musings today you’ll hear Franklin and me (still) talking about our time in Japan, specifically our side quest into the mountainous region around Hakone.

In real life we have long since returned to the good old USA, doing what we can to reestablish ourselves as upstanding members of the tribe. In the past few days we’ve been to a rodeo, a Buc-ee’s, an Air Force Band concert, and a Johnny Rockets, probably the most American things one can do this side of the Grand Canyon.

This weekend, just to be on the safe side, we’re hitting up a trio of baseball games.

Details to follow.

I’ve lived in Loudoun County (Viriginia) for 13 and a half years, but until this past weekend I’d never been to the famous Loudoun County Fair.

Happily I can no longer make that claim.

There was the usual carnival rides and cotton candy, and I also witnessed for the first time in my 43 years, a professional bull riding event, coupled with cattle-wranglin’ and calf-ropin’ and all those thing foreign to people from northeastern cities.

It was my first rodeo.

You know how most times when you see an athletic contest, no matter the sport, you think, wow, I wish I were there on the field competing?

This one I was glad I was in the stands.

Monday night I was in our nation’s capital to experience baseball stateside for the first time seeing the Seibu Lions take on the Rakuten Golden Eagles two weeks ago in Japan. My hometown team–that would be the Washington Nationals–won the game 10-8, meaning I have now root, root, rooted for the home team successfully twice in a row.

This doesn’t happen for me very often.

Having been to Nats Park many times before it’s not as though I was seeing anything new this week, though seeing it for the first time in 2025, so soon after my Japanese excursion, I was struck by a few things.

One, the sheer size of the place. That would be the stadium itself, and its massive accompanying parking garage. I’d commented previously on how big Japan was, that the sheer size of everything was intimidating. Looking at it now I’d say big everything else, small ballpark. Belluna Dome felt like someone’s living room compared to Nationals Park. Whereas everything in Belluna Dome was efficiently laid out and compact, Nats Park was the opposite. We in D.C. may think it’s on a little parcel of land crammed up against a river, but please, this is the Wild West compared to the cities I visited in Japan.

They’ve got a lot more room and a lot more stuff, and though I can’t say I saw it all (security guards and velvet ropes and all that), I did appreciate visiting the spacious team stores and museum-like totems that adorn the various halls and passageways. A lot more high-end items for sale and a lot more high-end experiences to be had. That’s about it in a nutshell.

Me? Free tickets from my local library and a free kid’s meal for my son via a separate promotion. Because that’s how I roll.

When I’m in a country where I know the rules and can work the system.

Editor’s note: Today on Math and Musings you’ll hear the “just in case” episode Franklin and I recorded long before we left for Japan and before we knew how easy it would be to record and post. Next week’s podcast will start a three-part series of episodes recorded abroad, but today you can enjoy both our domestic podcast and the chronicle below, my reflections on Japan.

If I were to describe Japan to an American it would go something like this.

First, take every stereotype you have about Japanese culture, then multiply it by fifty.

Next, take a little bit of pretty much every other culture on Earth, mix it in, then smush it onto an island with apparently no natural resources and somehow turn it into one of the most advanced and productive societies in the history of the world.

Got it?

I would say that there’s really nothing to prepare an American for visiting Japan, except that’s really not true. Everything you know about Japan is true, and it’s even more intense than you think. Most stereotypes of people and places overestimate particular characteristics; Japanese stereotypes are but kernels of truth. (My notes on Japanese baseball, chronicled elsewhere, are but a microcosm of this broader theme.)

You have this idea that Tokyo is big.

It’s bigger.

You have this idea that there are a lot of people.

There’s more.

You have this idea that there’s Pokemon and anime and manga and Nintendo all over the place.

There is. And a few dozen other cartoons and characters you’ve yet to meet.

Sushi, ramen, soba, Udon… McDonald’s, Starbucks, 7-Eleven. Yup, it’s all there, and even with all this official retail there’s still people selling random stuff on the street.

Is that a thousand-year-old shrine over there?

Yeah, right next to Starbucks.

You say the pattern of this particular fabric is a few centuries old?

Yes, and we accept Apple Pay.

There are many such contradictions in Japanese culture (I’m going to call it “culture” but really it’s about a thousand cultures simultaneously), and, well, I was lucky enough to bear witness to them the past week and a half as I traveled about the country with my family.

The thing to me that was most noticeable about Japan–this was my first visit–was the rules. Written or unwritten, there were rules, and not following them was just not an option.

It reminded me very much of a stereotypical communist country: a lot of officials and bureaucrats and people in uniform.

But I don’t think I’d ever been in a place that was less communist as economies go. A totally rigid society, yes, but communist? Give me a break. The place was like an Ayn Rand wet dream. It was a wildly free market where everything was for sale. Everything was cheap but nothing was free: a lot of transactions.

Look at a shrine? Two bucks.

Pray to Buddha? Five bucks.

Ride the subway? Buck and a half.

Shot of sake right there on the street?

First off, yes, that was actually a thing. It was 100 yen. That’s the equivalent of like 70 cents. Someone is pouring alcohol for tourists on the street at 70 cents a glass.

It’s in the little tent between the Shinto statue and the Starbucks.

You can’t really blame the Japanese for cramming so much onto their series of islands. In total it’s about four percent the size of the United States. Big open spaces are not a thing, at least not in the cities we visited. (I think there’s green out there in the hinterlands; most of what I saw was either cement or a vending machine.) The public infrastructure is mind-boggling, and there is not one cubic inch of wasted space. Private living and workspaces, too, are similarly compact: not one cubic inch of wasted space. They build to the sky, they build underground; the efficiency is staggering.

I should note that there are some greenspaces in Japan, even in the big, crowded cities we visited. For the record we spent time in Tokyo and Kyoto, and both of those megalopolises had their shares of parks and gardens. That you could enter for a few bucks. (Love that.) They’re good as squeezing those things in too. And in a way I’m glad they’re regulating these things now. A hundred years ago Western tourists used to just help themselves and sail home with Japanese trinkets; now they keep them here displayed in museums.

When I was in college the most popular cultural observer of this planet was Thomas Friedman. Every professor I had assigned one or more of his books, and admittedly I did the same when they let me move to the front of the classroom.

Three of Friedman’s books stood out to me: The Lexus and the Olive Tree, The World is Flat, and Hot, Flat, and Crowded. These three titles represent everything I witnessed in Japan.

See above for the interplay among Lexuses and olive trees, perhaps replacing olive trees here with Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines. And I guess I didn’t see too many Lexuses either, but plenty of luxury cars and other modes of high-tech gadgetry. “Cellphones and shrines” might be the Asian equivalent of what Friedman saw farther west.

On the subject of flatness I can say that in a metaphorical sense Friedman was not only dead on, but perhaps even more prescient than he anticipated. Twenty years ago (when the book was new) the world had flattened, yes, and since we were all connecting to the same Internet our relationships were a bit more democratized. (A terribly simplistic view of the text.) But in 2005 if I wanted to call someone in Japan? I’m picturing like 1950s-style switchboards with flashing lights and maybe Radar O’Reilly trying to patch through a string of cities to reach an operator in some Western Union office. And don’t even get me started on calling cards.

Today though?

On a lark I took out my phone and dialed a number in the United States.

Person answered and we spoke like we were standing next to each other. That I did not expect. To say my fear of being cut off from home while away and unable to call or text or e-mail was a bit unfounded is the understatement of the century. The world is not only flat; it’s the size of a dot.

So goes the metaphor. Literal size, however? In Tokyo you can’t see more than a few feet in front of you, unless you’re on the 30th or 40th floor of your building. Which is the size of many of their buildings so it’s not as unusual as you’d think. Yeah, there’s skyscrapers, like, everywhere, though what people are actually doing in these buildings remains a total mystery to me. Secret indoor agriculture? Just an army of logistics experts, I guess, because how any products moved anywhere in that crucible was stunning to me.

I’m just glad the buildings were air conditioned, because God damn was it hot. (Friedman was on the nose there, never mind the politics of it.) Before I left the thing people told me about visiting Japan in the summer is that… it would be hot.

I can now vouch for this.

It was hot. And humid. And, to use Friedman’s phrase, it was crowded. That didn’t make it feel any cooler. Seeing hundreds of people with umbrellas to block the sun seems kind of ridiculous until you get here and realize yes, that’s pretty much the only prayer you’ve got against the blazing heat. That and hiding in your hotel room, which I also became quite good at.

TV writer and occasional actor Phil Rosenthal once described Tokyo as like Manhattan except stretched out to be the size of Los Angeles. Spot-on assessment. The giant, crowded city that just keeps going.

You’d think such a place would be difficult to keep tidy and kempt. I’m sure it is difficult, but they’ve been able to figure it out. Somehow there is not a speck of trash anywhere in Japan, especially amazing considering there are no garbage cans. Seriously. This I’d been warned about, but you’ve kind of got to see it to believe it. There are no garbage cans anywhere. You’d think this would create mountains of trash, but no, it actually has the opposite effect. Since there’s no place to throw anything away, people just don’t. (That’s actually a pretty good description of how people stay in line here: you just don’t.) You either return your garbage immediately to the person who gave it to you (a food wrapper, for example), or you just hang onto it until you get home. Do secret police officers come out and tackle you if you litter on the sidewalks? I didn’t want to experiment.

Nowhere on Earth have I ever seen more obedient people than in Japan. This is a factual statement, not meant to criticize or applaud. Honestly I’m not sure I could ever fit in here, and it’s got nothing to do with my white skin or complete ineptitude with the language. I tend to question customs, and though the religious totems are cool to look at, I’m not really much of a believer.

I did further confirm two universal truths while visiting the various temples, shrines, and other paraphernalia. I’m borrowing from George Carlin here, who noted many years ago that God is good, God is great, God is all-powerful and all-knowing… he just needs your money. This seems to be true no matter your religious affiliation, and/or which god or gods you’re worshipping. See my temple? Two hundred yen, please. Want God to curry luck in your favor? Five hundred yen. Want even more good luck? Keep the yen comin’.

Second universal truth?

Banksy had this one 15 years ago: Exit through the gift shop. No matter how sincere and authentic the shrine or temple there always seemed to be some trinkets for purchase at the end, no doubt touting the sincerity and authenticity of your experience.

But it’s not all a tacky gift shop. There really is nature and beauty and all that, definitely worth the few yen I had to put down every so often. When I first arrived in Kyoto I just called it Tokyo without the skyscrapers, but beyond the cement (and sometimes hidden within it) you’ll find gardens and greenspaces worthy of awe. For the most part they’ve kept the Starbucks away from these places, though sometimes I appreciate a Starbucks on every corner.

I’m honestly not sure who’s in charge of the coffee around here, but whether inspired by Starbucks or not, they know what they’re doing. That’s something I found all over Japan. They take great care in what they do, no matter what it is. That stereotype is also valid, foodwise and otherwise. On the culinary side of things I can say we had delicious local items in every place we visited. (My son was especially enamored of that, and his blog can tell you more.) And sure, I stopped in a McDonald’s too just to check it out. Milky pie? A hamburger with actual ham on it? And what was that sauce?

The actual Japanese food was kind of off the charts and now I’m spoiled. Once you’ve had actual Japanese cuisine you don’t go back to Benihana’s.

There were three cities on our tour: Tokyo, Kyoto, and Hakone. You can hear about them on future episodes of Math and Musings, but here’s a sneak peek.

Tokyo’s a big city. Literally. It was the most Western, the most white, and the most English-friendly of all the places we went. Maybe I just stuck to the places that cater to clueless American tourists, but for the most part it was no trouble to get around and communicate. I’m glad we went here first, because the other cities may have been a challenge at the beginning. It was the sheer size of Tokyo that was intimidating, not the language barrier, though I understand five years ago it might have been different. The locals say that the English signs went up when they had the Olympics here in 2021, and between those and Google translate the fact that I knew practically zero Japanese wasn’t an issue. Their version of Uber is called Go, and is pretty user friendly, even for a clueless American tourist. The license plates use Arabic numerals (those are the ones we use, by the way), and most Japanese people at least know the numbers zero to nine in English. They’re also familiar with credit cards. Education isn’t the great equalizer; plastic is the great equalizer. (Think The Graduate, not Horace Mann.)

Among other things I saw in Tokyo? Three-dimensional billboards (not quite Back to the Future but getting there), a giant Godzilla head, and retail, retail, retail. This is why you bring an empty suitcase with you: you’re leaving with souvenirs.

We did stop our shopping adventure to experience some culture in the most American way possible.

We went to Disney World.

Well, not Disney World but Tokyo DisneySea, a subsidiary of the Disney corporation on the scenic shore of Tokyo Bay. It’s basically the stereotype thing but with Disney: take every Japanese stereotype you have and paste it on top of every Disney/Pixar/Lucasfilm trope you can name. Indiana Jones shouting in Japanese? Awesome. A few miles down the road at Universal Studios Japan (did that too) we found the same thing: the worlds of Jurassic Park, Jaws, and Harry Potter with twists of Japan. And then there was the EPCOT-like versions of New York and San Francisco… their stereotypes of us! Hilarious. Fair’s fair I guess. I did love how much they played up both Nintendo (obvious) and Charlie Brown (not so obvious), because yeah, I guess nothing says America like video games and Charlie Brown.

Theme parks and big buildings were fun, of course, but I live on the east coast of the United States, and these things aren’t exactly unusual. Hakone, however? Can’t get that here.

Hidden somewhere between cities and mountains lies the resort oasis of Hakone. On the podcast I refer to it as the kind of place where a Bond villain would have his lair, and I mean that in the nicest way possible. To get to the hotel we took two trains, one ferry, one “ropeway” (it was actually a cable car), one thing they called a “cable car” (I’d call it a tram), and finally a shuttle bus. If it was all unnecessary and they were just trying to confuse us, it worked. I’d never find my way back. I was half expecting to learn a secret handshake or sign an NDA or some such thing, but no, all I had to do was undress.

Onsen is the Japanese word for hot springs and the traditional baths and inns they accompany. I’d never been to one, probably because I’ve lived in the United States my whole life (so far). You really do have to enter the springs nude, and there’s no way you could ever get away with this in the states. They do separate by gender, though I should note there were only two options, again meaning we could never get away with this in the states. Our loss, because the Japanese onsen is a classy way to unwind. Interesting that unlike many of the other places we visited, which were obviously catering to American tourists, the onsen at Hakone Kowakien Ten-yu had a more native appeal. Domestic tourism, they call it, with visitors from all over Japan. I figured if this is where actual Japanese people were vacationing we were onto something, like when you find that latenite restaurant that all the chefs go to after work, or the afterhours club filled with musicians after their gigs.

It dawned on me that “domestic tourism” is kind of what I’ve been doing the last 43 years of my life. Or rather, the first 43 years of my life. I really do like seeing America, seeing it first as the old phrase goes, but I do like branching out a bit too. It’s nice to travel and see things and do things and have experiences and step out of your comfort zone from time to time. (We did take the bullet train, for example, but I was too nervous to try the bidet setting on my toilet.) You’ll find things that are the same, things that are different, and things that are delicious. I was happy I got to go with a few of my friends, and I got to make some friends along the way as well.

Was this my favorite journey of all time?

Of course. As always it made my top two: this one and the next one.

Where to?

Stay tuned.

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.