Ichiro, What is the Meaning of Life?
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Justin Panson
I was disappointed to learn last week that the great Mariner right fielder Ichiro Suzuki had been traded to the Yankees. This is yet another instance where the Evil Empire has gone shopping, coolly wielding its fat checkbook to acquire the very best players in the game. The trade was unfortunate in its symbolism: the dynastic, free spending franchise defined by long ball goes out and acquires the quintessential small ball player. Ichiro had spent his entire Major League career with one team, a rarity in the modern age of free agency and trading deadline deals. For his 12-year tenure to be broken is a blow for all of us who hope against the prevailing trend for some long gone notion of roster consistency, for non-portable heros. A few years ago I was lucky enough to witness one of Ichiro’s many great performances. My brother-in-law Rick and I drove down to Oakland from Sacramento to take in a weekday afternoon ball game, A’s versus the Mariners. Another friend rode BART across the Bay and met us as we enjoyed our late morning tailgate in the Coliseum parking lot. This same lot during football season is the scene of high octane tailgates occasioned by all manner of menacing costumes and elaborate portable leisurescape. Ours was a low key circle of middle aged dads on lawn chairs drinking cans of beer. The half empty lot was dotted by other circles like ours, with kids running around in between playing catch or tag. The plan was to pick up cheap, upper deck seats at the box office on our way in. Despite the over performing, statistics-based Billy Beane teams of movie fame, the A’s rarely sell out their drab, weatherworn, multipurpose stadium. At the last minute, a fourth guy, Brida, made his way over from the Financial District in San Fran. And as he walked up to our meager tailgate, he pulled out four tickets and fanned them out in front of us. We leaned in and read "MVP Row AAA." They are in the first row behind the plate—the best seats in the house. We broke into a little celebration, whooping it up and high-fiving each other. Not missing an opportunity to assign deeper meaning to happenstance, I immediately invent the notion that our bleacher purism had been rewarded by the Baseball Gods. Never mind that we were actually beneficiaries of Wall Street largesse. The tickets were unused perks typically doled out by client-schmoozing brokers. |
As this inscrutable Ninja warrior stood before us, already 2-for-2 on the day, we began calling out, ‘Sensei, what is the meaning of life?’ |
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Energized by this gift, we walked into the stadium with purpose, past an extra level of security, down a tunnel guarded by guys with walkie-talkies, right by the visitors locker room and out into a small, exclusive section of seats—the ones you see on TV from the center field camera. The sun was shining and the pregame apparatus was just being packed up. Baseball on a sunny afternoon, when you are supposed to be working, is one of life's simple and sublime pleasures. When we were kids, my brothers and I executed elaborate routing and subterfuge in order to sneak down into box seats. We were the family who took the bus, packed in our own sandwiches and bought $2.50 general admission seats in the upper deck. I like to think my sense of gratitude for these prime seats came from those years of sitting in peanut heaven. We could hear the players chatter and the ball pop into the catcher’s mitt. We were literally five feet from the visitor's on-deck circle. All game, we studied the various on-deck routines, the pine tar rag, the doughnut, the close attention paid to batting gloves. We took special note of the two Mariner stars, Ken Jr. and Ichiro. Having spent the previous few hours drinking beer, we felt emboldened to exercise our right as ticket holders to heckle the opposition. I've heard some real battery acid heckling from the outfield bleachers, but this was tame in comparison. Just trying to catch a look from the great Ichiro, who had the bearing of a bird of prey with his wiry limbs, high socks and pointy sideburns that framed an intense countenance. As this inscrutable Ninja warrior stood before us, already 2-for-2 on the day, we began calling out, ‘Sensei, what is the meaning of life?’ By definition, catcalls at sporting events are not respectful of ethnicity, and in this case, making light of his ethnic heritage, we were on the wrong side of ‘politically correct.’ But we four tipsy idiots, however satisfied we may have been with ourselves, were not even in Ichiro’s universe. When he gazed in the general direction of the crowd he was staring a hole right through us. He was totally locked in. He was in a place far away, some sort of deep font of performance excellence. Legend has it that as a Little Leaguer Ichiro had the word ‘concentration’ written on his mitt. His father built a grueling, uncompromising training regimen for his son, of which Ichiro later said it was not fun and bordered on hazing. His father instructed Ichiro’s high school coach not to praise him, no matter how well he played. ‘We have to make him spiritually strong,’ the elder Suzuki said. Ichiro complimented his mental strength training with novel routines to build up his thin frame, including hurling car tires and swinging a heavy shovel at wiffle balls. Such fierce psychological conditioning, reminiscent of Tiger Woods’ father rattling keys as the youngster tried to sink practice putts, is at odds with today's prevailing teaching ideals, centered around self esteem. Regardless of the vagaries of educational theory, the fact remains that on that day in Oakland the great Ichiro fulfilled every bit of the warrior ideal. He went 4-for-4 with a walk, and in the middle innings he showed off his arm in right, holding a runner at second base. By his fifth plate appearance, what had begun as a mock honorific had turned sincere: we were bowing down with arms outstretched, ‘Sensi, we are not worthy,’ we were saying. And when the game ended, we knew we had witnessed a great performance, not just in baseball, but a glimpse at a master functioning at the very highest level of his craft, doing one of the hardest things to do in sport, hit a ninety plus mile-per-hour baseball with precision. As we walked down the tunnel and out, we passed Ken Jr. surrounded by a small entourage of friends and hangers-on. He was holding someone’s little baby, mugging for the cameras. Griffy flashed the same charm that had captivated the sport a decade and a half before, when he was the sleek, hip-hop heir apparent to Willie Mays, with his backwards ball cap perfectly askew. But Ichiro was nowhere to be found in the post game scene. His greatness is derived from an old fashioned set of values, including diet, fitness, study and an intense work ethic. It brings him to the ballpark before anyone else arrives. And now, his work completed, I imagined he retreated quietly, to some shrine of meditative tranquility to re-center himself and properly express his deep gratitude. It is impossible to understand Ichiro without acknowledging the culture he came from, his sense of honor, tradition and respect that reflect the Japanese way. When Ichiro came to the U.S. in 2001, already the biggest star in Japan, he was given Randy Johnson’s old number 51. He was wary of insulting Johnson and sent a message to the fireballer, promising not to bring shame to the uniform. After breaking George Sisler’s 84-year-old single season hit record, he made a trip to visit Sisler’s grave in St. Louis. A few years later he paid his respects at the grave of Wee Willie Keeler, whose streak of eight 200-hit seasons had stood for 110 years before he broke it. |
By his fifth plate appearance, what had begun as a mock honorific had turned sincere: we were bowing down with arms outstretched, ‘Sensi, we are not worthy,’ we said. |
Ichiro’s code of honor is a uniquely Japanese phenomenon, called Bushido. Loosely translated, it means chivalry, honor and frugality. Bushido is evident throughout Japanese ball, from the pros all the way down the ranks. During the Little League World Series telecast a few years ago my son and I noted how the Toyko team bowed deeply in unison before their game. And at every mound conference, the gathered Tokyo infielders would remove their caps as a show of respect to their manager. When you think about it, Bushido seems perfectly suited to the game of baseball, with it’s own intricacies, codes and traditions. As records go, Ichiro’s ten consecutive 200-hit seasons automatically put him in a rarefied conversation about the greatest all-time pure hitters, with the likes of Cobb, Rose and Ted Williams. The ‘greatest of his generation’ conversation gets a little muddy with A-Rod, Jeter and Pujols posting power numbers that exceed the scope of Ichiro’s multi-dimensional game. But for me, Ichiro’s greatness lies in his singular nature, his pure approach to the game. As Bruce Jenkins said, ‘There's nobody like Ichiro in either league—now or ever. He exists strictly within his own world, playing a game 100 percent unfamiliar to everyone else. The game has known plenty of ‘slap’ hitters, but none who sacrifice so much natural ability for the sake of the art....’ He refers to Ichiro’s conscious decision to focus on hitting for average even though he clearly had the power to hit a lot of homers in his prime. Ichiro’s approach remains enigmatic compared with his own generation of roided-up mashers—the quiet student of the game, routinely beating out infield singles, the great arm, the 10 Gold Gloves. Who can blame him for defecting to the enemy, for going to New York at the end of his career in search of an illusive championship ring? Who could deny him the chance to achieve greatness in the white-hot media glare, surrounded by the best players money can buy? But every time I see Sensi in those loathsome Yankee pinstripes I will remember the ball game in Oak Town, and the indelible performance Ichiro gave that fine afternoon. Justin Panson 2012 © Copyright Justin Panson. All rights reserved. |
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