HERE'S MY latest from The International Herald Tribune/Asahi Shimbun:
The 11-year-old boys laughed as they boarded the Greyhound bus in 1962. The driver pulled out of the terminal in San Mateo, California, and headed north.
They were still laughing as the bus arrived at Candlestick Park. Today the stadium squats on the edge of the bay, a hulking ruin suitable only for a bad football team. But on that day, it was new, and an enormous adventure.
It was double-header Sunday afternoon. Infield-fresh grass; hotdogs, cotton candy and a sea breeze. Who could stop them? The boys snuck down from the cheap seats and called out to the Cardinals' benchwarmer. He looked old--must have been maybe 21. He tossed them a ball and winked.
Decades later, I attended my first baseball game in Japan, the Chiba Lotte Marines vs. the Nippon Ham Fighters at Marines stadium in Chiba Prefecture.
I knew it couldn't match that day in June so many years ago, but I expected it to be fun. There would be no creeping into better seats--we had invitations to a corporate luxury box. You know the kind--plush enclosures filled with rich people looking down on the huddled masses.
How can I continue this tale without sounding like a pompous twit? I probably can't, but I can delay the inevitable. A bare-bones description of the box should do nicely.
First, we rode an elevator up three floors. Minions greeted us and escorted us to the room. There was a lot of bowing and scraping. This was, I presume, to make us feel special. It worked.
There was a dining table, couches, plush ottomans and a wide-screen TV. Tiny BMW cars and motorcycles were displayed in a glass case. It was comfy.
OK, I admit it. I enjoyed being above it all. The hoi polloi, the peasants, were spread out beneath us like a wriggling, raggedy quilt (it was hot and they had towels on their heads). Some looked up. I waved back from my air-conditioned aerie. My condescending smile turned to a smirk as a waitress entered the box to deliver special food unavailable to them.
Better yet, a scantily clad Marines' cheerleader made a surprise visit to sell something. I didn't notice what. It couldn't have been programs; we got stacks of them free. The slobs below had to pay for them.
Enough! When the cameras pan across luxury boxes in the States, the attendees are golden--bejeweled and botoxed.
Not us. Not rich. T-shirts and jeans guys and gals. The middle-aged woman next to me wore a Marines cap and an "authentic" jersey, signed by Bobby Valentine. Not exactly Donna Karan. We all looked average.
But, and this is the important part, the game was way cool. Japanese baseball is high-energy and noisy. I loved the competing cheering sections, the weird balloon launch, and the quality of play. Those guys could really turn a double play. Not quite as well as Willie Mays' Giants in 1962, but close enough.(IHT/Asahi: October 14,2006)
