Fifteen Minutes

Forgive the diversion from my recent funk...but, like so much these days, there are always strange and unusual cross-currents...

Today is the Major League Baseball All-Star Game.  This year it will be in St. Louis, Missouri.  Every time I see this event on television, I think about a surreal succession of strange moments fourteen years ago..

You see, in 1995, the All-Star Game was held in Arlington, Texas.  I had just arrived there a few weeks earlier, my family and I having just landed after four years in Japan.

In doing my usual networking just prior to this big baseball game, I had joined the Japan America Society - Dallas/Fort Worth Chapter.  I figured there might be an opportunity to combine my recent past with a possible future working within the two cultures.  You know, the job search.

Little did I know.

It seemed that the Los Angeles Dodgers had a new pitcher on their team at this same time.  He was Japanese.  Having just arrived here, he wasn't much into English yet.  He had a translator with him most of the time, but the poor interpreter was just a kid.  Didn't want to get too much into the spotlight of translating for this budding star.  Would rather just do local post-game shows, etc., and then go home.

So, when this certain Hideo Nomo was selected to be the starting pitcher for the National League at the All-Star Game, the young translator backed out.

Major League Baseball, Inc., was suddenly in a panic.  Maybe in melting pot Los Angeles this job might be an easy fill, but - uh oh - this game is going to be in North Texas.

They called Japan Air Lines to look for a replacement.  They called the few sushi bars that were in Dallas at the time.  They called the Japanese Embassy.  They tried to find ANYONE who might be able to do the job.  Sure, there were Japanese nationals around, but most of them did not want to go into a men's locker room to do any interpreting.  Not on global TV, not in front of Fuji Television and ESPN, to name just a few.  Especially if they happened to be JAL flight attendants.

So, the next call was to the Japan America Society - Dallas/Fort Worth Chapter.

The referral was put through.  The JAS just happened to know a guy, and this guy just might be interested in the job.

When the call came in to my brand-new cell phone, I thought it was a joke.
I thought it was a friend of mine in Los Angeles pulling another one of his fast ones on me.

Major League Baseball asked if I could speak Japanese.  Now, I can speak, but I am not exactly at native level.  Mostly because, well, I am not native.  But they asked if they could test me.  I agreed.

They put me on the phone with a chatty Japanese lady who worked in New York.

We chatted it up for a while, and I told her a couple of stories.

I passed their test.

Next thing you know, I am all dressed up in my Sunday best, at the first press conference the day before the game.  Sitting next to Mr. Nomo, trying to catch up on what's been happening with he and the Dodgers.  I had been out of the country for four years, and was a little behind the times relative to baseball in the USA.  However, this guy was from Kobe, which was near where my family and I lived over there.

We hit it off.

Randy Johnson was the opposing pitcher for the American League, representing the Seattle Mariners.  Mr. Nomo was very interested in what Mr. Johnson had to say at this press conference.  So, I just began translating for him when Randy got up to the podium to speak.  It was pretty easy, doing English to Japanese.  My new Japanese friend seemed to understand OK.

I was off to a good start.

While I was doing this, a man tapped me on the shoulder.  "Hey", he said, "where did you learn to speak Japanese?"  I turned to my left, and found myself nose to nose with Ozzie Smith.

This baseball fan just about crapped in his pants.  As I looked around, all of my heroes were in the room with me.  Sitting around me.  With their spouses, some with their kids.  Cal Ripken, Jr.  Nolan Ryan.  Mike Piazza.  Frank Thomas.

I was in hog heaven.

I did the dugout interview with Leslie Visser after Nomo pitched his two innings the following day - he did great, by the way.
I didn't do as well, but I got the message across in reasonable condition.

Shortly thereafter, I saw Ken Griffey, Jr. going down the runway behind the dugout.  I bolted away from my little Japanese entourage, just so I could get his autograph.

Not very professional, I admit.  But very much the fan still.

I got the autograph.  And before I left the stadium, I made sure my new Japanese friend also signed the ball.

In his native script, I might add.

Between you and I, before I took the job, some of the folks that hired me asked that I "enhance" the message a bit.  They said that some of Mr. Nomo's remarks in the recent past were sort of flat and colorless; if it was at all possible, they would like to see a bit of "pop" in the translations.

They were asking the right guy for this assignment.

I may not be a native Texan, but I can sling it with the best of them here.  Believe me.

Yes, in the end, the Japanese were not too terribly pleased when they saw the tapes of my work.  They were a little angry, to tell the truth.  My friends over there say that they still run the tapes of my press conference translations on TV shows over there.  Mostly because it is funny.

Damned funny, actually.

At one point in this press conference, when asked, "Does it put pressure and stress on you to be representing the National League as the first Japanese national - ever - in this very important game?", ol' Hideo replied in an over-long and elaborate answer how he was going to try his level best to be honorable to his team and his profession, how he loved his mother, and so on....blah blah blah.

The anxious press looked to the white guy for a translation to this little sermon.

Translation from yours truly:   

"No".

I thought it was pretty funny.  So did the American press.  I got a lot of good articles written after that in the local newspapers and radio shows.  Even from beloved WBAP.

The Japanese didn't quite get the humor, I guess.

At that point, I didn't really care any more.

Before I  knew it, my fifteen minutes of fame were over.  I turned into a pumpkin again, went home to my own little television set for all future All-Star games.

And, of course, my never-ending and ever-expanding bar stories about where I was during the Summer of 1995.

Down there on the field - at 110 degrees, by the way - with the boys.

What a thrill.

I think about that now.  Actually, I think about it once a year.

Today.