Why is he here?

“Akira!” shouted Uehara Tetsuo. “Look—”

The ball slammed into his right shoulder the moment he turned.

“—out!”

Akira Tanaka grimaced, rubbing his shoulder, before he picked up the ball and threw it back to his friend. All over the field, young men threw balls to warm up. A sort of symphony played: gentle and hard thumps as the balls hit the various gloves, mixed with the metal-on-metal ringing sound made by the hammers pounding in stakes to hold down the sandbags, while birds sang along in the background. He wanted very much to go back and join the fun. Instead, he straightened his back and walked toward the short fence that surrounded the field.

Maybe he isn’t here to take me home. Far worse possibilities entered his mind. Could something be wrong with his mother? He ran to his father.

“Father, is everyone well?” he asked, when he was close enough to be heard.

“Yes,” said Takeshita Tanaka, “the family are all well.” There was a brief softening around his mouth. Though not so much in his honey-brown eyes—or, at least, what Akira could see of them under the brim of his dark-brown hat, pulled down low.

“So,” he asked, looking around the field, “is this how my son spends his Saturday mornings?”

When I should be home working the fields with you? Words his father had made clear before Akira left home at break. As always, he kept his thoughts and desires to himself.

“I thought you said they canceled the season?” His father’s eyes followed a ball as it floated from one player to another.

Akira understood the irritation in his father’s words, yet surprised to see the older man’s eyes droop. To be here this early, his father would have had to get up two hours earlier than normal. His dark, herringbone suit, out of place in the dirty baseball field, would soon be hot if those clouds stayed away. He gave his father some credit for his effort.

They shared the same height for the last two years, yet Akira still lacked the muscular shoulders his father had from years of working the farm. Students don’t exert themselves that hard.

“They canceled this season and next year’s season. Two of the seniors organized this. They wanted an informal game before the school year ended.”

Takeshita’s left eyebrow shot up. “An informal game with Keio University?” His voice was full of sarcasm.

How does he know? There were no uniforms; all the players wore old clothes, beaten and torn through the years of work or sliding in the dirt. Ball caps, also old, bore no school emblem. Akira’s own faded blue pants were ripped in both knees, and his dingy, white button shirt stained various shades of green and brown.

“Did the school administrators approve this event?” The words came out as a question, but the meaning was an accusation. The game could cause definite trouble if discovered.

“I do not believe so. They asked us to keep it quiet.”

War was the reason behind the clandestine activities. The military drafted many players and adamantly insisted that baseball was an American pastime, which distracted from the war’s seriousness.

Takeshita glanced around at the growing number of spectators. “I believe that part failed. Well, inviting your uncle to umpire should help if they find out.”

They both turned to look at Sugihara Tanaka, surrounded by players from both teams, laughing and signing baseballs. A former star shortstop for Waseda University, back in the late 1920s, who went on to play for the Tokyo Kyojin, until he retired two years ago, he was now Kyojin’s infielder coach.

Oh, that is how he found out.

“I hope, for all of your sakes, that the students behave themselves this year. Good luck,” he said, then turned away to take a seat on the wooden bleachers.

Did he mean good luck with the game or good luck keeping the students under control? But he refused to ask that question. His jaw clenched all the way to the dugout.

Although Akira would not say so, he also hoped everyone would contain their spirit. Because of inappropriate behavior from student spectators during and after the game, the schools canceled the annual game for several years. Today, such spirit could be disastrous.

“Are you alright, Akira?” asked his uncle. Sugihara wore black pants and a white Kyojin shirt, displaying the shield with an orange outline of the name “Tokyo” and the red sun. He also had his black Kyojin cap. Together, he looked like a baseball professional suitable for the umpire position.

“Yes. Did you tell him about the game?”

His uncle nodded. “Underneath my brother’s hard exterior, he would want to come to watch you play in the Sōkeisen. Now, go join your team.”

Once inside, Akira looked around to count heads. “Where is Hatanaka?” he asked the group.

“He has left the school,” said Uehara, in a low voice.

All heads turned to him.

“Did he receive…?” asked Akira.

Uehara nodded.

“But there are only three weeks until graduation,” said Akira, his eyebrows drawn down. “Was he not allowed to finish?”

Again, his friend just shook his head.

Reality was a harsh intruder on the day. Another friend gone.

“Teams, please assemble so that we may begin the game,” called Sugihara.

Uehara, acting as captain, gave out the assignments, and the group formed a line parallel to the Keio players shooting out from the batter’s box toward the pitcher’s mound, with Sugihara standing in between.

“First, as I am the umpire, all of my calls are final. I will not accept contradictions.

“Now,” he said, speaking in a loud, commanding voice that reached beyond the teams, to the spectators on both sides, “Keio University established baseball fifty-six years ago. Together with Waseda, your programs became the model and foundation of Tokyo’s Big Six League. Every year, thousands of people follow your annual rivalry…” he paused, glancing around to both sides, “…until last year.

“While we are not in the traditional, majestic venue of the Meiji Jingu Stadium, today we play in this simple ball field, enjoying these rare warm hours that the natural world has given us. A gift to treasure. A moment in time to keep traditions alive.

“However, today the rivalry is not a contest between longtime opponents. It is a celebration of your schools’ history. An opportunity to honor the game that we love. To honor those who cannot be here to play with us. To honor each other. Today, we play with one heart, that which we share with our ancestors through the millennia. Today, we are the heart, the love, the joy of Japan. At the end of this day, the score will be irrelevant; all that matters is that we play with honor.”

Akira stood watching his uncle walk off, unconcerned with so many eyes following his steps. His words had elevated this game to some higher level, bringing security and a calm relaxation to his muscles. A warmth spread through him, yet bumps formed on his arms. His eyes scanned the other players, and their facial expressions reflected the wonder of his own feelings. The players all came out of their reverie and smiled at each other.

Excitement surged around the field as Waseda, the home team, took the field.

Akira played right field. He was a good fielder, but not a strong batter. During the 1942 season, though thrilled to make the team, he sat on the bench most of the year. If Hatanaka had been here today, I would be on the bench.

With the cancellation of the seasons, they had not maintained the field. However, in late winter, the light-brown grass showed signs of light green. A small, gray feather lodged itself between some blades. Patches of weeds grew in the baselines, but not so large as to cause any problems.

Keio’s first batter surprised Akira. If Ozaki is batting first, who is their cleanup hitter? He ran backwards to be ready. The batter stepped up to the plate.

Horiuchi, a very experienced pitcher, threw the first pitch wide, to the left.

“Outside,” yelled Sugihara.

The pitcher dug his shoe into the mound to create a deeper divot before the board. He wound up, kicked his leg out and, as his body fell forward, released the ball. Ozaki swung and hit a hard grounder to the third baseman, who picked it up and threw it to first.

Sugihara ran partway to first and threw both arms out. “Safe!” he yelled, after the batter touched the bag. It was such a close call that, under normal circumstances, the coach would have raised a question.

As everyone was resetting their positions, Ozaki walked back toward home plate. “Honorable Umpire, I understand you called me safe. However, the baseman caught the ball before my foot touched the bag. Please accept this one contradiction,” he said, with a bow.

Sugihara gave a low bow and held it for a few seconds longer. Then he stood back up and smiled. “Runner, you are out.”

Ozaki smiled and walked back to his dugout. A couple of his unhappy team members questioned his action, but the rest nodded.

That simple act of honor set the stage for the rest of the game. Players helped to make close calls. Both sides cheered good plays.

Evidence of the year-long absence from competition was clear on both teams: pitchers threw far more outside balls than center balls, bouncing ground balls missed and throws to bases went wild. But both teams accepted these mistakes without reprimand. The teams played with joy and freedom, rotating through the full rosters so that everyone played. Gone were the tense moments, the fear of failure. Spectators smiled and laughed.

Inning after inning, Akira watched this continual display of joy, not caring if a ball came his way. He enjoyed watching the plays, the pitches, the secondary game of daring between pitchers and runners trying to steal a base. It was a soft day, suited to a casual game. It all reminded him of when he had been a boy, just learning the game, playing with his friends in a field: no backstops; broken pieces of boards put down as bases, which never stayed in place; ants crawling in and out of their hills, in the line to third base; finding reasons to slide; and the days ending with good-natured arguments on close—and not-so-close—calls.

Late in the eighth inning, a loud crack of the bat and the crowd yelling signaled Akira. His eyes found the moving white speck soaring his way against the blue-and-dark-gray background. Gauging by its speed, it would fly behind him on the left. His eyes glued to the growing speck, he ran both backwards and sideways. With his shorter height, his only chance was to jump for it. Throwing himself forward, extending his left arm, he closed his glove around the ball. After the entire length of his body hit the ground and bounced, he rolled over, holding his glove in the air, then scrambled to his feet to throw the ball to the second baseman, who had come out as the cutoff man. The batter was out, but the runner on first made it to third, then held up. The last out came as the next batter popped up a fly-ball to the shortstop.

Clouds that had built now blew in faster, blocking the sun. As the ninth inning started, the score was four to three in favor of Waseda. With the first batter came fat raindrops, but no one wanted to quit, so the game played on; Sugihara took a break to get a waterproof cover from his bag, then called for the game to resume. Dirt turned to mud, wind blew off hats, runners slipped and fell, and fly-balls mixed in with the downpour were hard to see.

Keio’s second batter hit a single and made it to second base because of a wild throw to first. The catcher missed the next pitch, allowing the runner on second to steal third, spraying the baseman with mud as he slid. Then the batter bunted down the third-base line. The basemen looked the runner back, then threw to first, but the throw was late; the man on third scored.

Lightning flashed close by, sending everyone for shelter. Sugihara called the game off, leaving it to endless future arguments about what the outcome might have been if Waseda had had their last bat.

Akira and his father sat in the closest dugout. Sugihara took shelter in the other one, appearing to sign baseballs again. Tension between the two men smothered the fun of the day. How Akira wished he had the freedom to share his heart with his father. To reminisce about the minute details of the game, extending the fun for the rest of the rainy afternoon. But all he could think of was to repeat an earlier question.

“How are Mama and Suni?” he asked, glancing into his father’s brown eyes, before looking out into the rain.

“They are both well. Your grandmother was not unwell; it is nothing serious,” he added, at Akira’s frown. “Your mother is looking after her. Suni is working today.”

At the mention of his younger sister working, Akira’s stomach contracted. Because of his uncle’s financial help and his own good grades, he could go to university. However, the family farm did not earn the money for his sister to continue her education. Once Akira graduated next year and obtained a position, he hoped he could not only contribute funds to his family, but also afford pay Suni’s school tuition, if she wished to go, and if her father approved.

“Are you corresponding with Miki?”

Akira nodded. “I sent her a letter two weeks ago. She has yet to reply.” He turned his head to look back out at the clouds. Miki was another issue between them. His parents had arranged their marriage many years ago. Akira was torn because, in truth, Miki was beautiful and he enjoyed her company; the contention that he was not allowed to find his own bride, to marry for love, ate at him. To break the agreement would bring more dishonor to the family. It seemed that everything Akira wanted and dreamed of would bring dishonor to his family.

“The mail is slower these days. I am sure you will get a letter from her soon.”

Intent on changing the subject, Akira looked at his father. “You look nice in your brown suit. I appreciate that you came. Can you stay long?”

Takeshita checked his watch. “No. I will need to leave in less than an hour. I obtained a ride in a delivery truck this morning, and the driver will pick me up in front of the school on his way home.”

Sugihara came into the dugout at the right time. It amazed Akira how exhausting it was to make small talk with his own father.

“Is there any ink remaining in your fountain pen?” asked Takeshita. For the first time, the older man’s face showed some true amusement.

“Yes. Would you like me to sign a ball for you?”

Takeshita shook his head but kept his smile.

“The rain is easing. I believe we should go back to school so that Akira may change into clean, dry clothes.”

Akira led them out, forcing himself not to run as fast away from them as he could. He wondered if his father had any idea how much it hurt to watch the casual camaraderie between the brothers, and none existing between the two of them. Why was it so easy to accept his younger brother’s choice in careers, but not his own son’s choice?

Once they made it to the school, Takeshita looked at them both. “I will remain here in the event that the delivery man comes early.”

“Will you wait until I come back to say goodbye?”

“If you hurry.”

Akira ran up the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt on the way. Once inside his room, he yanked off clothes, dropping the wet ones wherever they landed. Never had he changed so fast, finishing the buttoning on the way down the stairs.

His uncle laughed when he saw Akira. Even his father had to smile.

“Akira,” asked his uncle, “was that a record?”

“I think—”

A honk of a horn interrupted. Akira’s heart contracted at the sound. Out of time. Words left unsaid. Emotions unhealed. Space between them grew.

Father and son stood looking at each other, neither knowing what to do. Takeshita broke the tension and took a step forward, putting his arms around his son. Akira reciprocated, but the mechanical embrace allowed only the briefest of touch.

Takeshita turned and opened the exterior door. Looking over his shoulder, he gazed briefly at Akira. “That was a good catch today.”