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Category: Japan

  • Cardinals Take Care of Business in the Land of the Rising Sun (1968)

    Cardinals Take Care of Business in the Land of the Rising Sun (1968)

    Every Monday morning we will post an article from SABR’s award-winning books Nichibei Yakyu: Volumes I and II. Each will present a different chapter in the long history of US-Japan baseball relations. This week Mark Kanter writes about the 1968 St. Louis Cardinals visit to Japan.

    During 1968, with the United States and much of the world in turmoil, the National League champion St. Louis Cardinals traveled to Japan to play baseball and sightsee. Sponsored by the Yomiuri Shimbun, they played 18 games over 33 days from October 22 to November 24. The Cardinals had participated in a previous goodwill tour to Japan, in 1958, when they won 14 out of 16 games. Since that time, the Japanese had become more competitive against major-league competition, and held the visiting Los Angeles Dodgers to a 9-8-1 record in 1966.

    On Tuesday, October 22, a dozen days after the Cardinals lost the World Series to the Detroit Tigers in seven games, they traveled from Los Angeles to Tokyo on a Japan Airlines chartered plane. President Lyndon Baines Johnson promoted the tour by stating that the two countries had more in common than just baseball, but that baseball does bring them together.

    While on the plane during a fog delay at Los Angeles, Cardinals manager Red Schoendienst, Commissioner William D. Eckert, and future Hall of Famer Lou Brock were photographed discussing the 33-day tour. Schoendienst was asked which pitchers he would start in the first few games of the tour. He implied that the two-week layoff after the World Series might hamper the pitchers’ conditioning and that he was still figuring out the rotation.

    Each of the Cardinals players who participated in the series received $3,000 and an additional $750 from the Yomiuri Shimbun. The latter sum was provided in yen, which had to be spent in Japan. The $3,000 would be worth about $23,000 in 2022, and the $750 in yen would be worth about $2,455. The players’ wives were very happy to be included in the trip even if each player had to pay an extra $1,500 to bring them along.

    Before their departure, players Mike Shannon and Tim McCarver said they were interested in doing some hunting while in Japan. Bob Gibson, however, was ambivalent about participating in the tour. Immediately after the end of the World Series, he received a vaccination in his arm and was complaining about having to continue pitching after the long season and seven-game World Series. His pitching arm had ached since the second half of the season and he worried that his arm might get damaged with the extra games.

    The 1968 expansion draft was held between the World Series and the beginning of the tour. As a result, some of the players participating in the tour were actually no longer on the Cardinals roster. Pitcher Larry Jaster, whom the Cardinals had lost in the draft to the Montreal Expos, was nonetheless asked to go along. The Cardinals also took Bobby Tolan and Wayne Granger to Japan even though they had been traded to the Cincinnati Reds for Vada Pinson. The trade relieved the Cardinals from having to protect both Tolan and Granger in the expansion draft. The Cardinals traded Johnny Edwards to Houston, as well, in preparation for the draft. Edwards also made the trip.

    Though they lost the 1968 World Series to the Tigers, the Cardinals had won the Series in 1964 and 1967, and were one of the premier teams in the major leagues. Nevertheless, the Japanese felt that the series between the Cardinals and Yomiuri Giants would be very competitive. An anonymous Giants player suggested that the Cardinals did not seem that formidable. The Giants did seem to have an advantage because the Cardinals had played the tough seven-game World Series but then had a two-week layoff before starting play in Japan.

    A sportswriter from the Hochi sports newspaper wrote, “I think Japanese teams can win five, maybe six, in this tour. I saw all 20 American major league teams this summer, and frankly, I was disappointed by American baseball. Many of our techniques are equal or superior – like pitching control, bunting and umpiring accuracy.” But, the writer went on to say, “[T]he Japanese game lacks the professional attitude one finds in America. … There is no sense of adventure in our game. An American runner might try to go from first to second base if he thinks he has a chance. A Japanese wouldn’t even consider the possibility. Too much chance of losing face. In a word, what we need is more ‘hassuru’ [hustle].” Daryl Spencer, the former major leaguer then playing in Japan, agreed. “The base running is terrible, and so is the coaching,” he said. He noted that players did not run out groundballs if they felt certain that they were going to be out, and that many Japanese baserunners were thrown out because they kept their heads down not knowing the situation.

    As the games began, the Cardinals started poorly, losing two of the first five. They looked lethargic. Their pitching and hitting were somewhat mediocre, probably due to having just played the seven-game World Series, not practicing much during the two-week layoff, and jet lag. The first three games were played at Korakuen Stadium, in Tokyo, on Friday, October 25; Saturday, October 26; and Sunday, October 27.

    The Cardinals beat the Yomiuri Giants by a score of 9-8 in the first game. The Giants, the Japanese champions since 1965, pushed the Cardinals to the limit. Gibson, coming off one of the greatest seasons any pitcher had in the twentieth century, gave up five hits, two walks, and four runs, all earned, in just two innings. He was nursing his arthritic pitching elbow, having taken pills just before the game to dull the pain. Wayne Granger, who was no longer in the organization, came on in relief and was the Cardinals’ best pitcher for the game. His line was three innings pitched, one hit, three strikeouts, five bases on balls, and one run, which was earned. Steve Carlton took the mound in the sixth inning. Although Carlton struck out eight batters, he allowed five hits and was wowed by a 420-foot home run that Japanese slugger Sadaharu Oh pulled into the right-field bleachers.

    Carlton later credited Oh’s home run and the trip to Japan for the development of his signature slider. He told Steve Wulf of Sports Illustrated in 1994, “I knew how effective Bob Gibson’s slider was but Bob had elbow problems, so I had been looking for a way to throw the slider and minimize the wrist turn that causes elbow injuries. I had been fooling with a pitch, but in Japan, after Sadaharu Oh hit two home runs off me, I figured, what the heck. I threw Oh, a left-handed hitter, the slider. When he backed away and the ball was a strike, I knew I had something.” Exactly when this event occurred is unknown as Oh hit only a single home run off Carlton during the tour. In fact, after the opening-game home run, Oh did not get a hit off Carlton.

    Neither Gibson nor Carlton was a fan of the low mound at Korakuen Stadium. Nor would Gibson be a fan of the lower mound in the US major leagues for the 1969 season onward. Carlton complained that the mound was “almost flat compared to what I’m used to. I couldn’t get behind the ball.” After the opening game, manager Schoendienst suggested that Gibson was out of condition after not pitching since the end of the World Series.Tetsuharu Kawakami, the Giants’ manager, complained that the Cardinals were out of shape after Gibson was knocked out. Soon enough manager Kawakami would regret his complaint.

    The Giants beat the Cardinals 3-2 in the second game of the series. The Giants were led by outfielder Shigeru Takada, who had two hits and a stolen base. Takada, the 1968 Japan Central League Rookie of the Year, scored the first run of the game in the first inning when he scampered home as Akira Kunimatsu grounded into a double play started by shortstop Dal Maxvill. Giants pitchers Kunio Jonouchi and Yoshiyasu Tanebe held the Cardinals to two runs and five hits. The Giants were able to cobble together enough hits off Briles, Jaster, and Mike Torrez to win the game. Tanebe was the winner. Torrez took the loss when he gave up a game-winning single (today, it would be called a walk-off single) to second baseman Shozo Doi, with one out in the bottom of the ninth. Relief pitcher Tanebe scored the winning run. He made it on base after an unsuccessful sacrifice attempt to move Yasuharu Taki to second base. Tanebe went to second base when Torrez walked Takada. Tolan hit the only home run in the game.

    The Cardinals lost to the Japan All-Stars, 6-0, on October 27, again at Korakuen Stadium. Oh was the batting star of the game when he hit a grand slam in the eighth to put the game away for the All-Stars. Shortstop Kazuhide Funada of the Nishitetsu Lions hit a solo shot in the fifth inning, tallying the first run of the game. Pitchers Joe Hoerner, Mel Nelson, and Dick Hughes of the Cardinals were the victims of the All-Stars’ offensive barrage. Four Japanese pitchers, Mutsuo Minagawa of the Nankai Hawks, Yutaka Enatsu of the Hanshin Tigers, Minoru Murayama of the Tigers, and Fumio Narita of the Tokyo Orions, pitched for the All-Stars. Enatsu struck out seven Cardinals in three innings. He became a standout during the tour.

    The Japanese didn’t seem overly impressed with the Cardinals early in the tour. Some writers noted that the Giants would be even better once they got back third baseman Shigeo Nagashima (the 1968 Central League MVP) and center fielder Isao Shibata, who were both sidelined with health issues. “[A] Tokyo sportswriter spoke for many when he said: ‘I am disappointed in the Cardinals. There is no show, no excitement about them.’”

    On Tuesday, October 29, at Maruyama Stadium in Sapporo, the Cardinals defeated the Giants, 6-3. Joe Hague, a Cardinal prospect, hit a home run. Carlton and Granger pitched for the Cardinals. Granger was the winner of the game. Tsuneo Horiuchi was the one pitcher who pitched well for the Giants. He gave up one hit in two innings.

    After each game, the players and the coaching staff were showered with gifts like electric shavers, happi coats, photo albums, electronic equipment, and yen if they were the winning pitcher, manager, or best player. Their entourage was sometimes taken aback when presented with foods such as sushi, raw salmon, jellyfish, bean curd, and rice confections at Japanese restaurants. Sometimes, the players didn’t have a clue as to what they were eating. There were times when they could order up “American” food at their hotels. The Cardinals even met up with a number of interesting items in their dugouts, including charcoal pits and tea kettles.

    The Cardinals met the Giants again on October 30 at Miyagi Prefecture Stadium in Sendai, about 230 miles north of Tokyo. Gibson, who won the game, 8-1, was described as a “speedballer” in the Japan Times. He pitched five innings, giving up one hit, striking out six, and walking one. Jaster gave up three hits and three walks in four innings of mop-up work. Gibson appeared to be over his jet lag and inaction. Brock led off the game with a bunt single. Center fielder Curt Flood followed up with a single that moved Brock to third base with one out. Then catcher Tim McCarver hit a grounder to the pitcher, Kunio Jonouchi, who threw the ball away trying to get Flood at second. Brock scored and the floodgates opened, allowing the Cardinals to score four more runs in the frame when Orlando Cepeda, Hague, Shannon, and Phil Gagliano all followed with singles.

    The Cardinals hit a barrage of home runs in the rest of the series. For instance, in the sixth game of the tour, at Osaka Stadium, they beat the combined forces of the Giants and the Nankai Hawks, 7-1. Masanori “Mashi” Murakami started the game and pitched three no-hit innings. Murakami was the first Japanese to pitch in the major leagues. He had pitched for the San Francisco Giants in 1964 and 1965, with good results – 89⅓ innings with a 5-1 record, a 3.43 ERA, and 9 saves. He had a WAR of 1.6 for those two seasons. In 1968, pitching for the Nankai Hawks, he won 18 and lost 4 with an ERA of 2.38 and a WHIP of 1.019. Hague hit a home run for the Cardinals, while Oh hit his third home run of the series. In the 10th game, on November 7 at Toyano Stadium in Niigata, the Cardinals hit four home runs en route to an 8-1 win as Carlton and Torrez combined for a two-hitter. The only run scored by the Giants was on a home run by catcher Makoto Tsuchida. Flood (two home runs), Shannon, and Brock were the long-ball hitters for the Cardinals.

    The Cardinals became a buzzsaw from games 9 through 18 – whether they were facing the Giants, an all-star team, a combined Giants/Nishitetsu Lions team, a combined Giants/Chunichi Dragons team, or a combined Giants/Hiroshima Toyo Carp team. The Cardinals won eight and lost two games. They hit a total of 23 home runs in those 10 games and scored 69 runs to 48 by the Japanese.

    On November 8, a day off from games, some of the Cardinals players including, Brock, Cepeda, Ray Washburn, and Gibson, and coach Dick Sisler visited with Vietnam war wounded at various US military hospitals in Japan. Brock visited and signed autographs for wounded at the US Army Hospital at Camp Zama. Gibson, Cepeda, Washburn, and Sisler visited with the servicemen at Kishine Hospital while others visited Camp Oji and Camp Drake The servicemen discussed pitching with Washburn. Some Marines explained to the players that they were celebrating the anniversary of the start of the Marines. Gibson started to ask the other players and Sisler when and where the Marines had been formed. Sisler provided the date of 1775 and Washburn and Cepeda provided Philadelphia as the location. Gibson added that the Marines were started in a bar in that colonial city. Gibson suggested that his arm was hurting during the visit. After that, one of the Marines asked Gibson how his leg was feeling after being broken by a batted ball hit by Roberto Clemente in 1967. He said it was feeling good until he was asked about it.

    On Saturday, November 16, ABC’s Wide World of Sports televised the taped-delayed November 9 game against the Japan All-Stars at Tokyo Stadium. Gibson pitched five innings, struck out seven batters, walked six, and gave up three runs, all earned. He contributed offensively, too, with a single, a double, and a steal of second base. Gibson even struck out Oh twice. He did give up a three-run homer to Shinichi Eto in the first inning. Catcher Katsuya Nomura, who was the next batter, was the all-time Japan leader in career home runs at that point. Gibson got Nomura to fly out to right field.

    The Cardinals beat a combined Giants-Carp team in Hiroshima, 5-3, on November 12. Torrez pitched a complete-game seven hitter. Yoshiro Sotokoba of the Carp, who won the Central League ERA title, pitched three innings, giving up six hits, four walks, and four runs, all unearned. After the game, the Cardinals and their entourage went on a sightseeing trip to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. While many of the players were too young to remember the 1945 bombings, they quickly understood the devastation that that holocaust created. Commissioner Eckert (a former Air Force lieutenant general), Schoendienst, and Musial laid wreaths at the memorial.

    In Nagoya, at Nagoya Stadium, on November 19, the Cardinals defeated a combination of Yomiuri Giants and Chunichi Dragons, 3-2. Torrez and Brock hit home runs. Torrez is forever remembered by legions of baseball fans for giving up Bucky Dent’s home run in the 163rd and final tiebreaker game of the 1978 AL East regular season, which propelled the Yankees into the ALCS. The Japanese team did score once in the fourth inning off Torrez.

    Every once in a while the Japanese team would come up with a pitching gem to defeat the Cardinals. The 16th game of the tour showcased Akira Takahashi, who pitched a two-hit shutout for the Giants. Brock and McCarver got the only hits in the game for the Cardinals. Takahashi didn’t record a strikeout. He had had an up-and down career until 1968. He became the Giants’ third starter from 1963 through 1965 with middling results. In 1963 he won 14 and lost 13 with a 2.80 ERA, which was third best for the Giants rotation. After 1965 he was moved to the bullpen. However, he had a renaissance year in 1968 when he became a part-time starter. He won nine and lost eight for the Giants in 1968 with an ERA of 2.90 and a WHIP of 1.026. Interestingly, he pitched only seven shutouts in his career: three in 1963, two in 1965, and two in 1971.

    The final game of the tour encapsulated the dominance of the Cardinals hitters over the Japanese. The game was played in Shizuoka, about 90 milessouthwest of Tokyo, on November 20. Exactly 34 years earlier, on November 20, 1934, in the same ballpark, Eiji Sawamura held Babe Ruth’s All-Americans to just one run as he fanned Charlie Gehringer, Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Jimmie Foxx in succession. Although Sawamura lost the game, 1-0, the outing had made him a national hero. But the 1968 game was different. The Cardinals won, 16-9, with 14 hits compared with the Giants’ 12. The Cardinals hit seven home runs – two by Cepeda, two by Ed Spiezio, and one each by Hague (a grand slam), Brock and Shannon. The Giants hit four home runs with Shigeru Takada and Isao Shibata hitting one apiece and Oh hitting his final two homers of the series. Jaster and Granger were the Cardinals pitchers. Granger ended up with the win.

    At the end of the final game, each of the Cardinals players gave a bat to a Giants player. They swapped caps and said sayonara. This may have been when Oh gave Brock one of his compressed bats. Oh had been using this kind of bat since the 1964 season. He started to use a hand-made bat made by Jun Ishii. Ishii was looking for a harder wood and started to make his bats using the wood from a male yachidamo tree. The water and air had to be removed from the wood to ensure that it was as hard as possible. The sound of the bat hitting the ball provided Oh with a sound like no other. Bowie Kuhn, who became commissioner in 1969, barred Brock from using the compressed bat. In Japan the use of a compressed bat was disallowed after Oh retired in 1980. The bat was thought to give an advantage to the hitter because the wood is condensed. However, the research is not definitive.

    Despite the Japanese media’s pre-tour belief that their countrymen would challenge the Cardinals, the Japanese did not fare as well as they had anticipated. St. Louis won the series, 13 games to 5. The Giants, winners of four consecutive Japanese titles on their way to nine in a row, as well as the Japanese all-star teams, were thoroughly dominated by the Cardinals’ hitting – even though they were not considered a great hitting team during the 1968 National League campaign.

    The Cardinals, who hit 73 home runs in the 162-game regular season, hit 30 in the 18-game series. Mike Shannon suggested that the Cardinals would hit 300 home runs in a season playing in the smaller parks and against Japanese pitching. Up-and-coming young pitcher Torrez, who won three and lost one on the tour, hit .571. He stated that the Japanese hitters would choke up after two strikes. They didn’t go for the long ball, except perhaps for Oh. His opinion was that US major-league hitters were more often looking for the long ball.

    Oh led all of the players with six home runs. He had hit 58 in the Japanese regular season. Brock, Cepeda, and Shannon each hit five home runs and Hague pitched in with four. Oh had the most hits, 21 (he hit .356). Brock had 20 hits. Cepeda led the tour with 17 RBIs; Oh and Hague were tied with 15. Granger had four wins along with a 2.21 ERA. Torrez had a 2.13 ERA and three wins. Gibson had 20 strikeouts, followed by Carlton with 17, Granger with 16, and Hanshin’s Yutaka Enatsu with 15. Enatsu pitched great against the Cardinals. He won two games while giving up only four hits and striking out 15 in nine innings, and had a 0.00 ERA. Gibson and Carlton were relatively mediocre on the tour. Gibson won two games while posting a 3.94 ERA in 16 innings. Carlton, who won one game, had a 5.40 ERA in 15 innings.

    At the end of the tour, the Cardinals entourage felt that Oh and Enatsu were ready to play in the US major leagues. Schoendienst was effusive in his praise for both players and suggested that Enatsu was one of the best left-handed pitchers he had ever seen. He noted that Oh probably wouldn’t come to the United States because of salary demands. Oh made about $97,000 and Enatsu made about $50,000. Both had lucrative product endorsement contracts as well.

    The major leagues have had a number of Japanese players who have done very well since 1968. They players include Hideo Nomo, Hideki Matsui, Ichiro Suzuki, Daisuke Matsuzaka, and Shohei Ohtani. Moreover, Japanese ballplayers won the first two World Baseball Classics, in 2006 and 2009. However, in 1968, the Cardinals were the Kings in Japan. Interestingly, the Cardinals had to wait another 14 years to win a pennant and participate in a World Series.

    read the rest of the article on SABR.org

    Cardinals Take Care of Business in the Land of the Rising Sun (1968)
  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 11, Masumi Kuwata

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 11, Masumi Kuwata

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    The thinking pitcher who survived by understanding the game

    Baseball has always loved its certainties: the tall pitcher, the overpowering fastball, the obvious prodigy. Masumi Kuwata was none of those things. He was small for a professional pitcher, barely 174 centimeters tall when he debuted, reserved where others were loud, thoughtful about his craft where others relied on instinct. Even as a teenager surrounded by giants, he looked ordinary enough to be overlooked.

    And yet, from almost the beginning, baseball seemed to bend toward him.

    He was born on April 1, 1968, in Yao City, Osaka, the youngest student in his class because of his birthday*. That detail followed him everywhere. He was always smaller, always younger, always forced to compete against boys who seemed physically ahead. Instead of discouraging him, it shaped him. Kuwata learned early that survival in baseball would not come from strength but from understanding.

    *In Japan, children start school in April after turning six. Those born on April 1 begin that same April, while those born on or after April 2 start the following year.

    He began playing in elementary school. Exactly when he joined is unclear, but one moment remained vivid to Kuwata: he quit. Bullied by older players, he walked away from organized baseball for a time and spent months throwing a ball alone against a wall. His father, Taiji, devised unusual training methods built on creativity rather than repetition, such as removing all the cotton from his son’s baseball gloves so that it would hurt if he caught the ball poorly. By fifth grade, Masumi was already a primary pitcher. Teammates remembered not just velocity but control and the uncanny sense that the ball went exactly where he wanted it to.

    By middle school, opponents spoke about him with disbelief. Catcher Shuji Nishiyama, his childhood friend and teammate and future two-time Best Nine award winner, later said Kuwata threw around 140 kilometers per hour (about 87 mph) even then, but what stunned hitters was precision. The ball arrived only where the mitt was set. Years later Nishiyama would say that among every pitcher he had ever seen, Kuwata remained the greatest in total ability.

    When he entered PL Gakuen High School in 1983, he arrived alongside a player who embodied certainty itself: Kazuhiro Kiyohara, already famous for prodigious power. Compared to towering teammates and fearsome sluggers, the quiet right-hander barely stood out. Coaches initially did not expect much from him as a hitter, and he was not immediately a regular. He even told his mother he was thinking of leaving the team. Her response was simple: even as a backup, remain a pitcher for three years and finish what you started.

    What changed everything was a simple throwing drill. While other players lobbed high, arcing throws to gain distance, Kuwata fired low, direct throws nearly eighty meters. When upperclassmen told him to throw higher, he simply replied, “I’m a pitcher,” and continued the same way. Coach Junji Nakamura decided at that moment to develop him as one.

    Opportunity arrived when other pitchers faltered. As a first-year student wearing number 17, he took the mound in the Osaka tournament and dominated. Soon he was leading PL Gakuen to Koshien, Japanese high school baseball’s grandest stage.

    At fifteen years old, Kuwata became the ace of a national champion.

    The partnership between Kuwata and Kiyohara, the KK Combo, became a social phenomenon. Together they carried PL Gakuen to five consecutive Koshien appearances, winning twice and finishing runner-up twice. Kuwata compiled 20 Koshien victories, a postwar record, and struck out 150 batters while also hitting six home runs. He pitched, fielded, and hit with startling completeness, once describing batting as feeling like playing catch: move the glove, or bat, precisely to the ball’s center.

    There were moments that already hinted at the player he would become. Facing elite competition, he sometimes sensed outcomes before they happened. On one famous home run, he later said he knew the ball would leave the park the instant it left the pitcher’s hand, as if guided by something beyond calculation, what he called an unseen force rather than his own power.

    Even then, Kuwata approached baseball differently. At the time, there existed a widely discussed belief in Japanese baseball that summer Koshien championship pitchers rarely succeeded as professionals. Many arrived famous and left injured. Kuwata, undersized and already heavily used, heard those doubts clearly. Rather than resist them emotionally, he treated them as a problem to solve. If Koshien heroes burned out early, how could he last longer? He began studying training methods, nutrition, recovery, and mechanics while still a teenager, determined to build a pitcher who could survive years into the future rather than dominate briefly in the present.

    He also believed baseball contained something spiritual, but never mystical without effort. He prayed not for success but to be guided toward “the best path,” convinced that hard work allowed the baseball gods to notice you.

    The path turned complicated in 1985.

    The professional draft that year centered on Kiyohara, who openly desired to join the Yomiuri Giants. Kuwata publicly declared he would attend Waseda University instead. Most teams respected that decision and avoided drafting him.

    Then the Giants selected him first overall.

    The moment detonated into controversy. Kiyohara, watching the draft, wept openly. Rumors spread that Kuwata and the Giants had arranged a secret agreement. Protest calls flooded his family home. The episode became known as the “KK Draft Incident,” one of Japanese baseball’s most bitter controversies since the Egawa affair. The Giants seem to be involved in a lot of those.

    Kuwata denied any secret deal. He had merely decided privately that if the Giants selected him first, he would turn professional; otherwise he would attend Waseda. The decision had not been deception so much as the hesitation and confusion of a seventeen-year-old caught between dreams. Giants manager Sadaharu Oh insisted the selection had long been planned, praising Kuwata’s situational intelligence and recalling a triple play he had executed at Koshien as evidence of extraordinary baseball instinct. Still, at seventeen years old, he entered professional baseball already cast, unfairly, as a villain.

    The burden followed him into his rookie season. He was given number 18, the number of ace pitchers. But while Kiyohara starred immediately for Seibu and won Rookie of the Year, Kuwata struggled, finishing 2-1 with a 5.14 ERA. Fans doubted him and critics mocked him. He later admitted fearing he might be released within a few years if nothing changed.

    Instead of retreating, he doubled down on study. He experimented with nutrition, recovery, and conditioning when few players did, icing his arm when coaches discouraged it and expanding his repertoire one deliberate step at a time.

    In high school he had limited himself to a fastball and curveball as a personal challenge. As a professional he added a slider, then began refining a split-finger fastball he continually modified throughout his career. He even gave it a name: the Thunderball. Kuwata approached pitching like a craftsman refining tools. He studied anatomy and sports science, arguing that some commonly feared pitches were misunderstood, and insisted that understanding the body mattered as much as throwing harder.

    The results arrived quickly. In 1987, his second season, Kuwata transformed into one of the league’s best pitchers, posting a 15-6 record with a 2.17 ERA, winning the Eiji Sawamura Award and the Central League ERA title while still a teenager, helping the Giants capture the pennant. He became the youngest Opening Day starter in Giants history the following year. He won a Gold Glove, made the Best Nine, and began a run of excellence that established him as one of the Central League’s defining pitchers.

    Kuwata could throw in the low 90s in his younger days. But his success came not only from overpowering hitters but through precision and imagination. Former Hiroshima Carp catcher Mitsuo Tatsukawa later said Kuwata could do everything—pitch, field, and hit better than many position players—recalling a moment when a coach suggested intentionally walking a batter to face Kuwata, only to be told Kuwata was the more dangerous hitter. He fielded brilliantly, won eight Gold Gloves (tied for the most ever by a pitcher) and later joked that defense was his greatest skill, batting second, pitching third.

    His curveball became legendary as a pitch that seemed to rise before dropping sharply, later complemented by a slow looping version that American observers would call a “rainbow curve.” Timing, not speed, became his weapon. He manipulated rhythm the way a musician manipulates tempo, sometimes choosing to fall behind in counts to exploit a hitter’s expectations.

    By the late 1980s, the Giants’ rotation revolved around three pitchers: Masaki Saito, Hiromi Makihara, and Kuwata*. They became known as the “Three Pillars,” and each represented a different philosophy. Saito, a sidearm power pitcher who would collect three Sawamura Awards and an MVP, imposed himself on hitters. Makihara, the 1983 Rookie of the Year and future author of a perfect game, relied on rare physical gifts. Kuwata won through strategy and control. Teammates later said no single ace existed among them; the strength of the staff came from the certainty that if one failed, another would win the next day.

    In 1989 Kuwata won a career-high seventeen games and helped lead Yomiuri to a Japan Series title. Yet controversy returned in 1990 when reports linked him to improper financial relationships through acquaintances, including leaking his scheduled pitching dates, sparking media outrage and even discussion in the Diet. Though cleared of gambling involvement, he received a one month suspension and heavy fine. The incident deepened a strange divide in his public image: respected within baseball for professionalism yet viewed by many fans through lingering suspicion.

    He responded the only way he knew: by pitching. After serving his suspension, he returned with consecutive shutouts and finished second behind Saito in wins and ERA. In 1994, everything came together. Kuwata went 14-11 with a 2.52 ERA, led the league with 185 strikeouts, and won the Central League MVP award. That year culminated in one of the most famous games in Japanese baseball history: the October 8 showdown between the Yomiuri Giants and Chunichi Dragons, winner take all for the pennant.

    The atmosphere felt national in scale. Early chances slipped away amid nerves. Defensive plays and baserunning mistakes hinted at the pressure both teams felt. Manager Shigeo Nagashima committed completely, deploying his three pillars in succession: Makihara, then Saito on short rest, and finally Kuwata.

    Dragons players later admitted their greatest fear was not whether Kuwata would pitch, but when. Late innings against him felt different; the game slowed to his rhythm.

    When Kuwata entered in the seventh inning, he was exhausted. He had prepared specifically for this game, even cutting short a previous start to preserve strength, yet fatigue weighed heavily. He later admitted he felt afraid. Not of failure, but of the magnitude of the moment.

    In the eighth inning, Kazuyoshi Tatsunami, Kuwata’s former teammate and roommate at PL Gakuen, reached base with a desperate head-first slide that dislocated his shoulder, symbolizing the Dragons’ final push. The tying run loomed. Kuwata escaped without allowing a run.

    In the ninth, with two outs remaining, he delivered a high curveball. The batter, Tetsuya Komori, swung through it for strike three. The Giants were pennant winners, and Kuwata stood at the center of one of Japanese baseball’s defining moments. For many fans, the image that remained was not the celebration but Kuwata’s fist, clenched in quiet triumph after surviving the most pressurized innings of his career. The Giants would go on to defeat the Seibu Lions in the Japan Series, with Kuwata finally overcoming Kiyohara on baseball’s biggest stage.

    By then, public perception had changed. The player once booed for entering the league, once suspected of gambling on baseball, was now indispensable.

    Then came the injury.

    In 1995, chasing a pop-up, Kuwata tore ligaments in his right elbow and underwent Tommy John surgery. The damage cost him nearly two seasons and altered his career permanently. He returned in 1997 after surgery, no longer overpowering but determined to survive through intellect.

    Adaptation defined him. In 1998 he won 16 games and captured the league’s highest winning percentage. In 2002, at age thirty-four, he achieved one of baseball’s most improbable resurgences, posting a 2.22 ERA to win the title again, fifteen years after his first, the longest gap between ERA titles in NPB history.

    That season captured Kuwata at his purest. In one complete-game shutout, he signaled to his fielders where the final out would land before throwing the pitch that produced exactly that result, a routine fly ball to right. Teammates laughed, but it revealed how he pitched: not reacting to outcomes, but imagining them first.

    Kuwata also challenged traditions throughout his career. He opposed corporal punishment in amateur baseball, criticized excessive training culture, advocated scientific conditioning, and insisted professionalism meant preparation as much as endurance. Teammates admired his discipline; younger players called him demanding but fair. At violent, hierarchical PL Gakuen, he became known as “an angel” for refusing to participate in hazing while still holding teammates to rigorous standards. He argued that violence reflected laziness in coaching.

    Despite his excellence, he finished his Japanese career with 173 victories, short of the symbolic 200-win milestone revered in Japan. Statistics alone never fully explained him. He hit .216 with seven home runs, fielded like an infielder, and won admiration for professionalism that extended beyond the field. A lifelong non-smoker, he even pushed for smoke-free locker rooms.

    Near the end of his career, as performance declined, he pursued one final dream. In 2007, at age thirty-nine, he signed a minor league contract with the Pittsburgh Pirates, aided by pitching coach Jim Colborn, who understood Japanese baseball. A freak collision with an umpire during spring training tore ankle ligaments and nearly ended the attempt before it began. Kuwata rehabbed, reached Triple-A, and soon received a call to the majors.

    On June 10, 2007, at Yankee Stadium, Masumi Kuwata became the third-oldest post-war rookie in MLB history after Satchel Paige and Diomedes Olivo. He allowed a home run to Alex Rodriguez but later struck out Ichiro Suzuki and recorded several scoreless outings. Struggles followed, and after nineteen appearances he was released. He finished with no victories and a 9.43 ERA, but by then numbers were beside the point.

    “I have no regrets,” he said afterward. How could he? He went from being the youngest kid in his class to one of the oldest kids in the majors.

    Kuwata often said, “Baseball is of the heart.” The phrase did not mean emotion alone. For Kuwata, heart meant preparation, curiosity, discipline, and respect for the game as something larger than results. Even in retirement he continued training, occasionally surprising observers by throwing sharp fastballs well into his fifties.

    He showed that baseball could be studied, shaped, and reimagined. That intelligence could compete with size. That resilience could matter as much as brilliance. That a career could contain both suspicion and redemption, injury and renewal, doubt and quiet mastery. Kuwata compared pitching to rock-paper-scissors. Control the timing of the reveal, and victory follows.

    He once said that success was not luck but effort witnessed by the baseball gods.

    Masumi Kuwata spent his career trying to become someone those gods would notice.

    And in the end, they did.

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • SPRING TRAINING ON OKINAWA

    SPRING TRAINING ON OKINAWA

    By Carter Cromwell

    The outlook – mostly sunny.  The temperatures – around 20 C (70 F).  Wind – gentle breezes for the most part.  Shirt-sleeve weather.  Perfect for having a snack, enjoying a favorite beverage, and casually observing a spring-training baseball game.

    In Okinawa.

    Not in Florida, nor Arizona. Not Major League Baseball, but Nippon Professional Baseball (NPB) – the wellspring of talent for Samurai Japan, winner of three World Baseball Classic titles and the favorite of many to win the 2026 tournament currently under way.

    Nine of the 12 NPB teams trained this February in the more or less tropical environs of Okinawa – the Yomiuri Giants, Hanshin Tigers, Rakuten Golden Eagles, Chiba Lotte Marines, Chunichi Dragons, Hiroshima Carp, Yokohama DeNA BayStars, Nippon-Ham Fighters, and Tokyo Yakult Swallows.  Absent are the SoftBank Hawks, Seibu Lions, and Orix Buffaloes, who train in Miyazaki.

    In addition, the Korean Baseball Organization’s (KBO) Kia Tigers and Samsung Lions and the farm club of the KBO’s Doosan Bears trained here this year, along with the Korean team in the World Baseball Classic.

    The NPB teams had workouts and games on Okinawa from February 1 until late in the month, after which they moved to the mainland for preseason games that continue until March 20.  The regular season begins March 27.

    Traveling to the other side of the world to see spring training might seem as a stretch to many fans, but the experience can be worth it.  The days are often pleasant in mid-to-late February.  Though bounded by the East China Sea and the Philippine Sea, at this time of year Okinawa lacks the heat and humidity of Florida and the dryness of Arizona.  The experience in Okinawa is more relaxed and less commercialized than MLB spring training.  There, fans won’t pay regular-season prices for tickets to exhibition games. Put another way, they won’t pay big league prices to (often) see minor league players.

    The double batting cage setup at the Fighters’ camp (photo by Carter Cromwell)

    Also, the spring training map in Okinawa is pretty compact, making it easier for fans to see multiple teams. The farthest distance between any two sites is 47 miles (76 km), which makes it very similar to the Cactus League in Arizona where the 10 spring training ballparks are all in the Phoenix area and the greatest distance between any two is also 47 miles.[i] Florida’s Grapefruit League is much more spread out, with many of the stadiums more than 100 miles apart and the longest distance between any of the two is 217 miles (350 km).[ii]

    Some observations from a week-long sojourn in Okinawa last month:

    • It was interesting to see pitchers Kenta Maeda and Shintaro Fujinami – who established themselves in NPB before playing in the United States – trying to revive their careers. The two started for Rakuten and Yokohama, respectively, at Ginowan Municipal Stadium, the spring home of the BayStars.  

    Maeda had 10-season stint in MLB but had a rough time during his two seasons with Detroit. The Tigers released him early in the 2025 season, and he then spent time in both the Chicago Cubs and New York Yankees organizations.  

    Fujinami was with the Athletics and Baltimore in 2023, in the New York Mets minor league system in 2024, and began last season in Seattle’s organization before being released and signing with the BayStars, for whom he was 1-0 with a 4.09 ERA in six appearances. At all his stops, he displayed a triple-digit fastball combined with difficulty throwing strikes.

    Kenta Maeda pitching for Rakuten against Yokohama (photo by Carter Cromwell)

    Maeda pitched two innings against Yokohama, retiring the first four batters he faced before running into trouble in the second inning. With one out, he gave up a four-pitch walk, a flare single, and two RBI singles. Fujinami went three innings, allowing a run on three hits and – surprisingly – no bases on balls.

    • Hanshin Stadium, regular-season home of the Tigers, is the only NPB facility with an all-dirt infield, but all the spring training ballparks feature these. It means the grounds crew must rake around the bases and the mound after the third, fifth, and seventh innings, and they water down the entire infield after the fifth inning. At MLB ballparks, smoothing of the infield usually happens just once during a regulation-length game, and there is no need to water down the dirt areas during a game.
    • Despite these being merely exhibitions, the teams’ cheering sections were at each game, with noisemakers and cheers for each batter just like in regular-season contests.
    • The largest of the spring training facilities is Okinawa Cellular Stadium, which hosts the Yomiuri Giants.  It has 15,000 fixed seats in addition to – it is said – room for another 15,000 either standing or sitting on the grassy area beyond the outfield.  The official attendance for a game there against the Swallows was 7,400.
    • During the Giants – Swallows contest, a foul ball hit a nearby seat and bounced off a young boy’s face. Interestingly, the alert mom made sure to grab the ball before attending to her son, who, fortunately, did not need medical attention.
    • It’s always interesting to see import players here. Bobby Dalbec, once a top prospect for the Boston Red Sox and now 30, is in his first year with the Giants.  He singled in his only at-bat against the Swallows.  Another MLB alum – Trey Cabbage (Angels, Astros, Pirates) – is in his second season with Yomiuri.  He was 1-2 in the game.
    • A contest between the Marines and Dragons included ex-MLB players such as Miguel Sano (Twins, Angels), Gregory Polanco (Pirates), Jason Vosler (SF Giants, Reds, Mariners), Orlando Calixte (Royals, SF Giants), and Andre Jackson (Pirates, Dodgers). Polanco also spent three years with the Yomiuri Giants, and Jackson two seasons with the BayStars. In this particular game, Sano hit a long home run to right-center field in his first at-bat.  
    • Luke Voit, who played for five MLB teams over seven seasons, is back with Rakuten after a successful half-season in 2025 in which he hit .300 with 13 home runs in 67 games. He’s the team’s primary first baseman and sometimes designated hitter.
    • Each NPB team is allowed to have as many as four import players on the active roster at any one time.
    • A number of key players were not in Okinawa, instead playing for Samurai Japan as it ramped up for the WBC that began in early March: pitchers Hiromi Ito (Fighters), Taisei Ota (Giants), Yumeto Kanemaru (Dragons), Atsuki Taneichi (Marines), Hiroto Takahashi (Dragons), Shoma Fujihira (Golden Eagles), and Koki Kitayama (Fighters); catchers Seishiro (Sakamoto (Tigers) and Yuhei Nakamura (Swallows); infielders Shugo Maki (BayStars), Kaito Kozono (Carp), and Teruaki Sato (Tigers); and outfielder Shota Morishita (Tigers).  
    • Teams in the U.S. nowadays rarely take infield before a game, but it remains a staple of all the Japanese teams. It’s just one indication of their focus on fundamentals, and it’s entertaining to see them go through it so crisply.  Infield ends with a foul popup to the catcher, and the fans always cheer when he catches it.
    Rakuten Golden Eagles infield drills (photo by Carter Cromwell)
    • As mentioned earlier, there is not as much commercialization of spring training here, but one can still find the usual caps, jerseys, and other paraphernalia for sale.  Most of the food is outside the stadiums under tents or in food trucks, rather than inside.  You’ll find corn dogs, but also yakisoba, takoyaki (octopus balls), bento boxes, curry rice, yakitori (grilled chicken skewers), and long potatoes. Other options include gyukatsu (fried beef cutlet) rice bowls, edamame, ramen, and more.  
    • In the Marines – Dragons game, the Marines pitcher struck the leadoff hitter in the head with his first pitch in the bottom of the first inning and was immediately ejected.  An NPB rule calls for an ejection whenever a batter is hit in the head with a pitch, regardless of whether it was intentional.
    • One will see quite a few players with three-digit numbers on the backs of their uniforms.  Those designate players on the farm teams.
    • During workouts, one can observe players practicing tagging up on fly balls.  Hitters also practice fouling balls off, a skill that helps them stay alive on two-strike counts.  These are “small” things that can make a difference between success and failure. 
    • The teams also utilize two cages side by side during batting practice.  Hitters in one work on pulling the ball, while the batters in the other practice going to the opposite field.
    • Outfielder/designated hitter Franmil Reyes, who appeared for four MLB teams, has hit 57 home runs the last two seasons for Nippon-Ham. The Fighters’ spring training home is in Nago and right next to the ocean. During one batting practice session, Reyes launched seven home runs into the water – a different take on the “splash hit” made famous at San Francisco’s Oracle Park. 
    • Teams often will work out in the mornings and then have intra-squad games in the afternoons.  It’s surprising to see how many fans come to see what might seem like mundane workouts.  At the Fighters’ camp, large crowds stood by the fence just to watch pitchers go through fielding practice.  
    • When workouts are over, fans hoping for autographs will rush to line up at gates they know players will be exiting through.  Many of the players comply.
    Rakuten pitcher Masaru Fujii signing autographs (photo by Carter Cromwell)

    Away from the ballparks, there are other attractions that are worth one’s time.  Okinawa has more history than many realize.  Often, Westerners think of Okinawa only in terms of World War II or the many current U.S. military installations there, if they think about it at all.  

    Okinawa was officially annexed by Japan in 1879 when the Meiji government forcibly abolished the Ryukyu Kingdom, deposed the king, and established Okinawa Prefecture. This finalized years of increasing control by the Satsuma Domain, which had controlled the region as a vassal state since 1609. 

    Consider the following:

    • Churaumi Aquarium – one of the top tourist attractions in Okinawa, featuring whale sharks and one of the largest aquarium tanks in the world
    • Shurijo Castle – completed in the 15th century, it was the royal residence for the king and his family, and it also functioned as the government house of what was the Kingdom of Ryukyu prior to Japan’s takeover.
    • Okinawa World, a theme park featuring a massive natural cave, a craft village and snake museum
    • Okinawa Prefectural Peace Memorial Museum & Cornerstone of the Peace, established in 1975 next to the spot where the World War II Battle of Okinawa ended
    • Kokusai St. & Makishi Market
    • Tsushima-maru Memorial Museum – Dedicated to a Japanese passenger/cargo ship that was sunk by the submarine USS Bowfin during World War II, while carrying approximately 1,800 passengers, including many schoolchildren
    • Surfing is a year-round activity on Okinawa, but it’s recommended only for intermediate to advanced surfers because of shallow, sharp coral reef breaks. Newbies who often fall from their boards will get their feet cut by the coral.

    [i] https://www.springtrainingconnection.com/distances.html

    [ii] https://www.springtrainingconnection.com/distances.html

  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 12, Masayuki Kakefu

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 12, Masayuki Kakefu

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    The unlikely star who learned what it meant to carry Hanshin

    Some players arrive in professional baseball destined to be stars due to their size or abilities or knack for performing in big moments. Some were already on the national stage due to legendary performances in high school tournaments or breaking records in university leagues. And still some other players grow into greatness slowly enough that, even while it is happening, nobody quite realizes what they are watching. 

    Masayuki Kakefu was not supposed to become “Mr. Tigers.”

    The men who carried that title before him had all entered professional baseball as celebrities. Fumio Fujimura was a Koshien* hero. Minoru Murayama was a national collegiate ace. Koichi Tabuchi arrived as the prince of university baseball, already famous for hitting home runs before he wore a professional uniform. The title belonged to players who were known long before they reached Hanshin.

    *Koshien refers to the high school baseball championship tournament that takes place every summer, held at Koshien Stadium, which is also the home of the Hanshin Tigers.

    Kakefu was different. He had reached Koshien once as a second-year student, but by his senior year there were no professional offers. He was small for a power hitter, 168 or 170 centimeters (around 5 feet 7 inches for my fellow Americans), and few scouts imagined him surviving in professional baseball. It is almost impossible, knowing what came later, to imagine that the boy who would eventually hit 349 home runs was once considered an unlikely prospect.

    His path opened only through chance and persistence. Through a connection to Hanshin’s Motoo Andoh arranged by his father Taiji, who had coached amateur baseball, Kakefu was allowed to participate in Hanshin’s autumn camp, effectively as a tryout. Manager Masayasu Kaneda saw something others had missed and insisted the young infielder be kept close to the first team. The Tigers selected him in the sixth round of the 1973 draft, not as a future centerpiece but as a hopeful project.

    After Kakefu’s rookie season, during a gathering with team officials, his father made a simple request: “Masayuki has been trained to endure anything. Please give my son a chance to become a regular.” It was a simple request, but it captured something essential. Before Kakefu became known for power or popularity, he had been prepared to withstand difficulty. That would prove to be his defining trait.

    Even after being drafted, nothing came easily. He was not taken to the main spring camp in Aki City and instead remained behind at Koshien with the leftover group. When he first watched the regular players train, he later recalled that everyone looked like monsters. Koichi Tabuchi in particular seemed enormous, “like he was two meters tall*,” and Kakefu wondered whether he truly belonged in that world. Unsure of himself, he asked Tabuchi whether someone with such a small body could survive as a professional. Tabuchi answered simply: professional baseball was interesting precisely because even smaller players could become great. Then he handed Kakefu one of his own bats. The words and the bat became treasures.

    *About 6’7” for my American friends.

    When he signed, he did not yet have a uniform number. Only later was he handed number 31. Stories would eventually claim the number combined Shigeo Nagashima’s 3 and Sadaharu Oh’s 1, or symbolized working three times harder to become number one. Kakefu laughed at those explanations. “All after-the-fact,” he said. It was simply the lowest number available. But he intended to make it his own.

    Opportunity arrived by accident. During an open-season stretch, injuries and personal absences forced the Tigers to summon him from the minors. Used first as a pinch hitter, he produced results immediately, then continued hitting when given a start at shortstop. Against expectations, he made the Opening Day roster. Chunichi Dragons pitcher Senichi Hoshino later remembered facing him early and noticing a violent full swing that produced a sharp foul tip. Even in an ordinary groundout, Hoshino felt instinctively that this was a future star.

    Strong performances earned him a roster spot, and by his second season he was locked in a fierce competition at third base with first-round draft pick Noriyoshi Sano. Endless defensive drills under coach Andoh pushed him to exhaustion: he once fell asleep during practice and was sharply reprimanded. Nothing about his rise was smooth. Errors came, confidence wavered, and his rookie numbers were modest at best. Yet he kept working. Even after nights out, he returned to the dormitory and swung a bat on the rooftop until one or two in the morning. Practice, he believed, was the only thing he possessed that others could not take away.

    By 1976, only his third professional season, now a little taller at 175 centimeters, he broke through with a .325 batting average, 27 home runs, Best Nine honors, and the confidence that came from finishing ahead of Sadaharu Oh in the batting rankings. At twenty-one years old, he became the face of a phenomenon. “Kakefu calls” echoed through Koshien Stadium. Banners bearing the number 31 appeared in the stands. Young fans and women in particular were drawn to the shy young player whose gentle smile disappeared the moment he stepped into the batter’s box, replaced by an intense, almost feral focus. A song titled “GO! GO! Kakefu” was even released, and the excitement surrounding him became known as the “Kakefu Fever.”

    Then came 1978. Tabuchi, the third Mr. Tigers, was traded away at the end of the season. Soon afterward he phoned Kakefu with advice that would follow him for the rest of his life: “Finish your career in the striped uniform.”

    Suddenly the responsibility of the franchise shifted. Kakefu did not ask for it, but he felt it immediately. When he struggled, newspaper headlines blamed him directly. When he struck out four times, his name filled the front pages. “Hitting and becoming a headline anyone can do,” he later said. “But becoming the headline when you fail is different. That’s when I understood what Tabuchi had been carrying.”

    In 1979 he responded with 48 home runs, breaking Fujimura’s long-standing franchise record and winning his first home run title. Yet the transformation required reinvention. Kakefu had been a gap-to-gap batter by nature. Now he was expected to be a slugger in Koshien, a park hostile to left-handed power.

    He engineered power through mechanics. By striking the ball millimeters underneath its center, he created spin that allowed the hamakaze, the sea breeze at Koshien, to carry drives toward left field. “Home runs are something you aim for,” he believed. “A single is often just a missed home run.”

    Of course, there were drawbacks to his transformation. The swing demanded violent rotation from his lower body and placed enormous strain on him physically.

    His rivalry with Giants ace Suguru Egawa soon became the defining confrontation of the era. Kakefu believed a cleanup hitter’s duty was to defeat an ace’s best pitch. Egawa’s rising fastball represented the ultimate risk. “You either win or you lose,” he said. “That’s the job of the fourth batter.” Their duels became the centerpiece of the Tigers-Giants rivalry.

    Fame, however, carried darker consequences. During slumps in 1980, fans shouted for him to return to Chiba. Harassing phone calls arrived at home and even letters containing knives were mailed to him. Newspapers, as they tend to do, speculated about trades. The pressure broke his trust in people outside a small inner circle.

    After injuries disrupted 1980, he returned in 1981 and made a radical decision. He abandoned the pursuit of home runs and returned to being what he believed he truly was: a line-drive hitter. He hit .341, rediscovering joy in baseball.

    He later described that season as a return to his original self and to the hitter he believed he had always been. But fans were dissatisfied. A supporter once asked why he had hit “only” 23 home runs.

    “I realized then,” he said, “if I didn’t hit home runs, I wouldn’t be forgiven.”

    So he changed and rebuilt his swing once again. The results were immediate: home run and RBI titles in 1982, another home run crown in 1984, and the elegant opposite-field blasts became known as the “Kakefu Arch.”

    More than statistics, he embraced durability. Advice from Japan’s ironman Sachio Kinugasa convinced him that the fourth hitter must appear every day, to endure in front of fans whether succeeding or failing. From 1981 through 1985, Kakefu played every game, anchoring the lineup without interruption.

    After years of shouldering expectations, the moment he had been preparing for finally arrived in 1985. Coming off of consecutive 4th place finishes, it was supposed to be a rebuilding year. Yoshio Yoshida, in his second stint as manager, described it as laying a foundation, and few were imagining a championship. That changed early in the season at home against the hated Yomiuri Giants.

    Randy Bass launched a towering home run toward the backscreen. Kakefu followed calmly with one of his own. Akinobu Okada completed the unforgettable sequence with a third blast to nearly the same spot. The three consecutive backscreen home runs felt like an announcement. Something had changed.

    Suddenly, Hanshin’s lineup was dangerous. Bass dominated pitchers, Okada broke out, and veterans like Akinobu Mayumi stabilized the offense. At the center stood Kakefu, the longest-tenured Tiger, redefining the cleanup role. Sometimes he forced pitchers to face Bass, sometimes he extended innings, and sometimes he accepted walks instead of chasing glory.

    Hanshin hit a league-leading 219 home runs and captured its first pennant in twenty-one years before winning the franchise’s first Japan Series title. Yoshida later credited victory to having the best cleanup hitter in Japan. Kakefu, hitting fourth every game, combined power with patience, drawing league-leading walks while driving in runs and protecting teammates in the lineup. At thirty years old, in his twelfth season, Kakefu finally experienced the reward that responsibility had promised.

    The celebration revealed his personality as much as his performance. During the beer-soaked victory party, teammates found him smiling while sitting inside a ceremonial sake barrel, drenched but joyful. It was a rare glimpse of playfulness from a player otherwise known for seriousness and responsibility.

    But men called Mr. Tigers rarely live peaceful careers. In 1986 a hit-by-pitch shattered his wrist and ended his streak of 663 consecutive games. More injuries followed—shoulder, back, hand—and the powerful swing that had defined him and carried the franchise began to fade. He later admitted something inside him changed after that first fracture, as if the tension that drove him loosened all at once. Criticism returned. Doubt followed. Personal struggles and declining performance marked his final seasons, and by 1988, still only thirty-three, he knew the end had come.

    Other teams offered opportunities to continue playing. Even Shigeo Nagashima suggested rebuilding quietly before returning. But Kakefu remembered something Tabuchi had told him years earlier after being traded: never take off the striped uniform midway. Kakefu chose to retire as a Tiger.

    His final appearance at Koshien came in October 1988 against Yakult. He started, as he had so many times, batting fourth and playing third base. The symbolism was unmistakable: the role remained even as the body no longer could. In his last plate appearance, he drew a walk. The opposing catcher reportedly urged him to swing, to give the crowd one last moment, but Kakefu did not. He accepted first base quietly.

    He left with 349 home runs, 1,656 hits, a .292 average, three home run titles, an RBI crown, seven Best Nine selections, six Golden Gloves, and ten consecutive All-Star appearances. Yet numbers alone never explained his meaning.

    I asked Trevor Raichura, a social media content creator who occasionally serves as an interpreter for the club, why Kakefu still means so much to Tigers fans. He didn’t hesitate. Kakefu had not arrived as a prodigy but as a late draft pick who forced his way into the lineup. He practiced relentlessly, played dependable defense, and appeared every day. Trevor noted that Randy Bass later said his own success depended on hitting in front of Kakefu, a reminder that the cleanup hitter’s role was not only to shine but to make others dangerous. He never celebrated at an opponent’s expense or carried himself as larger than the game, and when injuries shortened his career, fans saw not decline but sacrifice: a smaller player who had spent every ounce of himself generating power in a ballpark that rarely rewarded left-handed hitters. In that sense, Kakefu’s legend rests as much on how he played as on what he achieved.

    He once refused an offer to change his number to 3 out of respect for Nagashima, insisting that 31 should become his own identity. Later he said numbers should live on players still competing rather than be preserved in tribute. Baseball, to him, belonged on the field.

    Masayuki Kakefu never hit a walk-off home run in regular-season play. It feels oddly fitting. His career was less about single dramatic moments than about sustained responsibility and the daily weight of expectation carried through effort and endurance. He was not born a star, nor was he destined for greatness in the way earlier “Mr. Tigers” had been. He became one through relentless work, adaptation, and acceptance of a role larger than himself.

    For years, when Hanshin fans looked toward the batter’s box in moments that mattered most, they saw number 31 standing there, shoulders squared against impossible expectations.

    Because once he accepted what it meant to be the cleanup hitter of Hanshin, there was nowhere else he believed he could stand.

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 13, Kazuhiro Kiyohara

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 13, Kazuhiro Kiyohara

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    The Controversial Slugger who Never Ruled a Season

    Japanese baseball has produced many great hitters, but it has produced very few figures like Kazuhiro Kiyohara.

    From the beginning, Kiyohara was never simply a player. Before he was a professional baseball player, before he was a slugger or a symbol or a problem, he was already famous. He was famous in a way that made the rest of his career almost beside the point, in the way that only a high school baseball star could be. He arrived carrying more narrative weight than any teenager reasonably could, and for a long time he appeared strong enough to carry it.

    Until he wasn’t.

    This is not a story of wasted talent. Kiyohara’s numbers make that argument impossible. More than 500 home runs. More than 1,500 runs batted in. Over two decades in uniform. Championships in both leagues. He remains one of the most productive hitters Japanese professional baseball has ever known.

    And yet his name does not rest easily.

    In the mid-1980s, Japanese high school baseball revolved around a single axis, and that axis ran through PL Gakuen High School. Every summer, every spring, the cameras found the same faces, the same uniforms, the same two players whose names were already inseparable. They were called the KK Combo, a pairing so complete that it functioned as a unit rather than a rivalry: Masumi Kuwata, the ace pitcher, and Kazuhiro Kiyohara, the star slugger.

    Kiyohara arrived at PL Gakuen as a prodigy with a body that already seemed finished. He was large, broad, powerful in a way that made adults uneasy. As a freshman, he was handed the cleanup spot and treated as such. That alone told you everything about what the program believed him to be.

    From his first summer, Kiyohara’s presence at Koshien felt preordained. He did not simply appear in the tournament; he seemed to belong to it. His bat made a sound that separated itself from the noise of the crowd, and his home runs did not merely sneak over fences or ride the wind. They soared through the air. By the time his high school career ended, he had appeared in five consecutive Koshien tournaments* and set a record with thirteen home runs.

    *PL Gakuen qualified for the summer tournament in his first year, and for both the spring and summer tournaments in his second and third years. Japanese high school lasts three years.

    As a first-year player, PL Gakuen won it all. As a second-year, they reached the final and lost. As a third-year player, the pattern repeated. Kiyohara was productive in those runs, but he was never unaware of the comparison standing beside him. Kuwata, smaller, calmer, relentlessly precise, pitched complete games, dominated opposing lineups, and carried an aura of control that Kiyohara himself seemed to envy.

    In interviews years later, Kiyohara admitted as much. He did not want to be the second name. He wanted the order reversed. He wanted “Kiyohara and Kuwata,” not “Kuwata and Kiyohara.” Power alone was not enough to make that happen.

    By his final summer, something snapped into place. Over five games, Kiyohara went 10-for-16. Over the final three games, he was nearly untouchable, blasting five home runs and turning every at-bat into an event. In the championship game, he hit two more, prompting the call that would trail him for the rest of his life: “Is Koshien made for Kiyohara?”

    He was not simply good. He was supposed to be good.

    That distinction mattered. When the Yomiuri Giants, the team of national narrative, passed on him in the draft and selected Kuwata instead, the moment was framed not as a baseball decision but as a disruption of his identity. Kiyohara cried openly. His tears were later read as entitlement or weakness, but they were merely the normal response of a teenager whose future had been narrated for him by adults, and then suddenly revised.

    Kiyohara would say that the pain never left him, that the shock of that moment stayed with him no matter how many home runs he hit or how many championships he won. His mother* told him to stop feeling sorry for himself and prove them wrong. He listened. He just never forgot.

    *At PL Gakuen, first-years weren’t allowed sweets. His mother, trying to sneak comfort into a place where comfort was prohibited, hid caramel candies in the toes of socks.

    Instead of Tokyo, he went just outside of it to Saitama and the Seibu Lions. And almost immediately, he became something else again.

    On April 5, 1986, in the second game of the season, he stepped to the plate for just the second time in his professional career. He was eighteen years old. The stadium was full, the expectation already unreasonable. The pitcher was Shuji Fujimoto of the Nankai Hawks, working toward what looked like a complete-game victory.

    Kiyohara turned on an inside fastball and sent it screaming into the left-field seats.

    As he rounded first base, he leapt into the air. Not the restrained hop of a veteran, but a full-bodied jump, the kind you make when something you have imagined for years suddenly becomes real. The Lions lost the game 4-2, but it didn’t matter. The home run swallowed the night whole. Fujimoto, still the winning pitcher, walked into the postgame interview and muttered, “I won, but…”

    After the opening blast, reality arrived quickly. Pitchers adjusted. Night games under unfamiliar lights exposed timing issues. He went hitless for stretches long enough that whispers began to circulate about a demotion to the minors. Coaches debated it openly. Mori listened and declined.

    Instead, he waited.

    By midsummer, the waiting paid off. Kiyohara’s swing slowed down just enough to find its shape. His hands stayed back. His balance improved. The results followed in waves. In August, he hit over .320. In September, over .360. By October, he looked unstoppable.

    By the end of the season, the line looked unreal: .304 average, 31 home runs, 78 runs batted in. Rookie of the Year. The most home runs ever hit by a Japanese rookie. Attendance surged. Merchandise exploded. Television found a new face. Seibu’s patience with him, especially during his early struggles, proved decisive.

    For a brief moment, he was not “the uncrowned king,” not “the problem child,” not a symbol of anything larger than himself. He was Kiyoma, a nickname that captured youth, novelty, and something almost cartoonish in its brightness. He lived in the Seibu dormitory, his small room filled with gifts from fans after road trips. His monthly allowance was modest. His favorite meal was champon, a noodle dish, from the Ringer Hut near the dorm, eaten with teammates who treated him less like a prodigy than a younger brother who happened to hit the ball very far.

    The Lions won relentlessly and celebrated loudly. Robert Whiting once described a championship celebration that looked less like Japanese baseball tradition and more like controlled chaos: beer sprayed, cake smashed into faces, teammates dumped into barrels of sake, Kiyohara wearing a Ronald Reagan mask while pouring alcohol on a cameraman. Fans loved it. One woman said the Giants were too proper, too dull. The Lions, she said, were interesting. Kiyohara was the youngest player on the team and spoke like he belonged to no hierarchy at all.

    But even during those years, something was already slipping. During the 1987 Japan Series, Seibu was one out away from defeating the Giants. Kiyohara was at first base and he was crying. Not after the final out but before it. His legs shook. Teammates yelled at him to focus. He later said the tears came without warning, that once he took the field his body gave way. When the final fly ball settled into an outfielder’s glove, Seibu celebrated another title. Two years earlier, the Giants had passed on him. Now he was beating them on the sport’s biggest stage, as the cleanup hitter for a team that had become a dynasty almost overnight. The tears were victory and vindication tangled together, indistinguishable.

    From 1986 through the mid-1990s, the Lions captured league titles with such regularity that seasons began to blur together. Eight league championships in nine years. Six Japan Series titles. A dynasty for a franchise that had been an afterthought for nearly two decades.

    Kazuhiro Kiyohara stood at the center of it.

    He was not alone. Koji Akiyama ran the bases like a man late for something important. Orestes Destrade brought a foreigner’s blunt force to the middle of the order. Behind them, the pitching staff turned games into negotiations between balls and outs. But Kiyohara was the constant cleanup hitter who arrived first and stayed longest.

    From the outside, the numbers piled up neatly. Twenty-one consecutive seasons with double-digit home runs, beginning his rookie year. Thirteen straight seasons of twenty or more. Sixteen total seasons clearing that mark. Walks in bulk. Balls crushed to all fields. Hits absorbed by his body—196 of them, more than anyone in league history. Twelve walk-off home runs. Twenty walk-off hits. Eleven grand slams.

    He led the league in on-base percentage twice. He won Gold Gloves at first base five times, more than any Pacific League first baseman had before him, and contemporaries would later say that, at his peak, he was the best defensive first baseman in Japan. Jim Allen once put it plainly: Kiyohara saved more runs with his glove than people noticed because they were too busy watching his bat.

    And yet, for all of it, the major individual titles never arrived. No batting title. No home run crown. No RBI title. Not once.

    On paper, Kiyohara was one of the most productive hitters in the sport every year. In memory, he was something more complicated. He was the cleanup hitter for a dynasty who never ruled a season outright.

    Even Sadaharu Oh framed it this way: Kiyohara, he suggested, was too versatile for his own good. A hitter who drove the ball to all fields would never pile up the kind of pull-heavy totals that win home run titles. From Oh’s perspective, power requires commitment. From Kiyohara’s, a home run was simply a perfectly struck hit that kept carrying.

    Free agency turned him into the center of gravity of Japanese baseball. The Tigers were willing to say they would change their stripes to get him. Shigeo Nagashima told him to leap into his chest and even floated the idea of handing over number 3, a gesture Kiyohara understood was too heavy to accept. But he accepted the Giants uniform. It was, finally, the dream.

    In his first season, the numbers were solid: 32 home runs, 95 RBIs. On paper, it looked like the continuity of his Seibu years. In reality, it felt like insufficiency. The batting average dipped. The strikeouts climbed: 152 of them, a Central League record at the time. Each miss drew commentary. Each slump fed the idea that the player who once looked unstoppable was now fighting gravity.

    The criticism poured in. Too heavy. Too slow. Too emotional. Too indulgent. He had piercings in his ears. His skin was permanently tanned. His body looked different than it had in Seibu. He didn’t fit the Yomiuri aesthetic.

    There were moments when it almost worked. Early in the season, he shared the field with Kuwata again, this time as teammates. When Kuwata returned from injury, Kiyohara hit a home run in his comeback game, the two of them standing together afterward like an echo from another life. For a brief instant, the story felt complete. KK, reunited.

    But nostalgia does not protect you from fastballs inside. He tinkered with his swing. He altered his stance, his weight training, his body composition. The more he tried to adjust, the further he drifted from the hitter who had once trusted himself to react rather than plan. His body grew heavier. His legs betrayed him. Knee pain became chronic. Seasons fractured into stretches of usefulness interrupted by injury and recovery.

    In early March of 2000, in cold, wet conditions during an exhibition game, he tore a muscle in his leg. For the first time in his professional life, Kiyohara opened the season in the minors. The reaction from above was brutal. The team’s owner remarked that the Giants’ chances of winning had improved in his absence.

    And yet, something unexpected happened.

    When Kiyohara returned in July, the atmosphere at Tokyo Dome had changed. He was no longer announced as the centerpiece of a championship machine. He was introduced as a pinch hitter and when his name was called, the stadium rose. Fans sang. They cheered not because he would save the team, but because he was still there. A home run in his first game back triggered something close to collective release. Even when he failed, the applause remained.

    But still, the relationship with the Giants frayed. His body could no longer support the version of himself he needed to be in Tokyo. Playing time shrank. In 2005, he refused a high-five from the bench after a home run, a small act of defiance that became a large symbol. Not long after, the Giants told him he was no longer part of their plans.

    The dream ended quietly. In a parked car, alone, he cried. The call that changed things came from Akira Ohgi.

    Ohgi, already gravely ill, had taken on the thankless task of leading the newly merged Orix Buffaloes, a team born from contraction and resentment. He believed stubbornly that stars still mattered, that baseball owed something to memory and spectacle. He called Kiyohara directly.

    “Come home to Osaka,” he said. “Let me give you your last stage.”

    Kiyohara hesitated. His body was failing, his confidence was fragile. But Ohgi kept calling, speaking not of contracts but of responsibility and unfinished business. When Kiyohara finally agreed, it felt less like a comeback than an acceptance. Ohgi, tragically passed away before the 2006 season.

    When he hit a walk-off home run in May 2006, he spoke afterward not about himself, but about Ohgi and the fans.

    “This might be the happiest home run of my career,” he said. “It didn’t feel like it was just mine.”

    His body, however, would not cooperate. Knee surgeries followed. In 2007, he did not appear in a single game, the first such season of his professional life. He decided 2008 was going to be the end.

    His final game came in Osaka. Sadaharu Oh managed the opposing team. Ichiro watched from the stands. In his final at-bat, he struck out, swinging hard, fully committed.

    Afterward, with his two sons beside him, he apologized to the fans, the media, and the game itself.

    “I wasn’t always strong,” he said. “But I gave everything I had.”

    Oh took his hand and said, “In the next life, let’s be teammates. Let’s hit home runs together.”

    For a moment, improbably, it felt like closure.

    He left with 525 home runs, fifth all-time, without ever leading the league. Twenty-one seasons with double-digit home runs. Records everywhere. A shape no one else quite matched.

    But after baseball, everything fell apart.

    His marriage ended amid reports of domestic violence. He was arrested in 2016 for possession and use of stimulants. The trial revealed years of addiction. He admitted to using drugs after retirement, denied using them as a player, and spoke of emptiness, of having no next step. He was convicted and given a suspended sentence. His Hall of Fame candidacy was withdrawn. His finances collapsed. His health deteriorated. His arrest shocked the country not because it was unimaginable, but because it retroactively contaminated everything people wanted to believe about him.

    Kazuhiro Kiyohara will never be a clean legend. How should baseball remember someone like him?

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 14, Tatsunori Hara

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 14, Tatsunori Hara

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 14, Tatsunori Hara

    The man asked to follow Sadaharu Oh and Shigeo Nagashima

    For a long time, Japanese baseball kept asking the same question.

    No, not who is the next great player, but something much harder, and much crueler:

    Who comes after giants?

    Sadaharu Oh had just finished rewriting what power meant. Shigeo Nagashima had already become something more than a ballplayer—he was posture, gesture, spirit, shorthand for what it meant to be Japanese. Together, they were not simply stars but a system. ON was the Yomiuri Giants’ and, by extension, Japanese baseball’s center of gravity.

    When they were gone, pro yakyu didn’t just need a hitter.

    It needed a successor.

    So when Tatsunori Hara arrived, the nation decided, almost instantly, that he would be the one.

    Hara had been trained for baseball since he was three years old by his father, Mitsugu, a famously strict high-school and college coach. He starred as a third baseman at Tokai University Sagami High School, then at Tokai University itself, where he won two Triple Crowns in the Metropolitan League and became the most polished amateur slugger in the country. He helped Japan win bronze at the 1980 Amateur World Series. He hit. He smiled. He looked the part. In his senior year of university, he further fueled expectations of being the second coming of Nagashima by hitting three home runs in a single game at the Meiji Jingu Baseball Tournament.

    Most importantly, he wanted to be a Giant.

    In the fall of 1980, the Yomiuri Giants were in turmoil. Nagashima had been dismissed as manager. Oh had retired. Fans protested. Newspapers, owned by the Yomiuri group, were boycotted. The franchise needed stability, and it needed a new face.

    At the draft, four teams competed for Hara. New Giants manager Motoshi Fujita drew the winning lot.

    People inside the Yomiuri building reportedly embraced. Newspapers ran banner headlines speculating whether Hara might even inherit Nagashima’s sacred number 3. He didn’t, but number 8 would soon become just as recognizable.

    From the moment he signed, Hara was not treated like a rookie. He was treated like a hero. Magazines followed him through spring camp, staged photo shoots, even placed him on horseback in the mountains. A cheer song, Our Beloved Big Brother Tatsunori*, was released on vinyl before he had played a professional game. Teenage girls wrote in to say they had switched allegiances to the Giants because of him. More than ten thousand fans showed up just to watch him practice. The team expanded its public-relations staff to manage the crowds.

    *It’s roughly “the big brother everyone admired” but I’m sure someone else has a better translation.

    With an established third baseman already in place, Hara prepared to play second and spoke earnestly about becoming something new, a large infielder who could hit home runs from a position that did not yet ask for them. He took notes obsessively, writing down how pitchers attacked him, what he swung at, what he should have done differently. When coaches suggested rest when he was sick, or when he was exhausted, he refused. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I can do it.”

    The criticism arrived anyway. Nine games into his career, despite hitting safely in six straight, the phrase appeared: weak in the clutch. It would follow him for the rest of his playing life.

    But his first professional season in 1981 was, by any rational measure, outstanding. He hit .268 with 22 home runs, won Rookie of the Year, and helped lead the Giants to a league title and Japan Series championship. He hit a walk-off homer in April that sent fans spilling onto the field. He was promoted relentlessly on television, in magazines, and in advertisements. Marriage proposals arrived at the team office. Film studios called. He was voted Japan’s top male symbol of the year.

    The Giants had found their prince.

    And almost immediately, people began asking why he wasn’t a king.

    Hara followed his rookie year with equally impressive performances. Thirty home runs became routine. In 1983, he hit .302 with 32 homers, led the league in RBIs, won MVP, and captured a batting Triple Crown of his own kind: average, power, authority. It should have been the coronation for the new king.

    Instead, it became the high-water mark.

    He never again led the league in a major offensive category. He was always near the top, productive and present, but rarely first. Other sluggers outpaced him: Masayuki Kakefu, Hiromitsu Ochiai, Randy Bass. He made the Best Nine and won Golden Gloves but that wasn’t enough. And because Hara wore the Giants’ uniform, and because he was supposed to be more than merely excellent, closeness to greatness was interpreted as a failure.

    The criticism followed a familiar script: he wasn’t clutch enough; he should have hit forty home runs; he smiled too much. The expectations had been inherited, not earned and, therefore, impossible to satisfy.

    No one captured the tension better than Warren Cromartie, Hara’s American teammate in the 1980s. In his book Slugging It Out in Japan with Robert Whiting, Cromartie described Hara as the Giants’ “glamour boy,” endlessly promoted, endlessly photographed, endlessly scrutinized.

    Hara, according to Cromartie, endured constant extra practice, endless instruction, and relentless attention from coaches who believed that precision mattered more than instinct. He complied with everything. If told to sleep in the batting cage, Cromartie joked, Hara would ask whether he needed a futon.

    Cromartie believed Hara was overcoached, overexposed, and ultimately constrained by the very system that needed him so badly. Hara wanted to swing freely. He wanted to simplify. But the Giants, like Japanese baseball itself, wanted obedience and control.

    And Hara, above all, wanted to be worthy of the uniform.

    That desire reached its breaking point on September 24, 1986.

    The Giants were chasing Hiroshima for the pennant. Hara had already hit a career-high 36 home runs that season. During a game in August, he had injured his left wrist in the field. Painkillers allowed him to keep playing, but he later said he could only swing at sixty or seventy percent.

    In the ninth inning, with two outs and a runner on base, Hara came to the plate. On the mound for the Carp was Tsunemi Tsuda*, the Fiery Closer, pitching with full force, as he always did.

    *Tsuda tragically died in 1993 at the age of 32 from a brain tumor. He was inducted into the Japanese Hall of Fame in 2012.

    Hara knew holding back was safer. But he also knew restraint was unacceptable for a Giant.

    Tsuda came in hard. Hara swung as hard as he could. The ball went foul. There was a sharp cracking sound at contact, and Hara knew immediately.

    The bone in his wrist was broken.

    Years later, Hara said that was the swing that ended him as a hitter*. He said he never truly found the same feeling again. And yet, he never regretted it.

    *He hit .300 with 30 home runs for two consecutive years in 1987 and 1988, but if the man himself says he was never quite the same, he was never quite the same.

    “Even now,” Hara said, “I think that swing was my best one.”

    That sentence tells you everything about Tatsunori Hara.

    After that moment, even if he was never quite the same, he was never quite absent. He moved to the outfield. He continued to hit 20-plus home runs year after year. He adapted. He endured.

    And in 1989, when the Giants needed him one more time, he delivered the hit that would define his reputation more than any criticism ever could.

    In the Japan Series against Kintetsu, Hara went 18 straight at-bats without a hit. He was struggling. He was hurting. He was, once again, being questioned.

    In Game 5, with Yomiuri trailing the series 3 games to 1, the Giants loaded the bases. Kintetsu’s Masato Yoshii intentionally walked Cromartie to face Hara instead.

    Hara hit a grand slam.

    The Giants won the next three games and the championship. Although Hara struggled throughout the series and finished with only two hits, both were home runs—the grand slam in Game 5 and a two-run homer in Game 7—and he drove in six runs in total, surpassing even series MVP Norihiro Komada* in RBIs.

    *Komada was the first player in NPB history to hit a grand slam in his first plate appearance. He ended his career with 13 grand slams and one of the coolest nicknames ever, “Mr. Bases Loaded”.

    The decline came quietly. Achilles tendon injuries mounted. Playing time shrank. By the mid-1990s, the Giants were entering a new era, one of Hideki Matsui, free-agent stars, and a different kind of power. Hara was not only no longer the future: sometimes he was no longer even the present.

    And yet, something curious happened.

    As expectations fell, affection deepened. Older fans who had lived through the ON era often measured Hara against memory and found him lacking. Younger fans, those who had never seen Nagashima play, who knew Oh only through numbers, saw something else. They saw the cleanup hitter who took the licks meant for giants. The star who was told, year after year, that thirty home runs was not enough. The man who kept getting back up even after injuries knocked him out.

    In a role that demanded perfection, Hara survived by being human. His imperfections made him accessible. When he began to fade, the applause grew louder. Not because he was still great, but because he was still there, because he had persevered.

    In 1995, Hara retired after fifteen seasons. In his final game, he hit one last home run. At the ceremony afterward, he spoke about the Giants’ cleanup hitter as a sacred role, one that no one could claim lightly.

    “My dream ends today,” he said.

    “But my dream has a continuation.”

    That continuation arrived in the form of authority.

    As a manager, Hara won nine league titles, three Japan Series championships, and led Japan to victory at the 2009 World Baseball Classic. The system that never fully trusted him as a player eventually handed him everything.

    Even then, the burden of symbolism did not lift. In 2012, long after his playing days had ended but in the midst of his second managerial stint, reports surfaced of an extramarital affair from his playing days and of hush money paid years later under pressure from men later identified as having ties to organized crime: the yakuza. Hara admitted to the core facts and apologized publicly. The courts ultimately ruled that the reporting was substantially true. It was messy and uncomfortable.

    In the end, Tatsunori Hara did not become Nagashima. He did not become Oh. He became something else: the man who carried the weight between eras.

    To some, he will always be the prince who never became a king. To others, the superstar who was never free. But perhaps the truest version is this: Tatsunori Hara was Japanese baseball’s most successful act of containment. Loved loudly, corrected endlessly, and trusted completely. He did not break under expectation. He lived inside it, smiling for the cameras, swinging when allowed, and carrying the quiet burden of being exactly what Japan wanted him to be.

    History is cruel to its heirs.

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • Excerpt: In the Japanese Ballpark: Behind the Scenes of Nippon Professional Baseball

    Excerpt: In the Japanese Ballpark: Behind the Scenes of Nippon Professional Baseball

    Chapter 26: Bobby Valentine, Manager.

    from Off Base with Howard Cole, originally posted February6, 2026

    Because of their rich history in Los Angeles, the Dodgers (and their fans) know something about Japanese baseball. And so does the Robert K. Fitts, the author of several books on the subject. We excerpted his “Mashi: The Unfulfilled Baseball Dreams of Masanori Murakami, the First Japanese Major Leaguer” ahead of Shohei Ohtani’s L.A. debut in 2024, and are happy to tell you about his latest work now. It is “In the Japanese Ballpark: Behind the Scenes of Nippon Professional Baseball,” University of Nebraska Press, November 1, 2025, $21.99 Hardcover, $20.89 Kindle.

    Fitts devoted chapters about his interview subjects from every aspect of Japanese baseball under the sun. Twenty-six of them, including a player, umpire, manager, fan, cheerleader, beer girl, data analyst, general manager, assistant general manager, commissioner, agent and team owner.

    In fact, chapters regarding two managers, both with Dodgers connections, are included in the work: Trey Hillman, who was Don Mattingly’s bench coach from 2011 to 2013, and Bobby Valentine, a Dodgers minor and major leaguer from1968 through 1972, when he was included in a blockbuster trade which also sent Billy Grabarkewitz, Frank Robinson, Bill Singer and Mike Strahler to Anaheim for Andy Messersmith and Ken McMullen.

    Chapter 26: Bobby Valentine, Manager

    Former Major League player Bobby Valentine managed the Texas Rangers, New York Mets, and Boston Red Sox as well as the Chiba Lotte Marines in 1995 and 2005–2009. He led the Marines to the championship in 2005.

    I went to Japan for the first time in the early 1980s. I was invited by Mizuno Sporting Goods because at that time I was thought to be the first player to use a Mizuno glove in the Major Leagues. In 1978 Mizuno’s master glove maker, Nobuyoshi Tsubota, came to spring training in Florida and set up a little workshop in a Winnebago he parked on the street right outside the players’ parking lot. I was riding by on my bike, and I stopped in, and Tsubota-san made me a glove. I used it from that day on. Later that season, I was going to be in the starting lineup for some reason and the game was going to be on national television. Joe Torre was our manager, and his brother Frank was the vice president of Rawlings. The game was on a Saturday, and Frank came to the stadium on Friday night. When I arrived on Saturday morning to get ready for the game, the Mizuno label was ripped off my glove! But I used it, and it was the first time a Mizuno glove was used in the Majors— or so I thought. Later, we found out that Lou Gehrig had his glove stolen during the 1934 tour, and Mizuno made him a replacement that he used when he returned to the States.

    Then in 1986 I went over as a coach on the postseason All- Star tour. My first impression was that the players looked better than I thought they would. Then in 1989 I went over as part of the Japan- U.S. baseball summit that Tatsuro Hirooka put together. I got to meet a lot of the baseball hierarchy, including Shigeo Nagashima, Katsuya Nomura, and Hirooka-san. Once again, I was impressed, especially by a young player named Hiromitsu Ochiai. So, by the time I got there in 1995 to manage the Chiba Lotte Marines, I already had a good impression of Japanese baseball. Then in that first year, I got to work with Hirooka-san. I was amazed at his knowledge and his understanding of the game. He was as spectacular a baseball man as I had ever been around. And I had been around a lot of the older baseball guys in America. I had played baseball and been a young coach on the same staff as Frank Howard and George Bamberger, and I was really close to Tommy Lasorda and Al Campanis and then later Bobby Bragan.

    In the early 1990s most Americans’ understanding of Japanese baseball was totally misconceived. It was based on Tom Selleck and Mr. Baseball— almost totally based on that and the stories that guys told from their experiences. Most of the guys were bad storytellers, and most of them had an ugly American’s perspective. I think that some of the guys who could have told the story properly were never asked, or it never got into the mainstream media, which was presenting a very opinionated and uneducated view of Japanese baseball, in my opinion. 

    There was a lot of resistance to acknowledging the baseball culture of Japan. There was still prejudice, probably hangover effects from the war. I knew some Americans who had actually experienced World War II and had a preconceived prejudice of the Japanese being the enemy. It wasn’t acceptable by my standards, but I thought it to be natural. They were very comfortable having a predetermined opinion of what the culture was and what the baseball culture was in Japan. When I went over with the Major League All-Star team in 1986, to a man they played and respected the Japanese players. They said, “Hey man, that pitcher is pretty good. Hey, this guy can hit. Hey, they’re throwing from the outfield just like we are.” There was a reckoning from those who were seeing without blinders on. 

    When I got there in ’95, Japanese baseball culture had an inferiority complex. Nearly everyone believed that it was a lesser league, a lesser brand of baseball. A lot of that was based on a size and speed comparison. There wasn’t that really fast guy, and there wasn’t that really big guy who was born from Japanese parents. So, there was that physical inferiority, but there was also just the idea of watching a championship game from the United States on TV and having it called the World Championship and then watching your championship on TV and having it called the Japan Championship that lends itself to an inherent inferiority situation. 

    The same year that I first managed the Marines, Hideo Nomo came over to the States. I always thought of that as an exchange, basically the first player coming over here and the first manager going over there. We did a crossover. What I was expecting when I got to Japan was an enthusiastic fandom for Nomo, a superhero trying to do something that no one had ever done before. But instead, he was treated like an outsider, and the fans and the baseball community, mainly the older baseball community, were pulling against him at the beginning and saying he would fail. I remember having conversations with Hirooka-san and others, and they thought he was going to fall on his face, and they weren’t really rooting for him, which I found really amazing. Or maybe, in their hearts they were pulling for him, but they were embarrassed to come out and say it in case he failed. So, I’m not sure what the true mentality of the baseball hierarchy in Japan was at the beginning of Nomomania. I know what I heard, and I know what they said, but it’s such a different culture that sometimes you have to get an interpreter to understand what’s really meant. 

    After managing in Japan, I had an even greater appreciation of the Japanese game. I always thought it was real baseball, and then I got to experience it and I was like, “Holy cow!” When I brought the Marines to Arizona to practice in the spring of 1995, I had Nolan Ryan and Tom House come out to watch Hideki Irabu throw. He wasn’t like Nomo with the whirlwind windup and the split finger that confused everyone. He was actually someone who stood out there and had a fastball better than everyone else. And he was from Japan! 

    When I was the Mets manager in 1997, I went to Shigeo Nagashima’s spring camp, which started two weeks before we did, and I asked him if he could give me a pitcher who was not going to make the Yomiuri Giants ichi-gun (main team) so that I could take him to spring training and have him pitch for the Mets. He was like, “Why would you want to do that?” And I said because I want to show the Japanese community, as well as the U.S. community, that a guy who can’t pitch for your team can pitch for mine. So, I brought over Takashi Kashiwada, and he actually pitched for the Mets and did a decent job. 

    Measuring change is one of the hardest things in the world to do. You look back twenty years, and you realize that things have really changed, right? When I came back to manage the Marines in the mid-2000s, it seemed that the decade between my two stints was like the 1975 to 1985 decade in the States when times were changing. There had been a kind of cultural swing. I think that Nomo going to the States allowed a freedom of spirit to be attached to baseball in Japan.

    In 1995 I misunderstood why I was there. I thought I was there to teach the Japanese how to play the game, because that’s what I was told when I was being interviewed for the job. They said that Hirooka knew how to play the game, but the Japanese players really didn’t. As it turned out, they knew how to play the game. They just needed someone to let them know that they knew how to play the game. Ten years later when I went back, that was my mission, not teaching them how to play the game, but letting them understand that they knew it well enough to compete at any level. But by that time, Ichiro was doing his thing, and Matsui was on the Yankees, and that inferiority complex that I thought they had was no longer there. 

    There have been several noticeable changes since 1995, both on and off the field. One of the most challenging times of my life was getting the Japanese hierarchy to understand one thing that I thought they needed to change. They thought that a hitter should always swing down on the ball and hit ground balls because they weren’t big enough and strong enough to hit home runs. I argued, “How could you say that when the guy who hit more home runs than anybody on earth was a Japanese and my size?” You don’t have to be a big guy to hit it over the fence. What you need is a good swing. 

    But even Sadaharu Oh thought you should swing down at the ball. In 1995 I had weekly debates with Hirooka-san, who was on the same team with Oh and saw how Oh developed the swing that made him hit more home runs than anybody else who ever lived. And it was a downswing. So one time, after showing me videos in slow motion and stop action, Hirooka-san brought in a wonderfully fine-tuned samurai sword and a bundle of sticks bounded by a rope. In one of the great training exercises that Oh did with the sword, they hang this bundle of sticks, and you swing the sword, and if you swing properly, at the right angle with the right velocity, you go through that bundle as though it was a piece of paper. And if you don’t, then the sword ricochets back and it might hit you in the forehead and cut your head open! They had me try it. And they were right. If you went in at the right angle, and it was a bit of a downswing with the sword, it would go through. It went through on my first attempt. Then they had me swing up at it, and it bounced off, and the ricochet almost stabbed me in my backside!

    Bobby Valentine with former MLB pitcher Masato Yoshii. Courtesy of Jim Allen.

    That was all cool, but then I needed another two months to explain to Hirooka how a sword has no weight at the end of it, and a bat has a weight at the end of it. These interpretive conversations were multiple and always the same. I said the same thing, and he would always agree that he understood what I was saying, but that he didn’t agree with what I was saying. Then finally at the end of the year, and it was one of the most satisfying moments, he said to me, “I understand what you’re saying, and I understand that you are right, but I just don’t want the players to know that.” There was so much time and effort invested into this philosophy of hitting in Japan that they didn’t want to reverse it, so they just let it be. Luckily, some of the players kind of got the message. Today, many of the hitters in Japan, and in Korea for that matter, definitely have an upswing.

    The other major change is on the field. The Japanese now have incorporated the backhand as a standard way of fielding. In 1995 there was a rite of passage for those who entered the professional ranks of baseball in Japan. You had to field one thousand ground balls at one time without leaving the field, and while fielding them if you went to your right, you had to go so hard that you got in front of the ball. That was the way you fielded. When you went to your right, you always got in front of the ball, so the ball hit you in the chest if it didn’t go into the glove. But from about 1995, some of the infielders started to incorporate the backhand, and that made a big difference in their range factor and in their ability to throw the ball across the diamond more efficiently. 

    Those are the two technical things that changed from the first time I got there. The hitting one is rather large and the fielding one is a little more subtle. By incorporating those two changes, the players now look very similar to the professional players in the States. 

    Another thing that’s changed— Japanese baseball now leans toward recovery, not only toward effort. The idea that doing more, and more was better, has changed just a little. When I got to Japan in 1995, to miss a minute of practice while your teammates were practicing, even if you had to go to the bathroom, would be frowned upon. Everyone played all the time, and there was no pitch limit. I instituted a 15 pitch-per- inning goal and a 135-per- game maximum. You would have thought that I was asking families to give away their first-born child! Suggesting that a pitcher should have a limitation on his pitches per inning and per game was unheard of in Japan. 

    While I was managing there, Masahiro Tanaka pitched twelve innings in the 2006 Koshien final that ended in a tie and then came back the next day and pitched seven innings. I mean, are you kidding me? It was some of the greatest stuff I’ve ever seen in my life. It was a badge of honor to leave it all out on the field. The idea that you had to come back and do it again the next day wasn’t necessarily part of the equation.

    A crazy example of this happened in my first year. After a game we lost, I got showered and dressed and then came out, and Hirooka, the general manager, was standing behind the batting cage, and my third baseman was taking batting practice. It’s about 11:30 at night. Sweat is pouring off of his chin, and he had just played nine innings. And the pitcher is throwing curveballs. I watched for a while because I figured, well, he needed practice hitting curveballs. And I watched for a little longer. I guess he needed a little more practice hitting curveballs. Then, I went over to Hirooka-san and asked, “So how long is he going to be hitting here tonight?” 

    And he said, “Until he can hit the curveball.” 

    Of course! I thought. There was no consideration that the next day was a day game, and it was going to be 93 degrees, and this guy had to go home, come back, and then play nine more innings. 

    That has changed. The players are not wearing themselves down as much, and that’s why I think the athletes now are bigger and stronger. They have time to recover and build rather than just breaking their bodies down through constant work.

    I have to touch on this. Somewhere it should be said, or maybe it shouldn’t be said, but it took Japan about twenty years to discourage players from smoking cigarettes. In traditional Japanese baseball culture, that was what you were supposed to do. If you looked at the back of a magazine, all the stars in the ads were smoking. And if they were smoking, you had to smoke. When I first got there in 1995, right behind the dugout there was something like a table with a grid on the top where you put your cigarette out and then just dropped it into this long ashtray. The guys would come in from the field and line up like it was buffet line, eight or nine of them smoking cigarettes. It was crazy! But that has changed as well. 

    You know that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is insanity, but businesswise the Japanese teams had a way of doing the same thing over and over again and being very satisfied with the same result. So, when I came back in 2005, I was hired to do more than the managing. I was also there to help them transition into more of a Major League–type business, to help them run the club as a standalone business instead of an advertising vehicle for the international company that lends its name to the team.

    Akio Shigemitsu, who ran the club, was the son of the owner of Lotte, and he was only part Japanese, so he was seen as an outsider. I think that’s what gave him the idea to give Hirooka-san the go ahead to find a foreign manager. Shigemitsu-san wasn’t getting the weekly memo from Watanabe-san (the president of the Yomiuri Giants) that everything in Japanese baseball is great and don’t try to change a thing until I call and give you the go-ahead. He didn’t totally follow the marching orders. All of the interaction we ever had was at these very formal geisha dinners: private room, sitting on the floor, geisha gals pouring your sake, talking about the weather and all the other really important things that we could definitely agree on to make sure there wasn’t going to be any confrontation at this social event. But we would also talk about doing things a little differently to make the Marines a better team and business. 

    When Shigemitsu-san gave me the go-ahead to talk with people about marketing, it was marketing the mascot and the team brand. It was never marketing the players. Japanese baseball, just like Japanese culture, in my opinion, is such a closed culture. They treated baseball as an entertainment vehicle that was closed to the public. There was an idea that players should not interact with the fans. It was as if it would lower your image if you didn’t keep a barrier between the players and those who paid to see them play. I think what they wanted was the secretive, aloof, no-contact kind of superstar, the Joe DiMaggio type. But, marketing the player and promoting the player and letting the fans have contact with the player have changed for the better over the years. It’s now part of the business side that they’re trying to sell, not only the brand but also the talent. 

    Between-inning entertainment has also become part of the business. The teams always had the mascots, but now there are mascots, cheerleaders, plus other events between innings to entertain fans. Japanese teams have become more cognizant that they need the fans to have the game. At one time, the fans needed the game, so they provided the game. The mentality changed a little so that now the game needs the fans. I think they’re getting it now. It’s a different ownership situation. 

    But it was tough to change the marketing. Marketing is one of those weird concepts in Japan. People are supposed to want to buy your product, right? Having to persuade consumers is a newer concept, and baseball is one of the older and more conservative businesses there. For example, I almost needed an act of Congress to allow kids to come on the field after Sunday games and run around the bases.

    I’m concerned that NPH will become like the Negro Leagues. I tried to tell players that the good players should stay there and that the medium players should go to the States and make more money. But don’t take the stars away from their teams because that’s what MLB did to the Negro Leagues. The Negro Leagues were great leagues for their fans. The last Negro World Series was in 1949, two years after Jackie Robinson came to the Dodgers. That’s a whole story for another day, right? But that’s always my fear, that MLB is going to do that to another great league.

    I think a lot has been taken away from NPB because the players want to go where the grass is greener. They need to plant a few new lawns, and the beginning is to get new venues. You can then charge more money for suites and generate revenue from within the business itself rather than from the parent company. Then that money can be reinvested in R&D (research and development) and the minor leagues and in major league salaries and talent. 

    It looks like NPB is actually moving to do it with the Hokkaido new dome and the plans to renovate Jingu and make that into a spectacular downtown venue. The Giants are going to be forced to do something. Chiba, I hear, is going to spend over a billion dollars to build a new stadium along with Lotte and ZoZo in partnership. 

    One solution for NPB would be to increase their minor league system and their R&D. The problem with their system has been that they have eighty players in each organization. Thirty of them are basically on the ichi-gun (top team), and fifty of them are in the single ni-gun (minor league) team. The ni-gun manager has to keep sharp the guys who might come up to the big leagues as temporary replacements. Since there’s only one team, there is no room to develop young players. Sometimes, players are in the minor leagues for years without playing in a game. But they go to practice every day, five and six hours a day of practice. That’s the mentality: keep practicing, and you’ll get better. Well, I kept trying to tell them that they need to play to get better. It’s a game of playing, not just a game of hitting and throwing. Three of the organizations now have more than one minor league team, so that’s a start. 

    NPB also has to improve their feeder system. When you have four thousand high schools and eighty colleges playing baseball and then you draft only seventy or eighty kids a year, that is not forward thinking. They’ve got to spend more on developing players because there are a lot of players who fall through the cracks. Japanese kids develop physically later, and basically when they’re seventeen, they’re being judged whether or not they’re going to be a professional player. The feeder system has changed a little bit. It used to be Koshien to contract. Star in high school Koshien, and you get a contract. You’re one of the eighty players selected by a team. But now, teams are giving more opportunities for college and even industrial and independent league players to play professionally.

    Still, Japan needs to embrace the independent leagues. We have Minor League teams in the States that allow fans who aren’t close to a Major League franchise to go out and watch a professional baseball game. In Japan, there are independent league teams in all these little country towns. As in America, these should be seen as the place to go in the community. One could go to a baseball game with your kid and enjoy it and then go home without worrying about catching the last train out of Tokyo to get home. But the independent leagues haven’t built up a strong fan base. I was trying to expand the independent leagues when I was there because a stronger independent league system would produce more players for NPB. In 2006 when I was managing the Marines, I scouted independent teams, and I took a kid named Katsuya Kakunaka from an independent team in the draft. After I left, he wound up leading the league in hitting in 2012. 

    So anyway, that’s what I think NPB needs to do. They need to improve their facilities, create more minor league teams and more independent teams, and then they need to get together on what they’re doing. I think what they need to do eventually is change the baseball hierarchy. 

    And I think that’s already starting to change. And I think they should at least explore the possibility of having a division of Major League Baseball in Asia— not where teams are traveling back and forth between Asia and the United States, but where the winner of an Asian division enters the playoffs for a true world championship. Now, of course, that would change the model in Japan, and I don’t know that change is what they would really like to do. But I think that if baseball wants to expand and continue to grow worldwide, it would be better to merge and grow rather than just have MLB handpick talent and eliminate the competition.

    Of course, we have the WBC. But it interrupts the season. I don’t think that you’re ever going to get the best brand of baseball being played before the season. If it’s a true all-star situation, then I think it should be played midseason with everyone taking a break. Or it should be an Olympic sport played during the Winter Olympics. I always thought that would be the sensible thing to do, play the tournament in a dome during the Winter Olympics because it’s the off-season. 

    But you know, after winning the first one, and winning it often, I feel that Japan should get a bigger cut of the pie. I thought that they should have negotiated that from day one, but they didn’t. I felt and feel that it could be a big boost economically for the players. Also with the WBC, people will continue to say, “Oh, yeah, Japan only won because they take it more seriously. Japan only won because they practiced more before it started.” Well, if they’re going to practice more and use better players and be better prepared, which makes it a better event, then they should be rewarded economically for that. 

    My advice to American fans seeing their first Japanese game? Well, they should understand that the food is going to be better than they’ve ever had at a baseball park, so order properly: that the kegs are on legs and you’re going to get a very cold and foam-filled glass of beer that you absolutely have to have, and that you should pay attention to the game just like everyone else around you, because they won’t miss a pitch or an inning regardless of the score or who’s at the plate. The Japanese give the game that respect when they’re in the stands. There’s a better understanding of the game from the fans. It’s not necessarily vocalized or transmitted through action. If someone thinks something is good here in the States, they stand up in front of the person behind them and start yelling and waving their hands, regardless of whether the guy behind them can see. It’s a little different in Japan. But if you turn to the seventy-year- old woman to your left and ask what the count is, she’ll probably know. That should be appreciated. 

    The Japanese players will look and act in a very similar way, and they do that out of respect for the game. They feel that there’s a certain way to dress, a certain way to act when they’re on the field, a certain way to swing and miss in a very dramatic fashion. There are little moments of drama in a Japanese game that are kind of unique, but you have to know what you’re looking at to actually see them. There’s a little bit of Kabuki theater when they have a collision or get hit by a pitch or swing violently and miss or dive for a ball. Also, the idea of the count going full is respected a little more in Japan, that the battle has taken place and now it comes to this crescendo and the outcome will be on the next pitch. That’s Japanese baseball in its truest, purest form. The game is built around those moments. That’s why they love it.

    Off Base with Howard Cole is available on Substack

  • Baseball at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics

    Baseball at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics

    by Dave McNeely

    The 1964 Tokyo Olympics were the fifth time that baseball was included as a demonstration sport, following the 1912, 1936, 1952 and 1956 Olympiads.  The 1964 games, however, were different than the games before them in that more than one game would be played.

    Until recently, most English-language accounts of the 1964 Olympic baseball events described it as a single game played between a US team made up of college players against “a Japanese amateur all-star team”.  The game was played at Meiji Jingu Stadium in Tokyo on October 11th,1964 in front of 50,000 fans and was won by the US team by a score of 6-2.  One of the US players, Shaun Fitzmaurice, hit a home run on the first pitch of the game.

    As it turns out, this account is not entirely accurate.  There were actually TWO games that Team USA played in at Jingu Stadium that day – one against a team of Japanese collegiate players and one against a team of Japanese corporate league players.  Neither Japanese team should really be considered an “all-star” team.  The collegiate team was essentially the Komazawa University team (which had just won the All-Japan University Baseball Championship four months earlier) which was fortified with seven players from other colleges in Tokyo.  Similarly, the corporate league team was the Nippon Express team (which had won the Intercity Baseball Tournament – essentially the corporate league championship – two and a half months earlier) that was bolstered by seven players from other corporate league teams.

    Rod Dedeaux, the legendary USC baseball coach, was the manager of the US team.  He’d put together an all-star team of collegiate players for a 14-game tour of Japan and South Korea that included these two games in Tokyo.  The tour was organized to drum up interest in having baseball added to future Olympics.  The team would include eight players who would go on to play in the major leagues – Mike Epstein, Gary Sutherland, Chuck Dobson, Alan Closter, Dick Joyce, Jim Hibbs, Ken Suarez and the previously mentioned Shaun Fitzmaurice.  

    The baseball team was not considered part of the official US Olympic team and was not quartered in the Olympic Village.  Neither were they allowed to participate in the Opening Ceremony.  On the plus side, however, they were not subject to the curfew that the other athletes had and were able to enjoy the Tokyo nightlife deeper into the evening.  Similarly, the Japanese teams were not considered part of the official Japanese team and also did not take part in the Opening Ceremony.  

    The Japanese collegiate team (seen above with Team USA) was managed by Akihito Kobayashi, the head coach of the Komazawa University team.  Eleven of the eighteen players on the roster were from Komazawa with another two players coming from one of the University’s Tohto League rivals, Chou University.  The other five players came from Tokyo Big Six league schools – two from Hosei, two from Keio and one from Rikkio.  All the players wore Komazawa uniforms.

    Twelve members of this team would go on to have professional careers in NPB.  Tokuji “Atsushi” Nagaike of Hosei University was the biggest name here – he won two Pacific League MVP awards (1969 & 1971) and led the league in home runs and RBIs three times each.  Shozo Doi (Rikkio) and Toshimitsu Suetsugu (Chuo) were key members of the Yomiuri Giants team that won nine straight Nippon Series between 1965 and 1973 (known as the V9 Giants).  Doi managed the Orix BlueWave in the early 1990s and is most famous (infamous?) for saying that Ichiro Suzuki would never be able to hit with that batting stance.  Taisuke Watanabe (Keio) had thrown the first perfect game in Tokyo Big Six history five months before these games.

    The corporate league team (seen above with Team USA) was managed by Seiji Inaba, the head coach of Nippon Express.  Like the collegiate team, the corporate league team’s eighteen player roster featured eleven players from their manager’s team.  The other seven players consisted of two players each from Nippon Oil and Nippon Steel Pipe and one each from Sumitomo Metal, Nippon Columbia and Kanekalon Kaneka.  All the members of the team wore Nippon Express uniforms.

    Only three of these players would have professional careers.  The most interesting story of any of these players is Shigeo Kondo of Nippon Columbia who, after an eleven-year corporate league career, was taken by the Lotte Orions in the 1971 NPB draft.  At 29 years and one month, he was the oldest player drafted, a record he would hold for eleven years until 30-year and five-month-old Norio Ichimura was drafted by the Dragons in 1982.

    With the smoke of the Olympic cauldron (which had been lit during the Opening Ceremony the previous evening) at the National Stadium visible just beyond the left field stands of Jingu Stadium, the teams held their own “opening ceremony” before the two collegiate teams faced off in the first game.  While there’s no record of whether Fitzmaurice did indeed hit a home run on the first pitch of the game, the US team did score a run in the top of the first inning.  Japan matched that run in the bottom of the inning and went ahead 2-1 with a single run in the fifth inning.  Team USA tied the score in the top of the ninth and that’s how the game ended – a 2-2 tie.  The corporate league team proved no match for Team USA in the nightcap with Dedeaux’s squad shutting out Inaba’s by a score of 3-0.

    Team USA’s tour of Japan would conclude two weeks later with a doubleheader in Urawa.  Their first game against “a selected team from Saitama Prefecture” ended in a 3-3 tie while Nippon Express got their revenge by winning the second game 3-2.  The collegiate team would finish the Japanese portion of their tour with a record of 5-2-2. 

    Baseball would not return to the Olympics for twenty years when it was again a demonstration sport for the 1984 Los Angeles games.  Unlike the previous instances, the 1984 games featured an eight-team tournament rather than a single day event.  The only connection to the 1964 games was Rod Dedeaux, who would again manage Team USA.  The Japanese team took the “unofficial” gold medal with Team USA taking silver.  The two nations would swap spots at the 1988 Seoul games, the last that baseball would be played in as a demonstration sport.  It would become an official sport at the 1992 Barcelona games.

    Note – the photos for this post were taken from the “Japan National Team Uniform Catalog”, a book/magazine published by Baseball Magazine She in April of 2020.  The baseball cards are from the author’s personal collection.

    Dave McNeely has been collecting Japanese Baseball cards for more than 25 years and has been blogging about them since 2007.  His blog can be found at Japanese Baseball Cards.

  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 15 Katsuya Nomura

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 15 Katsuya Nomura

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    No. 15, Katsuya Nomura:

    He caught nearly 3,000 games, hit 657 home runs, and never believed he was gifted

    If you were playing bar trivia and the category was baseball catchers, the answers would feel obvious.

    Who hit the most home runs?

    Mike Piazza.

    Who finished with the most hits?

    Ivan “Pudge” Rodríguez.

    Those are good answers. They are also incomplete.

    Because in Japan, one man redefined what a catcher could be—hitting more home runs than any catcher in baseball history, winning a Triple Crown at the position, and changing how the job itself was understood.

    And the irony is this: Katsuya Nomura never believed he was a natural home run hitter.

    That may sound like false modesty coming from a man who hit 657 of them—more than any catcher in the history of professional baseball, second-most in Japanese history behind Sadaharu Oh—but Nomura was serious. He believed power was borrowed, not owned. Something earned through preparation, positioning, and timing, but never brute force.

    He believed that if you wanted to understand baseball, you had to understand why the ball went where it did, and why people behaved the way they did under pressure.

    Those beliefs did not come from theory: they came from survival.

    Nomura’s father went to war when he was two years old and never came home. By three, his father was dead. What followed was not tragedy in the cinematic sense, but something quieter and more exhausting: illness, poverty, and responsibility arriving too early. His mother battled cancer—first uterine, then colon—and spent long stretches hospitalized in Kyoto. Nomura and his older brother Yoshiaki were sent to live with neighbors.

    Nomura would later say that poverty itself was survivable. Even hunger was survivable. What stayed with him was learning that in someone else’s house, you could not say you were hungry at all.

    When his mother finally returned, he waited for her train hours in advance at a tiny rural station surrounded by rice fields. Only a few trains passed each day. He waded into a nearby stream and chased fish to pass the time. When the train arrived, she stepped down supported by another woman, her face white, her body spent. There was no car so they borrowed a handcart, loaded her onto it, and walked home together—three people, a cart, and a future that suddenly felt very heavy.

    At home, she sat silently in front of a small dresser inside their equally small room. She didn’t move and she didn’t say anything. Nomura asked what was wrong. Still, she said nothing. Only later did he understand: she was trying to figure out how to keep her children alive.

    Help came from unexpected places. A local factory manager offered her work spinning yarn for carpets. Nomura learned, early, the value of kindness and the necessity of endurance. He delivered newspapers. He babysat. In summer, he sold ice candy wherever people gathered: factory lunch breaks, school fields, festivals.

    Without realizing it, he was learning how information worked. If you went where people were, the ice candy sold. If you guessed wrong, it melted in your hands. 

    When Nomura showed promise in middle school, he aimed for high school baseball. His mother told him to abandon the idea and apprentice somewhere after graduation. It was Yoshiaki who intervened, offering to give up his own plans for college so that Katsuya could continue. Nomura never forgot that trade. 

    He attended a small, obscure high school—so obscure that, by his own account, they sometimes had to bring in a university student just to hit fungoes before games. Nomura was everything at once: catcher, cleanup hitter, captain, and de facto manager. They barely won. Scouts did not come. He cheated on exams to keep the team alive. He did not know what pitch calling really was. He was, in his own words, just a wall.

    That turned out to be enough.

    When it came time to chase baseball seriously, he did so practically. He studied the player directory and looked for teams with aging catchers. Two teams fit the bill, Nankai and Hiroshima. Nomura entered professional baseball as a test player for the Nankai Hawks, one of hundreds trying out. Seven were selected. Four were catchers, all from rural areas. Nomura didn’t understand why until later: test catchers were cheap bullpen labor and country boys were thought to be obedient. No one expected them to matter.

    His first contract was ¥84,000, paid over twelve months. ¥7,000 a month. ¥3,000 went straight back to the team for dormitory fees. He only took home ¥4,000. When his hometown celebrated him as a professional player and people asked about his signing bonus, he smiled and deflected. “Use your imagination,” he said.

    After his first year, having barely played, a team official told him he was being released.

    Nomura went back to his dorm room, sat in the dark, and thought of home.

    The next day, he returned and begged for one more year. He even offered to play for free.

    The team relented and gave him another chance.

    His second year nearly ended the same way. Coaches suggested he abandon catching and move to first base; his arm wasn’t strong enough to behind the plate. Nomura accepted the logic but refused the conclusion. He stayed late, throwing long toss every day in an empty stadium. For months, nothing changed.

    Then one day, veteran outfielder Kazuo Horii noticed how Nomura gripped the ball.

    “That’s a breaking-ball grip,” he said. “You’re a pro and you don’t know how to hold the ball? Turn the seams sideways.”

    The throw changed instantly. Nomura had been teaching himself baseball from its first principles and had gotten one of the most basic ones wrong. He laughed about it later and remembered it forever.

    He returned to catching because he had done the math. Beating a star first baseman was impossible. Beating a mediocre catcher was not.

    He began to watch everything. How hitters reacted to pitches. How pitchers repeated mistakes. How counts shaped decisions. A former journalist working as a scorer agreed to chart pitch sequences for him. Nomura studied them obsessively. He discovered patterns where others saw randomness.

    That is the version of Katsuya Nomura that explains everything that followed: the refusal to rest, the obsession with preparation, the willingness to endure being unseen. Baseball did not teach him how to survive. Baseball merely gave survival a uniform.

    The numbers followed. Then the power, improbably. Nomura was never built like a slugger. He shortened his swing, widened his grip, focused on contact and rotation. “A home run that barely clears the fence counts the same,” he said.

    Catching every day, hitting every day, Nomura became something Japan had never seen: a catcher who did not wear down. A catcher who hit in the middle of the order. A catcher who led the league in home runs.

    During a Japan–U.S. exhibition series, Willie Mays nicknamed Nomura “Moose,” not for his size or speed, but because he stood still, watched everything, and reacted instantly when it mattered.

    He moved from sixth in the order to fifth to fourth. He won batting titles as a catcher—something no one thought was supposed to happen. He led the league in home runs eight straight years. In 1965, he became the first catcher in professional baseball history to win the Triple Crown.

    He thought it was terrifying. He had never believed the batting title was meant for him. He had won home run and RBI titles before, but batting average felt different. It depended too much on luck. The batting title arrived because other great hitters like Isao Harimoto and Kihachi Enomoto slumped.

    Late in the season, the final obstacle was Daryl Spencer, a former big leaguer playing for the Hankyu Braves. Nankai had already clinched the pennant. Manager Kazuto Tsuruoka was away scouting for the Japan Series. Acting manager Kazuo Kageyama* pulled Nomura aside before a crucial doubleheader.

    *In 1965, Tsuruoka stepped down and Nankai named Kageyama manager. Four days later, he was dead. The shock forced Tsuruoka’s return and left a lasting impression on Nomura.

    “I’ll take responsibility,” he said. “Walk Spencer every time.”

    Nomura hated it.

    He was the catcher. He had to call those pitches. Spencer grew visibly angry, eventually holding his bat upside down in protest. Days later, before the race could resolve itself cleanly, Spencer was injured in a motorcycle accident and ruled out for the season.

    When reporters congratulated him, he didn’t celebrate. He said only that he wasn’t the kind of person who could rejoice in another man’s misfortune. Later, he admitted something closer to the truth:

    “If I’m the only one allowed to be this lucky,” he wondered, “is that really okay?”

    He decided the only acceptable response was more work. More swings and more gratitude expressed through effort.

    “I am a second-rate hitter,” he said. “That’s why I work.”

    He whispered to hitters. He studied their lives. He categorized their minds. He manipulated timing and doubt. Some ignored him. Some rattled. Some fought back. Nomura accepted all of it. This was work.

    He worked for 26 seasons. He was behind the plate until he was 45, catching 2,921 games. He became player-manager when he was 35. He was named MVP five times. He endured doubleheaders, summer heat, stolen bases he could no longer stop. He believed the catcher did what no one else could: give shape to baseball’s scriptless drama. 

    The catcher sees everything first. The catcher absorbs every mistake. The catcher makes decisions that never appear in the box score and lives with consequences that always do. When things go wrong, it is the catcher’s fault. When things go right, it is simply how the game was supposed to go.

    When Nomura reached 600 home runs in 1975, the moment barely registered nationally. Nomura played for the Hawks, who played in the Pacific League, and everybody knew that what happened in the PL didn’t matter. Oh and Shigeo Nagashima were dominating headlines for the Giants in the Central League. Nomura understood. He prepared a line in advance.

    “If they are sunflowers,” he said, “then I am a moonflower, blooming quietly along the Sea of Japan.”

    It became his most famous quote. He even jumped rounding the bases, a rare display. The moonflower, it turned out, wanted to be seen, even if only once.

    When his playing career finally ended in 1980, it happened in a way that felt fitting. With the bases loaded and his team trailing by one, Nomura was lifted for a pinch hitter. Sitting on the bench, he caught himself hoping the substitution would fail.

    It did.

    On the drive home, Nomura realized something unforgivable had happened: he had put himself ahead of the team. That night, he decided to retire. After all, a player who no longer put the team first had already retired in spirit.

    Katsuya Nomura caught more pitches than anyone in the history of Japanese professional baseball. He endured more innings, more games, more seasons than anyone should have had to. He also grounded into more double plays than anyone in NPB history.

    At his retirement ceremony, Nomura put on his catcher’s gear one last time. His teammates lined up between first and third base. One by one, they stepped onto the mound, said a few words into a microphone, and threw him a ball.

    Nomura caught every one.

    Nomura once said that if you take baseball away from him, nothing remains.

    Zero.

    But that was never quite true. Because even when the uniform came off—when the knees finally stopped cooperating, when the dugout door closed for the last time after stints of managing Yakult, Hanshin, and the newly formed Rakuten, Nomura kept doing the same thing he had always done.

    He watched.

    Because to Nomura, baseball was never a game solely for the gifted.

    It was a game for the people who noticed.

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • San Francisco Baseball Returns to Japan: The 1960 Giants Goodwill Tour

    San Francisco Baseball Returns to Japan: The 1960 Giants Goodwill Tour

    by Robert Garratt

    Every Monday morning we will post an article from SABR’s award-winning books Nichibei Yakyu: Volumes I and II. Each will present a different chapter in the long history of US-Japan baseball relations. This week Rob Garratt tells us about Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants 1960 visit to Japan.

    The San Francisco Giants enjoyed a banner year in 1960. After almost five years of planning by the city’s mayor and Board of Supervisors and two years of problem-plagued construction, the Giants’ new ballpark, Candlestick Park, opened in time for the 1960 season. It was a dream come true for Giants owner Horace Stoneham and it justified his move from New York at the end of the 1957 season. The Giants, with a new identity as a West Coast team, now had a permanent location in a new ballpark. The team drew well in its first year at Candlestick, and Stoneham was pleased. And while the Giants would miss out on the National League pennant in 1960, they did manage an exciting postseason, nonetheless. In October 1960, the San Francisco Giants traveled to Japan on a goodwill tour, carrying on a tradition of the city’s connection with Japanese baseball.

    San Francisco baseball was known to the Japanese public first through the energy of Frank “Lefty” O’Doul, a San Francisco native who visited Japan in the 1930s with American baseball teams, fell in love with the country and its people, and saw the potential there for good baseball.  O’Doul, who is enshrined in Japan’s Baseball Hall of Fame for his contribution to the Japanese game, took his San Francisco Seals Pacific Coast League team to Japan in 1949 (O’Doul was the Seals manager), the first time after World War II that an American team toured Japan. The team’s visit was endorsed by General Douglas MacArthur, the American administrator of Occupied Japan, who felt that the game would lift the spirits of the Japanese people and do wonders for diplomacy between two former foes. The Seals’ visit was a resounding success, with the team greeted by some of the largest crowds that had assembled publicly in Japan since the end of the war. By all accounts it was a successful diplomatic venture with the added bonus that it increased the popularity of the game in Japan.

    The Giants’ 1960 tour was the second postwar visit for a San Francisco ballclub and the second for Horace Stoneham as well. Stoneham took his New York Giants to Japan for an exhibition tour in 1953, the first single major-league team to do so. The Giants dominated the 1953 series with Japan, drubbing the Yomiuri Giants 11-1 in the opening game and going on to win nine straight games, finishing the series with 12 victories against one loss and one tie. The Japanese players may have lost on the field, but the Japanese people won their way into Stoneham’s heart. The tour itself made a great impression on the Giants’ boss, who was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the Japanese fans, and by the gracious hospitality of the Japanese officials. Treated as an international celebrity, he was moved by the attention and honor paid to the Giants as foreign guests and he was charmed by the country itself – its sights, its food, and its ceremonies and rituals that reflected a deep sense of culture. Stoneham was quoted as recognizing the goodwill gesture of the tour, especially its importance in strengthening the ties between the two countries.

    Those 1953 memories were dancing in Stoneham’s head in late 1959 when he received an invitation from Japanese officials for the Giants to return to Japan in the fall of 1960. The proposal was backed by Matsutaro Shoriki, owner of the Yomiuri Shimbun, one of the leading newspaper conglomerates in Japan, and brokered by Tsuneo “Cappy” Harada, a Nisei Japanese American who was helping develop Japanese baseball in the 1950s. Stoneham was so enthusiastic about the invitation that he sent Lefty O’Doul to Japan in the winter of 1959-60 to work with Harada and Shoriki to firm up the plans; O’Doul had been working for the Giants as a consultant since their arrival in San Francisco and Stoneham wanted to take full advantage of O’Doul’s ties with Japanese baseball. The initial discussions went well and by the summer of 1960, Shoriki and Harada presented the Giants with a formal plan for a tour of Japan.

    The proposed invitation called for the Giants to play a 16-game exhibition schedule in 10 Japanese cities, under Japanese rules and officiated by Japanese umpires, with participation by San Francisco’s “star players.” Shoriki was careful to insist on Giants star power, knowing that the likes of Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Orlando Cepeda would appeal to Japanese fans eager to see great hitting. Stoneham was more than happy to accept and returned the signed agreement in late August 1960. Twenty-two players agreed to travel to Japan, including Mays, McCovey, Cepeda, and a young Juan Marichal, all of them future Hall of Famers. Most of the Giants starters joined the tour as well, among them Felipe Alou, Jim Davenport, and pitchers Jack Sanford and Sam Jones. Included were club officials, headed by Stoneham and his wife, Valleda, acting manager Tom Sheehan, club secretary Eddie Brannick, team publicist Garry Schumacher, and O’Doul.

    The organizing Japanese committee pulled out all the stops. The schedule of events upon arrival was nothing short of breathtaking, with almost no hour unaccounted for in the daily routines. Everything was meticulously planned from a television press conference at the airport to a celebrity parade from the airport to the city. Crowds lined the 10-mile parade route and packed the rain-soaked streets in downtown Tokyo as the Giants made their way to the hotel. That evening a welcoming dinner reception was held at the Imperial Hotel and Stoneham read a message from San Francisco Mayor George Christopher, a special greeting to “[our] ‘sister city,’ expressing best wishes to the Japanese people on the 100th anniversary of US-Japan diplomatic relations.” On the second day more ceremonial activities took place as the Giants toured Yomiuri’s headquarters, visited the Nihon Television Studios, where the players were interviewed and introduced to Japan’s national TV audience, practiced for 1½ hours at Korakuen Stadium, and attended a reception in their honor at the US Embassy, hosted by Ambassador Douglas MacArthur II, the nephew of General MacArthur. Japanese planners had thought of every probability, working in “alternatives” for events and sightseeing, in case of changes due to bad weather. In what must have seemed a whirlwind pace of parades, receptions, and ceremonial lunches and dinners, the Giants, with very little time for themselves, might have thought that a game of baseball was almost anticlimactic.

    The 1960 San Francisco Giants arrive in Japan (National Baseball Hall of Fame Library, Cooperstown, New York)

    On the third day, the time finally came for the Giants to face the Yomiuri Giants in the inaugural game of the tour. But the visiting players would wait again as the game provided the Japanese with yet another opportunity for pregame pageantry, described by one source as part parade, part theater spectacle, as “shapely Japanese models and the Tokyo police band led the Japanese and American Giants around Korakuen Stadium as fireworks exploded, and balloons and pigeons soared skyward.”  Once the teams had finished the procession and the air had cleared, Ambassador MacArthur read a greeting from President Dwight Eisenhower that recalled the long history of exchanges between Japanese and American baseball players, noting the important role of the national pastime in both countries. The president’s message stressed the importance of this year’s exhibition series as a promotion of “the spirit of international understanding and co-operation essential to the peace of the world.” Then Matsutaro Shoriki threw out the traditional first ball and the game officially began, at last.

    Initially things did not fare well for the visitors, who were perhaps weary from international travel and overwhelmed by welcoming ceremonies. In the first two games of the scheduled 16-game tour, the Japanese beat San Francisco, much to the surprise and chagrin of some of the local sportswriters, who expressed a tinge of disappointment over the Japanese success. Writing for the Japan Times, Katsundo Mizuno labeled the Giants’ start as the “worst of any major league outfit” that ever visited Japan, and he wondered what was wrong with them. The headlines in the local coverage of the opening game reflected a mixture of shock with a dash of hyperbole: “Tokyo’s Yomiuri Giants Bomb San Francisco, 1-0” although the Japanese managed only two hits against Giants pitching.

    The first game was the only one in which San Francisco faced players from a single team. For the rest of the exhibition tour, the Giants played squads of all-stars drawn from the two Nippon Professional Baseball leagues. The Giants lost the second game, but managed a win in Game 3, prompting the Japanese journalists to collect their breath, astonished by the Americans’ poor start. “By squeaking past the Japan All-Stars 1-0 at Tokyo’s Korakuen stadium yesterday, the Giants have averted unheard of catastrophe for major league baseball. No visiting U.S. big league team has ever lost three games in a row in Japan.”  Hisanori Karita, a veteran Japanese baseball commentator, was quoted as demanding more “major-style action” from the visitors.

    When questioned by the Japanese press about their slow start, Giants players and team officials responded politely and diplomatically, although privately they must have wondered what the fuss was about, given that they were adjusting to international travel, a frenetic welcome schedule, and a foreign cultural environment. Interim Giants manager Tom Sheehan tried some American tongue-in-cheek humor, “I understand we’ve set a new record for major leaguers by losing two games in a row. We may lose all the remaining games, too, you know.” “We’ll play better tomorrow,” he added.

    The folksy Sheehan proved a truthful prognosticator. Games 4 and 5 were on the road, in Sapporo and Sendai, and the San Franciscans won them both, with plenty of offense including four home runs, three of them by Willie McCovey. The Giants then returned to Tokyo for two more games at Korakuen Stadium, which they split with the host team, giving them a 4-3 record for the series as they prepared to play the rest of the tour “on the road.” One highlight for the American squad was the attendance of Japanese royalty in Game 6 at Korakuen. Crown Prince Akihito and Crown Princess Michiko, guests of Matsutaro Shoriki, watched the Japanese all-stars erupt for 10 runs – the most they would score in any game of the tour – and beat the Giants, 10-7, before 32,000 fans. The crown prince and princess saw Willie Mays homer in the game, and then watched All-Star Isao Harimoto answer with a two-run blast of his own.

    For the remainder of the exhibition tour, the Giants played outside of Tokyo, on a swing throughout southern Japan taking them to seven cities: Toyama; a three-game series in Osaka; Fukuoka; Shimonoseki; Hiroshima; Nagoya; and finishing in Shizuoka. It was on this road trip that the Giants found their mojo, winning seven straight games. But it was the manner in which they won that was impressive. Unlike the games played in Tokyo, which were usually low-scoring and tight, most of the road games were one-sided, with the Giants’ bats coming alive, much to the delight of the Japanese fans, who expected to see home run fireworks from the likes of Mays, McCovey, and Cepeda.

    After an unusual game in Toyama in which the Giants banged out three home runs in the first inning to take a seven-run lead, only to see the All-Stars claw their way back, highlighted by a three-run homer by Kenjiro Tamiya off Mike McCormick – the game ended in 10 innings in a 7-7 tie – it was on to Osaka. The Giants found this stop to their liking, sweeping the three-game series in front of enthusiastic Osaka fans (the three games drew 90,000). During the Osaka series, they also enjoyed a day off touring the historic city of Kyoto.

    Then it was on to Fukuoka, where the Giants won decisively, 8-4, and then to Shimonoseki, where they beat the all-star team, 11-5, in a demonstration of offensive fire, hitting four home runs. In an example of the goodwill that underscored and permeated the entire baseball tour, there was a somber and emotional moment when the Giants arrived in Hiroshima. Prior to the game, which the Giants won, 4-1, Stoneham led the players and team officials to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, where both Stoneham and Sheehan placed bouquets of flowers by the Memorial Cenotaph in a solemn ceremony honoring the memory of those Hiroshima citizens who died in the final days of World War II. After Hiroshima, the Giants traveled to Nagoya and put up big numbers once again in a 14-2 win. The last game of the tour was played at Shizuoka’s Kusanagi Stadium on November 13, won by the Japanese All-Stars, 3-2. The Giants totals for the series were 11 wins, 4 losses and 1 tie. After the game, the Giants boarded a train to Tokyo for three days of sightseeing before they flew home on Friday, November 18.

    *****

    Despite their slow start, the Giants finished their exhibition goodwill tour of Japan with a flurry and put up impressive numbers for the series, hitting 31 homers over 16 games, much to the delight of the Japanese fans; McCovey hit eight home runs, Mays seven, and Cepeda five. Mays hit .393 for the tour and was named by the all-star and Giants managers as the series’ Most Valuable Player. Giants pitching was strong as well, with an overall 2.41 ERA and 92 strikeouts in 142 innings. Sam Jones had a 3-0 record with an amazing 0.82 ERA; Juan Marichal posted a 1.55 ERA with a 2-0 record and a complete game; Mike McCormick had 22 strikeouts in 23 ⅔ innings.  In a memorable and significant moment for Japanese fans, Jones displayed his own version of goodwill when he went over to first base after hitting a batter and apologized to the hitter. There were other friendly exchanges between the Giants players and the all-stars throughout the tour, some of which involved discussions of techniques for hitting and pitching. Overall, the relations between the two teams were positive and gracious, with a healthy sense of mutual respect. The Japanese fans were also captivated by the tour and turned out in all the cities to welcome the Giants and attend the games. The fans’ enthusiasm was evident in the exhibition tour’s great success at the turnstiles. The Giants drew 441,000 for the 16 games, according to the Japan Baseball Commission and the Yomiuri Shimbun.

    *****

    For all the goodwill that came of the Giants’ visit, the tour was not without its controversy, however. Buoyed by the games and the enthusiastic Japanese response – both the total attendance and the ticker-tape parades in various cities that drew huge crowds – and heady about the future of cooperation between the United States and Japan, Ambassador MacArthur spoke at a farewell reception at the US Embassy of more baseball competition between the two countries. MacArthur was specific in his proposal; he envisioned a future world series between the American champion and the Japanese champion and even had a date in mind. He thought an initial exhibition series could be played in 1964, in concert with the Tokyo Olympic Games, which could lead to a more established series a few years later.

    His idea was immediately supported by Nobori Inouye, the commissioner of Japanese baseball. Both Lefty O’Doul and Cappy Harada also favored the idea and thought that with reasonable planning an international world series could take place perhaps in five or six years. Both men felt that Japanese baseball was improving rapidly and would offer good competition. So did Stoneham. In a press conference upon his return to San Francisco, the Giants boss remarked that he was “amazed” at the improvement of the Japanese players in the seven years since he first visited Japan. Moreover, Stoneham wanted a continued connection with Japanese baseball.

    But when Harada, who was working as a consultant to the Giants, brought the idea to Commissioner Ford Frick in New York, it was dead-on-arrival. Perhaps it was an idea that was too embryonic, requiring planning, research, and co-operation between organizations. Possibly Frick accepted the prevailing view of Japanese baseball as inferior to the American game. Or it might have been the process by which the idea took flight that Frick objected to, coming out of the blue from an American ambassador in Japan. What was certain, however, was that Frick wanted to assert his authority about such matters. He fired off an official statement indicating that no decision can be made about any international baseball series without input from the commissioner’s office, and suggested that he had no immediate plans to entertain such a proposal.

    Another controversy emerged during the tour involving the Giants’ interest in Japanese players. Upon Stoneham’s arrival in Japan, in an uncharacteristic slip of the tongue – Stoneham usually was tight-lipped about personnel matters, especially when it came to player acquisitions – the Giants’ owner commented that there were “several Japanese players we have heard about and are anxious to see.” Explaining that he would like to reach some formal agreement with a few Japanese clubs, he hoped to invite some players to the Giants’ spring training. These were just casual remarks folded into his words of appreciation of the Japanese invitation and nothing much was spoken about any plans or arrangements for the first 10 days of the tour. By the end of the second week, however, word had leaked to some in the press that Stoneham was interested in signing some Japanese players, or at least having them affiliate in some fashion with his organization, including a spring-training visit.

    While the newspapers were speculating, Stoneham was working quietly behind the scenes. When the Giants arrived in Osaka on November 3 for the three-game series, Stoneham extended an invitation to the Nankai Hawks, to have pitcher Tadashi Sugiura attend their 1961 spring training in Arizona. The Japanese responded almost immediately to the offer. Makoto Tachibana, the president of the Nankai Hawks, issued a statement to the local press rejecting Stoneham’s invitation and made it clear he was suspicious of the Giants’ motives.

    “I feel it isn’t only a case of having [Sugiura] attend the camp, but an underlying intention to hire him,” Tachibana said. “Even if this isn’t true, it can be considered that they may want to learn something from him, to – I hate to say it – steal his techniques.” Tachibana’s paranoia tended somewhat to the bizarre – “there is a possibility they want to use Sugiura for experiments” – but the Nankai owner’s root cause for worry was evident in his closing remarks to the press. He feared that Sugiura would be “separated from his team,” that is, playing for the Giants, “and we cannot permit a man as valuable to Japanese baseball to be used to his disadvantage.” The concern that Japanese baseball might lose some of its best players to American clubs was clear. There was also an invitation extended to a position player, Takeshi Kuwata, a third baseman for the Taiyo Whales, but that, too, came to nothing. The invitations and their subsequent refusals were minor incidents in the larger story of the tour, the games, the associations between players and the Japanese fans’ excitement over the competition, but they provided an interesting subplot to the 1960 Giants’ visit.

    Once home from Japan, Stoneham more or less confirmed Tachibana’s suspicions. In remarks to a local sportswriter at a post-tour press conference, the Giants boss praised the Japanese players, taking care to emphasize the improvements in the quality of play, the skill, and the athleticism of many Japanese players since his 1953 visit with his New York Giants team. He implied that a few of the Japanese players, chiefly pitchers, might be able to have good results immediately in the major leagues, something that Tom Sheehan had noticed on the tour. That Stoneham saw the potential of Japanese players is not surprising; he had become a keen observer of major-league talent over the years. What is surprising is how prescient his notions were in the fall of 1960. The thinking behind those public remarks would take shape quickly, much to the surprise of both the major leagues and Nippon Professional Baseball. Just three years later, Stoneham’s musings on Japanese players would materialize with a radical move that would change baseball history.

    In the fall of 1963, Cappy Harada, working for Stoneham as a scout and on the payroll with the Nankai Hawks as a consultant, came up with a proposal for cooperation between the two clubs. With Stoneham’s blessing, Harada arranged for three Hawks players – third baseman Tatsuhiko Tanaka, catcher Hiroshi Takahashi, and pitcher Masanori Murakami – to come to the United States for 1964 spring training and a chance to develop within the Giants’ minor-league system. According to the agreement, the Japanese players would participate in general spring training and then be assigned to minor-league teams for the rest of the season, Murakami at single A, and Tanaka and Takahashi at lower levels. Once the minor-league season was finished, the Giants sent the position players home to Japan, but kept Murakami, who had progressed so well in Fresno that he was called up to the big club in September. On Tuesday evening, September 1, 1964, in Shea Stadium, New York, Murakami made history as a baseball pioneer, pitching one inning of scoreless relief, the first Japanese national to play in the majors. He would pitch through the month of September and would return to the Giants for the 1965 season.

    Horace Stoneham has many achievements on his résumé as a baseball owner. After Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier with the Brooklyn Dodgers, Stoneham was soon to follow with the signing of African American players. He led the way in breaking a second barrier in the signing of Latino players. Along with Bill Veeck, he was responsible for founding the Cactus League in 1948. With his signing of Murakami, he broke another barrier in baseball, making the game global. It is tempting to think that this last achievement germinated in the stands at Japanese ballparks in 1960, as the Giants boss watched the Japanese players, especially the pitchers. He was certainly impressed enough with the players’ abilities to extend an invitation for two of them to come to spring training, even though the gesture did not bear fruit. Nonetheless, he sensed the latent talent in Japanese baseball. And perhaps on that 1960 tour, he saw the immediate future: a Japanese national wearing the uniform of the San Francisco Giants and playing in the major leagues.

    Continue to read the full article on the SABR website

    San Francisco Baseball Returns to Japan: The 1960 Giants Goodwill Tour
  • Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 16 Suguru Egawa

    Japan’s Favorite Players: No. 16 Suguru Egawa

    by Thomas Love Seagull

    A recent poll for a TV special saw more than 50,000 people in Japan vote for their favorite retired baseball players. 20 players emerged from a pool of 9,000. Yes, they could only vote for players who are no longer active, so you won’t see Shohei Ohtani or other current stars on this list. Which is probably smart because I’m sure Ohtani would win by default. There are, however, players who were beloved but not necessarily brilliant, and foreign stars who found success after coming to NPB. Unsurprisingly, the list leans heavily towards the past 30 years, with a few legends thrown in for good measure.

    Over the next few weeks, I’ll be profiling each of these players. Some of these players I know only a little about, so this will be as much a journey for me as, hopefully, it will be for you. It’ll be a mix of history, stats, and whatever interesting stories I can dig up.

    For now, have a look at the list below and see how the public ranked them. I’ve included the years they played in NPB in parentheses.

    20. Alex Ramirez (2001-2013); 19. Yoshinobu Takahashi (1998-2015); 18. Warren Cromartie (1984-1990), 17. Takashi Toritani (2004-2021); 16. Suguru Egawa (1979-1987); 15. Katsuya Nomura (1954-1980); 14. Tatsunori Hara (1981-1995); 13. Kazuhiro Kiyohara (1985-2008); 12. Masayuki Kakefu (1974-1988); 11. Masumi Kuwata (1986-2006); 10. Atsuya Furuta (1990-2007); 9. Randy Bass (1983-1988); 8. Daisuke Matsuzaka (1999-2006, 2015-2016, 2018-2019, 2021); 7. Tsuyoshi Shinjo (1991-2000, 2004-2006); 6. Hiromitsu Ochiai (1979-1998); 5. Hideo Nomo (1990-1994); 4. Hideki Matsui (1993-2002); 3. Shigeo Nagashima (1958-1974); 2. Sadaharu Oh (1958-1980); 1. Ichiro Suzuki (1992-2000).

    There are players who dominate their era, and then there are players who disrupt it.

    Suguru Egawa did both.

    He finished his career with 135 wins, a 3.02 ERA, and one of the most overpowering fastballs Japanese baseball had ever seen. He led the Central League in wins twice, strikeouts three times, ERA once, and in 1981 captured the pitching Triple Crown while carrying the Yomiuri Giants to a championship. At his peak, he was the best pitcher in Japan. Americans who saw him said he was as good as Nolan Ryan. 

    And yet, for much of his career, he was treated not as a hero but as a problem.

    Egawa was called “Dirty Egawa” and was labeled “The Enemy of the People.” A verb—egawaru—entered the language, meaning to forcefully impose one’s opinion on others without regard for custom or consequence. Newspaper articles questioned his character. Fans booed him. Team executives worried he was changing baseball in the wrong direction. In hindsight, much of what angered people about Egawa now feels familiar: he managed his workload, he listened to his body, and he believed a career was something to steward, not sacrifice. The problem was timing: he was behaving like a modern athlete in a baseball culture that still worshiped obedience and working oneself to exhaustion.

    Long before he was framed as selfish or ungrateful, Egawa had already been turned into something other than a person. As a high school pitcher at Sakushin Gakuin*, he was labeled Kaibutsu—the Monster. The nickname began half as a joke, borrowed from a popular manga character, inspired by his ears as much as his velocity. But it stuck, and it hardened. In an era without video highlights or instant replay, rumors traveled faster than proof. Somewhere in Tochigi Prefecture, people said, there was a teenage pitcher throwing a fastball so violent that bats barely grazed it. Egawa threw no-hitters and perfect games. He piled up strikeouts in numbers that sounded implausible. Fans reacted audibly when hitters merely made contact. For years, he hovered at the edge of the national stage, not quite reaching Koshien, the national high school baseball championship, which only added to the mystique. By the time he finally arrived, crowds were not watching a pitcher so much as a legend.

    *New Astros pitcher, Tatsuya Imai, led Sakushin Gakuin to the Summer Koshien title in 2016.

    But he never won a Koshien championship. His final high school game in the tournament ended in a rain-soaked walk-off loss. Even then, the Monster felt unfinished. That sense—that Egawa was always incomplete and never quite fulfilling his potential—would follow him for the rest of his career.

    At Hosei University, Egawa refined himself. Surrounded by one of the most talent-rich eras in collegiate baseball, he learned to pace his power. He no longer tried to overpower every hitter. He learned restraint, timing, and how to reach back only when it mattered most. He won 47 games in Tokyo Big6 play and struck out 443 batters. 

    There is a story from his university days that explains more than any stat line. When Egawa had a date scheduled on a day he pitched, he didn’t give a time like everyone else. He said things like, “Meet me three hours after first pitch.” And if the game moved too quickly, he would deliberately waste a few pitches to slow the game down. He wanted the game to end when he said it would end.

    No one doubted what he would become. What complicated everything was that Egawa wanted only one thing: to pitch for the Yomiuri Giants.

    That simple and stubborn desire would reshape Japanese professional baseball.

    What became known as the “Blank Day” affair has often been portrayed as a clever loophole exploited by an arrogant young pitcher. Years later, even Egawa would quietly correct that version. A 23-year-old, he admitted, did not invent this plan. 

    During his senior year at Hosei, he was selected by the Crown Light Lions with the first pick of the 1977 draft. He turned down the Lions at the urging of relatives who begged him to stay in Tokyo, to play for the Giants or at least a Central League team. The following year, just before returning from baseball study in the United States*, his father called him. “There’s a way to get into the Giants,” he said.

    *At the time, the Lions were based in Kyushu, far away from Tokyo.

    Egawa signed a surprise contract with the Giants on November 21st, 1978, the day before the draft, claiming that the Lions’ exclusive negotiating year had expired. The Giants agreed. The Central League did not. The league declared the contract invalid, but the Giants boycotted the draft the following day. Four teams drafted him anyway; Hanshin won his negotiating rights by lottery but the Giants refused to recognize Hanshin’s right to negotiate with Egawa.

    Finally, under pressure from the commissioner, Egawa signed with Hanshin—then, the same day, was traded to the Giants for ace pitcher Shigeru Kobayashi.

    If you want to understand why so many people reacted so harshly, you just have to see what they saw: Kobayashi, who had won the Sawamura Award in 1977, was suddenly recast as the tragic hero in Egawa’s story. Kobayashi was traded without warning, but did not complain. At a late-night press conference, he said he needed no sympathy. The public adored him for it.

    Egawa was framed as selfish, cold, and ungrateful. Few asked how much control he had truly exercised and fewer noticed that he never celebrated the outcome. He had arrived where he wanted to be, but became a villain before he threw a pitch.

    What offended people most wasn’t the maneuvering and rule bending—it was Egawa’s attitude. At his first Giants press conference, reporters shouted accusations before the press conference even began. When Egawa tried to calm the room—asking everyone not to get so excited—the words were clipped, replayed, and transformed into evidence of arrogance. In a culture that prized ritual humility, plain speech became another offense. “Don’t get excited” turned into a national punchline.

    Egawa’s rookie season was delayed and uneasy. He finished 9-10. Kobayashi won 22 games and took home the 1979 Sawamura Award. The contrast was unavoidable. Then Egawa settled in. In 1980, he won 16 games and led the league in strikeouts. In 1981, everything came together: 20-6, a 2.29 ERA, 221 strikeouts, the pitching Triple Crown, league MVP, and a Japan Series championship in which he captured the final out himself.

    The Sawamura Award went to someone else. It went to his teammate Takashi Nishimoto.

    Nishimoto represented everything Egawa was supposed to be: tireless, durable, unquestioning. He threw more innings. He made more starts. He embodied the virtue Japanese baseball prized above all else: availability. Egawa never complained publicly. But from that moment on, Nishimoto became his measuring stick. They avoided eating together. They avoided joint interviews. From 1979 through 1987, Nishimoto never finished a season with more wins than Egawa. Even when Egawa’s shoulder began to fail, even when Nishimoto absorbed heavier workloads, Egawa stayed ahead.

    If Nishimoto represented the path Egawa rejected, Masayuki Kakefu represented the opponent Egawa chose. Egawa never pitched around Kakefu. Not once. Kakefu was Hanshin’s cleanup hitter, the emotional center of the Tigers, and everything Giants fans feared. On one occasion, the bench signaled for an intentional walk. Egawa ignored it and threw his best fastball. Kakefu later said Egawa’s pitches did not simply beat swings; they passed above them, forcing hitters to rethink what a fastball could do.

    Egawa hated avoidance. He hated walks. He believed pitching around a hitter was dishonest, not only to the batter, but to the crowd. Fans had come to see something decisive and he felt he owed them that. Against the bottom of the order, he saved his shoulder. Against the heart of the lineup, he emptied it. 

    When Randy Bass chased history in the mid-1980s, Egawa refused to pitch around him. Bass would later call Egawa the best pitcher he ever faced, in Japan or America.

    But by his sixth season, the shoulder was beginning to fail him. Even in university, he pitched through pain. As a professional, he hid it carefully. When the pain returned for good, he was mocked as having a “hundred-pitch arm.” When his shoulder hurt, he rested. When it didn’t respond, he adjusted. To many, that looked like weakness. To others, it was baseball heresy.

    Egawa still had flashes—like the 1984 All-Star Game where he struck out eight consecutive hitters and nearly broke the record of nine—but the strain was constant. On September 20, 1987, in Hiroshima, he took a one-run lead into the ninth inning. Two outs, no one on. The batter was Takehiko Kobayakawa. The catcher signaled for a curveball but Egawa shook him off. He threw his best fastball: elevated and down the middle. Kobayakawa hit it into the right-field stands for a walk-off home run. As Kobayakawa circled the bases, Egawa sank to his knees on the mound, unable to move.

    He knew.

    Egawa retired at 32, fresh off a 13-win season. Critics called it selfish. They said he quit too early. They said he should have pitched until his arm fell off. Egawa said his shoulder was done. 

    Years later, when he finally reconciled publicly with Kobayashi in a television commercial, Kobayashi said only this: “It was hard, wasn’t it? It was hard for both of us.”

    For a long time, Suguru Egawa was framed as a villain who won too easily and left too soon. What he never did was perform suffering on demand. Suguru Egawa did not pitch until his arm fell off. 

    He stopped.

    In the end, Suguru Egawa was less a rebel than a mirror. He reflected back to Japanese baseball the things it did not yet want to see: that exhaustion was not virtue, that loyalty could coexist with self-preservation, that excellence did not require ruin. The anger he provoked said less about his choices than about the fear of what those choices implied. By the time the game accepted those truths*, Egawa was already gone, carrying the weight of having been right too soon.

    Thomas Love Seagull’s work can be found on his Substack Baseball in Japan

    https://thomasloveseagull.substack.com

  • Crossroads: The 1958 St. Louis Cardinals Tour of Japan

    Crossroads: The 1958 St. Louis Cardinals Tour of Japan

    by Adam Berenbak

    Every Monday morning we will post an article from SABR’s award-winning books Nichibei Yakyu: Volumes I and II. Each will present a different chapter in the long history of US-Japan baseball relations. This week Adam Berenbak focuses on Stan Musial, Shigeo Nagashima, and the Cardinals 1958 visit to Japan.

    Game Seven of the 1958 Japan Series featured a winner-take-all finish to a classic contest between two storied franchises.

    In the bottom of the ninth, with a six-run lead, 21-year-old Kazuhisa Inao stared down at Shigeo Nagashima, ready to wrap up one the most famous pitching feats in Japan Series history. He had earned the win in the previous three games for the Nishitetsu Lions and was prepared to win his fourth in a row, and with it the championship. With such a comfortable lead, Inao had little to worry about, even though he faced Nagashima, the star rookie of the Yomiuri Giants. The Rookie of the Year hit a high fly ball deep into Korakuen Stadium that the Lions center fielder couldn’t make a play on. Nagashima displayed his blazing speed and sailed around the bases for an inside-the-park home run. Inao then finished off the remaining Giants and took the crown.

    Though Nagashima’s home run had little effect on the outcome of the game, the matchup represented the best of baseball in Japan and the future of the sport. At the same moment, roughly 680 miles (1,100 kilometers) away in Seoul, the St. Louis Cardinals were playing a Korean all-star team in preparation for a 16-game tour against Japan’s best. A few days later, they would face an all-star team built around Nagashima and Inao, assembled by tour sponsor Mainichi Shimbun and tour organizer Yetsuo Higa, to showcase the young talent that would be the future of Japanese baseball.

    THE TOUR STARTS

    To quote Jim Brosnan, who was splitting duties by pitching for the Cardinals and covering the tour for the St. Louis Post Dispatch, “From one of the longest runways in the world, San Francisco, we took off on the longest trip of this or any other year. By sunrise on the tenth we gained four hours changing time zones and explaining to the stomach wha’ hoppen [sic] in our 28-hour day.” The tour began in earnest the next day in front of a mere 3,000 fans at the Maui County Fairgrounds in Kahului, on the island of Maui. They faced a team that featured Bob Turley, Lew Burdette, and Eddie Mathews bolstering a collection of local ballplayers that Higa put together.

    Two years before, Commissioner Ford Frick had helped arrange for the two major Japanese papers, Yomiuri Shimbun and Mainichi Shimbun, to host US tours, after each paper had tried to host teams in 1955. The solution was to alternate responsibility every other year, beginning with the 1956 Dodgers tour. Yomiuri had hosted first and it was no surprise that the Giants had played a big role. This time Higa, a Nisei businessman representing Mainichi, had arranged the tour to be unlike previous tours, pitting a Japanese all-star team against the Cardinals.

    Although formidable, St. Louis was a team in transition. The Cardinals in 1958 had finished fifth in the National League. The only real highlights of the season were Stan Musial’s 3,000th hit and the debut of Curt Flood, who eventually helped the team to three pennants. Most of the team’s regulars made the trip, including Musial, Don Blasingame, Ken Boyer, Vinegar Bend Mizell, Wally Moon, Hal Smith, and Gene Green. However, last-minute substitutions, even after the vaccination shots had been administered, gave rise to a team that much more resembled the 1959 Cardinals. Gene Freese, Billy Muffett, and Hobie Landrith had already received their shots and clearances when they received trade notices just days before the team left. The 1958 coaching staff was set to go, too, but they were let go at the end of the season, two weeks after manager Fred Hutchinson received his pink slip.

    Instead, newly minted Cardinals Alex Grammas, Bob Blaylock, and Ernie Broglio, along with brand- new manager Solly Hemus, made the trip. The pitching corps included Sam Jones, Mizell, Larry Jackson, and newcomers Blaylock and Broglio, the latter a promising rookie who was later (infamously) traded for Lou Brock. After tours by the San Francisco Seals in 1949 and all-star teams in 1951 and 1953, Japan had been visited by all three teams from New York. It was not shocking that the Cardinals were the third choice for 1958, behind the AL and NL pennant winners. Higa had made his play, but when major stars on both the Yanks and Braves decided against making the trip overseas, Higa was forced to reassess and offer the tour to St. Louis. His relationship with Cardinals, and the involvement of J.G. Taylor Spink, drove the decision, as well as an ability to exploit Musial’s stardom against an all-star team designed to showcase Japan’s youth.

    Also along on the tour was Cardinals broadcaster Joe Garagiola. He was at the mike to broadcast a select number of games aired via tape-delay over KMOX Radio in St. Louis. The Sporting News claimed it was the first time a domestic radio station had broadcast baseball from overseas.

    After the Kahului game, which the Cardinals took, 4 1, on Larry Jackson’s strong arm and his third-inning home run off Burdette, the two teams met twice in Honolulu. The Cardinals won the first game in a 9-1 rout, collecting six runs in five innings off Bob Turley, fresh off his historic Game Seven World Series win. St. Louis tacked on three more runs off Len Kasparovitch. The sole run for the Hawaiian All-Stars came when Ken Kimura drove in Wally Dupont, who had reached third when his base hit skipped past center fielder Bobby Gene Smith and rolled to the fence. In the final game, St. Louis edged the Hawaiian All-Stars, 5-4. Mathews tied the game, 4-4, with a home run off Broglio in the fourth, but two consecutive Hawaiian errors in the fifth allowed the Cardinals to regain the lead. The true star of the game was former Dartmouth pitcher Jimmy Doole, a schoolteacher who held the Cardinals to one hit during the final three innings. Strong seasonal rain forced the cancellation of a game in Guam, but otherwise the Cardinals soundly defeated the opposition in games at Manila and the Air Force Base in Kadena, Okinawa, before boarding the plane to Japan.

    JAPAN

    The touring group arrived in Tokyo on October 20 to a 1,500-person welcome party at Tokyo International Airport. In 13 open-topped cars, the team then paraded through streets packed with fans before arriving at the Imperial Hotel. They caught Game Six of the Japan Series and then set out on a two-day trip to South Korea to play before 25,000 fans in Seoul, including President Syngman Rhee. After they returned to Japan, there was a workout in Tokyo attended by nearly as many fans, before the real contests against the Japan All-Stars began on October 24 in a sold-out Korakuen Stadium, where the 1,200-yen seats were going for 10,000 yen on the side.

    The Cardinals faced a formidable foe. The Mainichi newspaper distributed a supplement to advertise the tour that listed a Japanese roster that averaged just 24 years old—a whole generation of players coming into their own. Nankai Hawks ace Matsuo Minagawa was described as “specializing in terrific shoots,” an ode to his side-arm screwball, which, along with his slider, baffled hitters into the late 1960s. He was one of the 23 future Japanese Hall of Famers on the squad,joining several players not bom in Japan, like the Cuban Roberto “Chico” Barbon and Bill Nishida, a Nisei born in Hawaii. But it was Shigeo Nagashima who was the real sensation of Nippon Professional Baseball and would be “the most watched player in the coming series against the Cardinals.” He was already a “national hero,” even before joining the Giants due to his turning Rikkyo University into champions. Nagashima signed the largest contract for a rookie in Japanese history (to that date) and came through with a spectacular performance, leading the Central League in home runs and winning the Rookie of the Year Award. As the series got under way, Nagashima was praised by both Japanese and touring Cardinals as being a “major-league third baseman.” Besides Nagashima, the young All-Stars included Futoshi Nakanishi, Tatsuro Hirooka, and Katsuya Nomura, as well as aces Inao, Tadashi Sugiura, Takao Kajimoto, Motoshi Fujita, and 20-year-old Tetsuya Yoneda. Added to that core was one of the best pitchers in the history of the game, Japan’s only 400-game winner, Masaichi Kaneda, who was already well known to US fans as the man who had struck out Mickey Mantle three times in the second game of the Yankees’ 1955 tour. These players formed the core of Japanese baseball for the next decade as the sport moved into its own, with Nagashima at its center, epitomizing both youth and progress.

    With the stadium full and the cameras broadcasting across Japan, the tour was underway. The Cardinals took the game, 5-2, but the star of the day was Nagashima, who hit a home run in a game that saw no homers from the Americans. Stan Musial went hitless. The two All-Star runs came on home runs by Nagashima and Chunichi Dragons sure-hitting second baseman Noboru Inoue. Mizell got the win thanks to Don Blasingame, who notched three hits off Tetsuya Yoneda and Masaaki Koyama.

    The next day’s game featured a start by Kazuhisa Inao, who did not pitch in the first game, possibly because he needed rest after his recent performance in the Japan Series. Inao, in his third full season, had attained a superhuman veneer after capturing all four of the Lions’ wins in the Japan Series. The press referred to him as the “Iron Man” and “Superman.”The sellout crowd, including Foreign Minister Aiichiro Fujiyama, who threw out the first pitch, appeared thin due to a steady rain that eventually led to the game’s premature end. Nonetheless, countless fans cheered on the All-Star team from home on television.

    The rain started falling in the second inning, which saw Inao, along with Nishita and future Hall of Famer Takao Kajimoto, give up 13 hits over six innings to lose 8-2. The Cardinals broke out in the fourth, knocking in four runs, all off Inao, who gave up seven hits. Larry Jackson pitched six innings, giving up four hits—though one was a 390-foot homer off Nakanishi’s bat. The driving rain eventually forced the umpires to call the game at the end of six innings.

    About 185 miles (300 kilometers) away in Sendai on October 27, the All-Stars won their first game, as Kazuhisa Inao showed off his ironman stuff. Coming back on only two days’ rest, Inao pitched three innings in a relief to grab the win after southpaw Atsushi Aramaki had allowed the Cardinals to knot the game, 2-2, in the top of the seventh. In the bottom of the seventh, the Japanese surged ahead on “three walks, a wild pitch, a sacrifice bunt and two costly errors for four runs” to win, 6-3.

    The tour then moved to Sapporo, where on October 28, before 30,000 fans, the Cardinals won 9-1. Blaylock pitched a brilliant seven-inning stretch, giving up only an inside-the-park homer to Nagashima along with one other hit. Two days later, the Cardinals won another behind Bobby Smith’s two doubles, a single, and a homer, just barely missing the cycle. However, Smith didn’t leave the stadium without claiming one—he was awarded a motorcycle as MVP of the game, and then proceeded to drive around the infield as the crowd cheered him on. The Cardinals won again, 7-2, in Nagoya before another game scheduled for November 1 in Osaka was rained out. On November 2 the Cardinals faced Aramaki in Nishinomiya. Aramaki held the Americans to one run in five innings before being removed for a pinch-hitter. Inao came in but the Cardinals scored three in the seventh and won handily 6-1.

    According to The Sporting News, the “Cardinals were in formal dress more than baseball flannels” as they moved from party to party, highlighted by an audience with Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi and Ambassador Douglas MacArthur II (the general’s nephew).

    The tour’s largest crowd showed up at Koshien Stadium on November 3. Each August, Koshien is home to the National High School Championship, which, along with the spring invitational, showcases the future of Japanese baseball. The 1957 tournament had featured a legendary performance by Sadaharu Oh, and the August 1958 tournament had seen the first team from Okinawa to participate—a great step forward in the relationship between the occupied island and mainland Japan. Before the game, a home run contest was held. Shigeo Nagashima paced the All-Stars with seven home runs, matched only by Musial. In the end, the All-Stars eked out a 15-14 victory, though the crowd cheered each and every dinger, proving the old adage “you can’t boo a home run.” Before roughly 50,000 energized fans at Koshien, Masaaki Koyama pitched brilliantly over eight innings holding the Cardinals to two runs. Ken Boyer proved to be the heavy hitter, tying the game in the ninth with a home run and then winning it in the 10th by driving in Blasingame.

    Sitting in the crowd that day was Haruki Murakami. The future award-winning writer recalled:

    When I was nine, in the fall, the St. Louis Cardinals played a goodwill game against an All-Star Japanese team. The great Stan Musial was at his peak then, and he faced two top Japanese pitchers, Kazuhisa Inao and Tadashi Sugiura, in an amazing showdown. My father and I went to Koshien Stadium to see the game. We were in the infield seats along first base, near the front. Before the game began, the Cardinals’ players made a circuit of the whole stadium, tossing signed soft rubber tennis balls to the crowd. People leapt to their feet, shouting, vying to grab the balls. But I just sat in my seat, vacantly watching all of this happen. I figured that a little kid like me had no chance of getting one of those signed balls. The next instant, however, I suddenly found one of them in my lap. By total chance, it just happened to land there. Plop—like some divine revelation.

    “Good for you,” my father told me. He sounded half shocked, half admiring. Come to think of it, when I became a novelist at age thirty, he said almost the same thing to me. Half shock, half admiration. That was probably the greatest, most memorable thing that happened to me when I was a boy. Maybe the most blessed event I ever experienced. Could it be that my love for baseball stadiums sprang from this incident? I took that treasured white ball back home, of course, but that’s all I remember about it. What ever happened to that ball? Where could it have possibly gone?

    The second game in Osaka saw half the crowd but provided twice the thrill as the Japanese All-Stars punished the Cardinals for their second win of the series. Futoshi Nakanishi, whom the Cardinals nicknamed “Big Buffalo,” hit a grand slam after Blaylock loaded the bases in the fourth inning, and added a two-run double in the sixth off Brosnan, driving in six of the All-Stars’ nine runs. “Too much Buffalo,” quipped Cardinals manager Solly Hemus after the game. Tadashi Sugiura allowed two runs over nine innings to earn the victory.

    The home-run derby wasn’t the only exhibition that Mainichi had planned for the tour’s stop in Osaka. At their broadcast studio, the paper arranged for four members of each team, including Nakanishi and Brosnan, to participate in a singing contest live on- air.Joe Garagiola taped the contest for future broadcast and referred to it as “the highlight of the whole tour.” Brosnan noted that the real entertainment was the lack of musical talent among professional ballplayers, and there was a general sense of teasing and self-deprecation.

    While the broadcast ended up a fun goodwill gesture, in the vein of so many vaudeville appearances by pro ballplayers dating back nearly a century, an undercurrent of racial insensitivity by poking fun at cross-cultural differences persisted in other aspects of the tour. The American press often contained racially insensitive terms, images, and innuendos. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch mocked stereotypical Japanese English with the headline “So-Sorry Cards Make Sad Sam at Home in Japan, Boot Game.” The Sporting News ran cartoons featuring buck-toothed and squinty- eyed Japanese fans—a style now called yellowface that was commonly used in American propaganda during World War II. Even Garagiola at times expressed a giddy fondness for poking fun at cultural differences, such as insensitive quips about how bowing was just a way for businessmen to check the size of your bankroll.

    National League Secretary-Treasurer Fred Fleig proclaimed that the Japanese All-Stars were the equivalent of Triple-A players and that they lacked “quick judgment and alertness for unexpected situations.” He praised Koshien Stadium as ranking with Yankee Stadium and Municipal Stadium. His comments reflected the patronizing and racially insensitive viewpoints of many in the US traveling party and press in postwar Japan. These evolving racial and national identities exemplify both countries at a crossroads, as the prejudices of the Second World War era evolved into the coming challenges of the 1960s. Though toned down from the racist rhetoric of previous times, it was still problematic. This in turn was juxtaposed with the team’s solemn visit to Hiroshima.

    On November 6 the teams went to Hiroshima and were greeted by Mayor Tadao Watanabe and a flower-throwing crowd in front of the Hotel New Hiroshima. Before the game, Musial and Hemus held a baseball clinic at the American Cultural Center for 250 Japanese players and fans.  Before 20,000 excited fans, Atsushi Aramaki faced Ernie Broglio, who pitched a complete game despite two first-inning wild pitches that led to a run. The Cardinals hit Aramaki hard, going ahead 6-1 in the top of the sixth inning. Once again it was the rookie Nagashima who provided the punch for the All-Stars. After Kenjiro Tamiya reached base in the bottom of the ninth, Nagashima patiently waited for his pitch before hitting a 3-and-2 meatball over the left-field stands. However, it wasn’t enough, and the All-Stars fell, 6-3.

    Earlier in the day, the American visitors had visited the Memorial Monument for Hiroshima and placed floral bouquets at the base of the arch. Then the club physician, Dr. L.C. Middleman, trainer Bob Bauman, coach Johnny Keane, and players Don Blasingame and Alex Grammas visited the 72 patients at the Hiroshima Atomic-Bomb Survivors Hospital signing autographs and offering kind words.  Solly Hemus kept a video diary of the trip to Hiroshima, but his camera was stolen from the dugout during pregame ceremonies. Before he returned home, local fan Tsutomu Hayashi presented Hemus with a gift of over 150 feet of footage taken in Hiroshima, “in the interest of better US-Japan relations.”

    The next day an earthquake hit while the team was waiting for a train to Fukuoka, but the players did not feel the tremors. At Heiwadai Stadium on November 8, Bishop Seiemon Fukahori of the Fukuoka Catholic Church, presented the Cardinals with a silk pennant embroidered with the team’s logo. This was a thank-you from leprosy patients at the Biwasaki Leprosarium, who were expressing their gratitude for Christmas gifts the Cardinals sent to the hospital in 1941. Attendance up to this point was 338,000 in addition to the millions who tuned in at home. Stan Musial had knocked out 12 hits for a .324 average—however, he had yet to smack a home run. (Some of the Cardinals players complained that the Japanese balls used during the tour were dead.) Meanwhile Nagashima had three, in addition to his seven from the home-run contest. Fukuoka fans came out to Heiwadai Stadium 30,000 strong on November 8, cheering Cardinals starter Phil Paine, who had pitched for the Nishitetsu Lions for a few games in 1953 while he served with the US Fifth Infantry Division stationed at Camp Drake in Fukuoka. The crowd saw him pitch out of a jam in the first by striking out Nakanishi, and then witnessed Musial finally slam his first home run, as the Cardinals won 5-1.

    After a 7-1 St. Louis victory in Shimonoseki, Broglio then nearly no-hit the All-Stars the next game, played three days later in Shizuoka. Supported by home runs from Wally Moon and Gene Green and 15 hits off Sugiura, Zenjiro Tadokoro, and Hiroomi Oyane, Broglio held the All-Stars hitless for 6⅔ innings. With two outs in the seventh, Kenjiro Tamiya eked out a single for Japan’s only hit of the afternoon. Sam Jones finished it off with two hitless innings to hand the All-Stars their only shutout of the tour.

    HOME

    The last game before heading back to Tokyo was played in Mito on November 13. Masayuki Dobashi started for All-Japan but was relieved in the fifth by Bill Nishita, the Nisei who had played on and off in Japan since joining Yomiuri in 1952. Nishita pitched in the International League, the American Association, and the Pacific Coast League, as well as in the Central and Pacific Leagues in Japan, and with UC Berkeley—a true journeyman. The Cardinals won 5-1, thanks to Blasingame, who repeated his four-hit day from November 9, and also Gene Green, who homered twice. Green’s good fortune continued into the trip home and December, when he married St. Louis model Mari-Frances Rosenthal, a match The Sporting News dubbed a “wedding of blond and blond.”

    It was back to Tokyo on the next to last day of the tour, in front of 20,000 shivering fans at Korakuen Stadium. Though they were treated to a 400-foot, two-run homer off the bat of Nakanishi, the Cardinals eventually walked away with the game, 9-2, as they racked up 16 hits. Blasingame nearly hit for the cycle: After hitting a single and triple, he homered to deep center off Tetsuya Yoneda.

    November 16 marked the final day of the tour. A doubleheader at Korakuen Stadium attracted 80,000 fans. In the morning Takashi Suzuki faced off against Sam Jones. A pair of solo home runs by Green highlighted the 8-2 victory for the Cardinals.  In the second game Japan was up 2-0 in the sixth when Boyer homered off Inao to cut the lead in half. The Cardinals took the lead in the seventh behind Lee Tate’s two-run double and another Boyer RBI. This brought the tour to a close with 14 wins for the Cardinals against only two wins for the Japan All-Stars, bucking the prediction by “Japanese baseball experts” that the Cardinals would match the 1956 Dodgers and lose four or five games. Yet each game was a display of the young talent in the Japanese game, and an affirmation that the Japanese were becoming strong enough to complete with talent from the major leagues. Nagashima lived up to the hype and was awarded the trophy as MVP of the Japanese team, which was donated by J.G. Taylor Spink. In the eyes of many Giants fans, Nagashima would be the heart of a Yomiuri team that announced during the tour that it would no longer sign foreign players, stating, “Japanese baseball should be played by Japanese players.”

    Stan Musial hung on for a few more seasons, but it was a new generation of players who would take St. Louis to heights in the 1960s. And despite Yomiuri’s announcement that it would no longer recruit foreign players, other teams leapt at the chance. During the trip, three Cardinals pitchers—Phil Paine, Bill Wight, and Jim Brosnan—were even offered contracts to pitch in Japan during the 1959 season. All three declined, though only Brosnan was still officially a Cardinal after Wight was released and Paine demoted in the middle of the tour. Don Blasingame’s performance over the course of the tour cemented his visage in the minds of Japanese fans, and was the start of a long-lasting relationship between him and Japan. He would spend a decade and a half playing, coaching, and managing in Japan after a long major-league career.

    Though the Cardinals seemed to represent the end of an era, the young talent represented in the Japanese All-Star team signaled a new beginning. The 1958 tour was at the crossroads of postwar bridge-building, straddling the end of the American occupation with the 1960s and beyond. Wally Yonamine made way for Sadaharu Oh, who joined the Giants in 1959, creating the “Oh-Nagashima Cannon” that drove the golden era of baseball in Japan. Sugiura, another rookie in 1958, won both Pacific League MVP and Japan Series MVP honors in 1959 on his way to a Hall of Fame career. And though Inao would not win another MVP after his back-to-back awards in 1957 and 1958, he won 30 games in 1959 and continued to dominate batters in Japan for the next decade. The tours of Japan that followed continued to strengthen the relationship between the two countries and their baseball leagues. When Ichiro is inducted into Cooperstown, he will have players like Nagashima and Blasingame in his baseball DNA, as well as the strong bonds engendered by 1958’s new direction.

    Continue to read the full article on the SABR website

    Crossroads: The 1958 St. Louis Cardinals Tour of Japan