The Encounters Murakami Brings and an Afternoon with the Quadruple Crown Winner

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“When I opened Instagram, an ad for a part-time job at Jingu Stadium appeared in my Stories. It made me wonder if the fact that I don't like baseball might actually be a lie. At the same time, I thought of you. Maybe it was like that from the beginning. Whether we like it or not.”

“It was something that had been decided. Just as you thought of me while looking at that part-time job at Jingu Stadium, I also thought about the fact that you and I exist on the same timeline. An ad for a gym that encourages muscle training appeared in my Stories. I felt like I wanted to gift you the word 'inevitability'.”

“I see. But that’s not bad, is it?”

“Yeah. You and I are going to baseball. It seems that was something decided.”

“Isn't it our job to find meaning in Hamasta, rather than Jingu Stadium, by choice?”

“Good grief. That’s not bad either.”

When literary middle-aged men approach the age of 40, they succeed in creating an original Haruki Murakami from their own life experiences and begin using techniques that incorporate their own personalities.

I decided to meet him for the first time—a guy of the same age I met on Instagram who likes the Yakult Swallows—while watching a baseball game.

I don't particularly like baseball.
What I like is soccer, and boxing.

Going to watch sports after a long time and meeting someone for the first time was something I couldn't have imagined a while ago. I became interested in him because the sentences he weaves are sophisticated and concise, and he writes them not for anyone else, but to satisfy himself.

That might have something to do with him being in a band, or it might not. It’s just that he writes sentences that sound like music, and they ring with a comfortable rhythm.

And above all, he likes foreign literature.

I got on the JR Negishi Line train heading toward Yokohama, and while reading Kenzaburo Oe on my way to Kannai Station, I suddenly felt it would be bad if I didn't study the Swallows. I smiled bitterly under my mask, thinking that even if I don't know baseball, it would be bad if I didn't at least know the members of the team I'm cheering for today.

I was about to become not just a disgrace as a baseball fan, but a disgrace as a working adult.

Looking at the Yakult Swallows players, my eyes first went to Norichika Aoki. He was born one day apart from me and seemed to still be active. Tetsuto Yamada was also a player who caught my eye. Even I know him. Triple Three. 30% batting average, 30 home runs, 30 stolen bases. Three times, at that. As I was looking into how he managed that, my eyes stopped on one player.

Cleanup hitter Murakami

Murakami. Thinking that it was inevitable after all, I stopped looking into it any further.

Having arrived at the stadium, I listened to the conversation of a group of youth baseball players standing next to me while I waited for him.

“This is my first time here. It’s amazing. Can we really watch from here?”
“I’m so moved. It’s huge. My heart is really pounding.”

However, those pure, straightforward words were enough to trigger the tear ducts of the middle-aged man standing next to me, who was looking up at the stadium just as I was. And then, I spotted him, wearing a Kafka T-shirt, watching it all from the corner of his eye.

I hugged him to hide my watery eyes, pretending it was our first meeting. Guided by him, I joined the Swallows fans.

The top row of the left-field stands. That spot, in the block next to the private cheering squad, was the kind of seat that overflowed with the true thrill of baseball I had only ever seen on TV. I put on the uniform he had brought for me and waited for the play ball.

The cheering, which had to be done without vocalizing, consisted only of the cheering squad’s drums keeping the beat when the game started, but when I felt that vibration in my body, I realized once again: Ah, I’ve finally come to watch a sport.

A run was scored in the first inning, and I was able to wave the famous umbrella. I couldn't hum along to the Tokyo Ondo, but a sense of unity existed there.
Above all, the blue sky, the beer. I was intoxicated.
The umbrellas, much smaller than I had imagined, were waved with consideration for others, and I felt that liking the Swallows wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Norichika Aoki, of the same generation, was right in front of us in left field.
I talked to him about it. It goes without saying that while we have lived through the same years, our lives are different. I find myself projecting our years onto Norichika Aoki’s back.

It was a moment when I realized that while this is a sport, it is also entertainment.

“There are fewer players of our generation left, but even younger players are retiring now, too.” he said.

Norichika Aoki was substituted.

We offered our applause in silence. I felt that this applause had a different meaning than any we had given before.

I opened my phone, checked a message, and read something I couldn't help but tell him.

“Hey, they say Haruki Murakami suddenly decided to write a novel during a Hiroshima game at Jingu when he was 29.”

He replied with a smile.

“This isn't Jingu, but it’s not bad.”

The cleanup hitter, Murakami, stepped up to the plate. I watched Murakami’s at-bat while thinking about many things. In the meantime, various thoughts crossed my mind.

If Murakami gets on base, I’ll keep writing like this. I watched every single pitch, thinking how it would be a real drama if he hit a home run.

If he didn't get on base. Thinking about that made me feel anxious.

Ah, I wonder how many people are entrusting their dreams to this moment. Suddenly, I felt a sense of respect for what it means to be a professional baseball player.

The bat Murakami swung resulted in a single.

It felt like I was being told to keep at it, that I wasn't wrong.

He and I got drunk on the Swallows' victory and waved our umbrellas, caught up in the strange space of our first meeting, drawn into the extraordinary entertainment that is baseball, and before we knew it, we were off to Chinatown for drinks and made plans to meet again.

What are you talking about?

I felt like I had found the meaning of the Yokohama Stadium in the meaning of the Yokohama breeze.

Serial Column "Kinoko no Kono Ko" Vol. 7
Author: Konishi Kinoko (Aiming for a perfect game bug)

I received the Quadruple Crown again this week.
It makes me want to write more. Thank you.