Daisuke Matsuzaka is hoisted by his teammates after pitching Yokohama to the 1998 title.
By MIKEY HIRANO CULROSS
RAFU SPORTS EDITOR
Well, Koshien reaches its grand finale this weekend, and once again, I’m captivated.
So called after the stadium in which it is played, Koshien is the most commonly used name for the National High School Baseball Tournament in Japan, held in spring and summer each year. Quite possibly the most popular annual sporting event in Japan, the meets rival the popularity of professional baseball, particularly the summer tournament.
Folks from large cities and small towns across the country are glued to it, much in the way we follow March Madness in college basketball state-side. Teams from all 47 of Japan’s prefectures participate, each having earned their way to Koshien via local qualifying rounds.
As The Rafu went to press this week, the teams for this Saturday’s championship game hadn’t yet been determined, but the games can be watched online at https://vk.sportsbull.jp/koshien.
On Monday, I stayed up late to witness a terrific matchup between Gifu Shogyo and perennial contender Yokohama High School. The game went to 11 innings and was made even more tense due to the new tie-break rule, which puts runners on first and second base to begin each extra frame. The underdogs from Gifu won it on a “sayonara” base hit, 8-7.
If you’ve never seen it, the entire tournament is something to behold. Predictably, the level of play is superb, given the discipline and rigor that are hallmarks of elite high school sports training in Japan. But there’s far more to it – the traditions, the ceremony, the customs. American baseball fans might find it odd that each team brings its school’s marching band and cheerleaders, who perform incessantly throughout the game.
Each game begins and ends with what sounds like an air-raid siren, and the teams bowing to one another at home plate. Visits to speak with the pitcher on the mound are not carried out by the manager, but rather by a player sent to deliver the massage from the bench. During the opening rounds, an emotion-filled letter from each school’s assist manager – often a female fellow student – is read during a break in the broadcast, in support of the team.
Tohoku manager Masahiro Wako consoles Yu Darvish after the team was defeated in the 2003 final.
To watch one of these games is to witness first-hand perhaps the purest example we have these days of playing for love of sport and school. While several athletes have become nationwide stars by virtue of their heroics at Koshien – Sadaharu Oh, Hideki Matsui, Daisuke Matsuzaka, Yu Darvish, Masahiro Tanaka, Shohei Ohtani and more – the great majority are names who vanish into society after the final siren. Batters shout a rally cry when they step up the plate, slide headfirst into first base on normally routine ground-outs, all to show their dedication and hustle.
Unfortunately, one trend that persists is head coaches using a single pitcher for an entire game – even if it goes into extra innings – or sending the same kid to the mound on successive days. Playing for Yokohama High School in the 1998 summer tournament, Matsuzaka threw more than 400 pitches over three days, including 250 in a 17-inning affair. He followed that a couple of days later by tossing a complete-game no-hitter in the final.
By comparison, high school pitchers at the varsity level in California are limited to 110 pitches in any game, and mandatory three days rest if they throw more than 75 pitches on a single day.
In 2006 Yuki Saito, the “Handkerchief Prince,” threw almost 1,000 pitches over his two weeks in the tournament. Not surprisingly, Matsuzaka, Saito and who knows how many others later experienced serious overuse injuries in their pitching arms.
Maybe call it the samurai spirit, but the passion these kids bring to the diamond is most starkly evident in the 46 teams who fail to win the title. After a loss, players weep openly and inconsolably, often collapsing to their knees in grief.
One of the most heart-rending sights you’ll ever have is that of the losing team’s players scooping up handfuls of Koshien’s infield dirt into their shoe bags, a lifelong reminder of their rare chance to play on that hallowed ground. Sometimes the soil is taken back to their schools and shared with young players, to help motivate a return to Koshien, but I’ve also heard that some players refuse to accept it, vowing to make it to the tournament via their own efforts.
For casual and rabid fans alike, Koshien offers an annual reminder of how sports can represent the best in players, fans, even a nation. Grab your glove, give it everything you’ve got, cheer on your teammates and show pride in your school. Sport doesn’t get any better than that.
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