Time Machine: Why baseball is a hit in Japan

This story originally appeared in the July 1979 edition of Winds — the inflight magazine of Japan Air Lines.

TOKYO — The question people invariably ask after observing besuboru mania in Japan is … “Why?” Why do high school baseball games draw a nationwide TV audience? Why is there standing room only at each and every Tokyo Giants game, rain or shine, winning season or not? And why does every bank clerk and noodle vendor spend his lunch hour playing catch? 

Why are the Japanese so crazy about baseball? Why this game instead of soccer, rugby, basketball or football? Why not hockey, chess, ping-pong or tiddlywinks? And whatever happened to judo, karate, sumo and other homegrown sports?

Why, and whatever, indeed?

It is true that baseball’s early introduction to Japan by American professor Horace Wilson back in 1873 gave the game a head start on other foreign sports. But, that is only part of the story. A close look at the sport reveals several elements that are tailor-made for the Japanese personality. In fact, the game so suits the Japanese national character that if Alexander Cartwright had not dreamed it up back in 1845, some Japanese sports enthusiast probably would have done it instead.

The most significant thing about the game Professor Wilson brought along with him was that it was a group sport. It was presented to people whose very identities were rooted in the “group,” yet who, oddly enough, had no group games. At that time, Japanese athletic competitors belonged to martial arts or sumo clubs. Although their efforts were aimed at bringing prestige to their organizations, and not at gaining individual glory, the actual competition was a one-to-one affair. Baseball struck a responsive chord for it provided the Japanese with an opportunity to directly express their group proclivities on an athletic field. By the turn of the century it was the leading high school and university sport, and by the late 1930’s professional teams were drawing capacity crowds. The more the game was played, the more “Japanese” it became.

While Americans focused on individual accomplishments — the 500-foot home run, the daring home steal and the 100-mile-per-hour fastball, the Japanese emphasized the team aspect of the game. Their philosophy demanded self-sacrifice, required players to work in harmony, and underplayed personal achievement. 

Today, as a result, Japanese baseball has evolved into a game which only superficially resembles its American cousin. Modern-day American pitchers, for example, demand three to four days of rest between each start. This, they insist, ensures the longevity of their playing careers, and thus prolongs their earning power as professionals. Modern-day Japanese pitchers demand nothing. They pitch and practice when ordered —which is often. Although the extra wear and tear on their arms often causes premature retirement, they do not complain. They do it for the team.

Japanese “groupthink” is all-pervasive. Macho-heroism is neither admired nor tolerated. There are no temper tantrums on a Japanese team, no broken water coolers, no internecine bickering and no contract squabbles, Japan’s leading player, Sadaharu Oh of the Tokyo Giants, predictably sets the standard. Not once in his twenty-one-year career has he criticized his manager. Not once has he so much as frowned at teammate. And not once has he ever asked for a raise, even though he had hit more lifetime home runs than anyone else in baseball history.

Of course baseball is not the only group sport in the world. But, it has a difference that makes it special to the Japanese: a built-in individual confrontation that smacks of the psychological warfare conducted in sumo competition, Japan’s oldest sport.

In sumo, the shikiri, or “get-set” ritual preceding each fight, is nearly as critical as the bout itself. (The actual wresting itself is over in seconds.) It begins when the two wrestlers enter the ring to be introduced. They eye each other fiercely as they go through the traditional squatting and leg-stamping movements, and then return to their corners.

They rinse their mouths with “power water,” throw salt on the clay floor as an act of purification, and then return for a second confrontation. More stamping and squatting follows and the wrestlers’ scowls grow more menacing, until, at length, they return once more to their corners for more water and more salt.

This pre-fight ritual is repeated numerous times and usually lasts several minutes. The longer it takes for both wrestlers to signal that they are ready, the more the tension builds and the louder the fans roar their approval.

The situation is often similar in the baseball stadiums. In baseball, the shikiri begins when the batter steps into the batter’s box, takes his stance and signals the pitcher he is ready. As the pitcher goes into his wind up, the batter then calls for a time out and steps back out of the box. He knocks some dirt from his spikes with his bat, goes to the bench for “equipment repairs” and confers briefly with a coach. He is playing psychological games and the pitcher has to retaliate.

When the batter returns and indicates he is ready, it is the pitcher who takes his time. He steps off the pitching mound and cleans the dirt from his spikes. He turns his back on the batter, takes off his glove, and rubs up the ball.

Unlike action-hungry American fans who find this war of nerves tedious, the Japanese fan feels the excitement building. To him, the action is all that more pleasurable when it finally occurs.

Perhaps another reason baseball has appealed to Japanese sentiments is the absence of a time limit. Since a game is never over until the last man is out, there is ample time for the Japanese to do what they like to do most; talk things over.

As anyone familiar with business practices in Japan knows, the Japanese do not like to make hasty decisions. They do not like to be rushed. They do not like the preemptive resolution of a problem. What they like to do is discuss … and discuss … and discuss an issue until nothing is left to discuss. 

Discussion is the grease of Japanese society and consensus is the mechanism that keeps it running smoothly. Ask the average man is the Ginza for directions, for example, and his reflex action is to turn and “check” with his companions. To do otherwise would be considered impolite. 

Business meetings of relative inconsequence can turn into marathon affairs, simply to ensure that everyone’s opinion is clearly stated and acknowledged before the final decision is made. Since candor is not a greatly admired quality in Japan, especially between non-equals, eliciting a “frank opinion” is not quickly accomplished. The road to consensus in the Japanese business world is strewn with half-filled o-cha (tea) cups and overflowing ashtrays.

Although time consuming, this unique decision-making process does ensure a number of things: that “no stone” will be ignored; that the plan, since agreed upon by all, will be speedily implemented; that everyone will share the credit if things go well; and that no one individual will shoulder the blame if things go haywire.

The propensity to contemplate and discuss does not automatically disappear on an athletic field, despite the absence of a conference table. Consider one game played last year between the Tokyo Giants and the Taiyo Whales of Yokohama. At a crucial moment in the contest Whales manager Betto halted play to have a short strategy session with his coaching staff. Upon deciding on a course of action, he called back the player scheduled to bat next and issued a new set of instructions.

Alarmed at what Betto might be plotting, Giant manager Nagashima held a counter-strategy session of his own. After huddling with his advisors, he sent his pitching coach Sugishita out on the field to confer with the players. On the pitcher’s mound, Sugishita presided over a meeting with the pitcher and all five infielders, and then trotted back to the dugout to report.

At this point, an umpire wandered over to ask what was holding up the proceedings. This, of course, entailed more discussion, and when the umpire finally agreed to leave, Nagashima then walked out on the field to talk to his catcher.

After reviewing the situation with the catcher, Nagashima decided to remove him from the game. At the same time, he ordered a new pitcher to start warming up.

Worried by Nagashima’s maneuvering, Betto called his next batter back, and after a brief meeting with batting coach, decided to insert a new batter. Seeing this, Nagashima was forced to huddle once more with Sugishita and to send him out on the field a second time.

There is more, but let it suffice to say that it took over ten minutes before play was mercifully resumed.

The result of all this deliberation, when added to the theatrics of the pitcher and batter, is that the average baseball game in Japan lasts nearly an hour longer than one played anywhere else in the world.

An additional appeal of baseball to the Japanese is that it provides an opportunity to engage in one of their favorite pastimes: the accumulation of statistics. 

Perhaps no other people in the world are as fascinated with facts and figures as are the Japanese. Their pollsters would put Gallup and Roper to shame. In one recent week, for instance, polls appeared on the following subjects: What countries the Japanese most admired and why; how much leisure time the average salaried worker has and what he does with it; what amount of homework the average high school student in Japan has in comparison with his counterparts in the United States, the Soviet Union and England; and how many minutes the average Japanese husband talks to his wife per week.

The Japanese preoccupation with data is impossible to ignore. Tokyo is dotted with electronic signs that measure the second-by-second fluctuations in temperature, humidity, noise level, and PPM’s of carbon monoxide in the air. Policemen canvass neighborhoods, compiling lengthy reports on the vital statistics of the residents under their jurisdiction. In Japan, information gathering is something of an art form.

Baseball, as any fan knows, is inseparable from its data; its records. Indeed, it is the data that provides the continuity of the game, and there has always been something about baseball that prompts people to examine it and quantify it.

With baseball’s demand to be documented and the Japanese love of documentation, it was perhaps inevitable that the Japanese would outdo the Americans in the data department.

In Japan, there are six major baseball newspapers, published daily, with a total readership of nearly 20,000,000 persons. In the U.S., there are none.

In Japan, there are baseball news programs on every TV channel and they are broadcast nightly nationwide, often during the off-season as well as during the season. In the U.S., there are none.

In Japan, there are numerous weekly and monthly magazines, and special “commemorative” issues devoted exclusively to baseball. In the U.S., the birthplace of baseball, there is but one weekly journal and one small monthly.

The amount of information is staggering. Every conceivable statistic is duly recorded and reported. If Sadaharu Oh runs a fever, there invariably appears a chart in one or more of the papers showing each and every time he has been taken ill during his career, what sort of malady it was, which clinic treated him and how long it took him to recover.

In one recent magazine, personality sketches of several key players contained the following data in addition to the usual playing statistics: address, telephone number, wife’s name and age, childrens’ names and ages, number of years married, pets, school record, favorite singer, favorite actor, favorite book, what time he gets up in the morning, what time he goes to bed at night, strongest personality trait, most glaring character flaw, the word that best describes his philosophy of life, his boyhood idol, his ideal female, his ideas on child raising, and his personal motto for the coming season. (“Let’s fight with guts” and “For the team” were the most popular.)

So massive is the data available to baseball enthusiasts that it has necessitated the creation of a new and highly specialized field of endeavor, namely, baseball criticism. It is the baseball critic’s job to sift, analyze and interpret all available information.

Baseball critics have gained so much esteem in Japan that one of them eventually made baseball history. He was a man with no professional playing experience who was hired to manage a team in one of the Japanese professional leagues. (Unfortunately, his team finished in last place and he had to resign after his first season.) 

Japan’s passion for baseball is, if anything, growing more intense. Last year, both the Central and Pacific professional leagues set an all-time attendance mark. Two new modern stadiums, with artificial grass and million-dollar computerized scoreboards, were built. And as if the nightly nationwide telecasts of local games were not enough, one network has begun broadcasting American games three times a week.

Although interest in other sports, most notably golf, tennis and American football, is growing, it appears that baseball is permanently entrenched as Japan’s “national sport.” As one leader of Japanese industry put it. “It’s our game now. It’s a part of our culture. I used to take foreign visitors to kabuki and sumo, but now I include a baseball game. The Tokyo Giants and Sadaharu Oh … To me, that’s the real Japan.”