Marvin Pritchard, American Baseball Perspective
April 2, 2016

CHARLESTON, WV – Rintaro Kokawa twisted and turned on the grass. He reached for his right ankle but had to tear his hands away as a deep, red pain burned through his foot. He could see the team trainer approaching through watery eyes. He fought back tears of pain and anger as the trainer placed a hand on his shoulder and knelt down beside him.

Stanley Miller grunted in frustration as he spun out of the batter’s box, reaching for the netting of the cage to steady himself. He turned back towards the plate too quickly and sent a wave of pain through his abdomen. He covered his gasp with a barking command for the next pitch, but from the corner of his eye he saw the team’s physician give a small nod to the manager.

The exam room in Celestial Park was decorated in browns and grays, a horrible look that clashed with the team logo. Instead of the familiar whites of a hospital, the room gave the sensation of a failing antique mall. Kokawa lay on his back, swearing each time his ankle was twisted, bent, and lifted by the Fushigi Yugi doctor he was sure was trying to aggravate the injury.

After fifteen grueling minutes, the doctor asked him to sit up. “I strongly suspect you’ve torn every ligament to shreds,” he told Kokawa. “You will need surgery and physical therapy. You will likely have pain when walking for years. Any further baseball is out of the question.” Kokawa kept his focus steady on the matted brown couch.

“Tell me the truth, Stan,” sighed Duncan Walker, Fargo’s manager. “The body’s still hurting you, isn’t it?”

Miller took in Walker’s watery brown eyes. The manager’s expression was one of sympathy and pity for a player only six years his junior. Miller gave a slow, steady nod.

“You’ve been a true asset to this team,” Walker said, his speech slightly faster than before. “I’ve never known a player more committed to helping his team and teammates. Unfortunately…” Walker swallowed. “Unfortunately, we don’t think you are a good fit for the team at this point.”

Miller stood up. “I understand.”

Walker moved out from behind his desk. “Stan, I’m sorry. Take some time for yourself. But you still belong on a diamond.” He took Miller’s extended hand and pulled the player towards him for a brief, awkward hug.

On the same day, over five thousand miles away, Kokawa thumbed through a stack of papers in his mailbox, the last correspondence he would receive from the team. The documents made official what he already knew. Effective immediately, his contract was null and void. His locker was to be cleaned out by that night’s game. His final paycheck would be mailed to his home address.

Kokawa had never known a life without baseball. His father had groomed him from six-year-old star of his Little League team to star of the Summer Koshien. He woke up every morning at 4 a.m. to take two hours of batting practice. His father would pick him up after school every day and take him to the field, where the elder Kokawa would hit hundreds of pop flies. Catching 90% of the day’s total got the young Rintaro a pack of baseball cards. By the end of high school, he had tens of thousands of cards that he would trade with his friends. He signed with Fushigi Yugi the day he graduated from college.

The sound of the clubhouse door brought Kokawa back from his stupor. An intern struggled to hold open the door while balancing a tray of fresh fruit. Kokawa looked up at the boy and started to stand, only to be brought back down by the pain in his foot. Gritting his teeth and breathing heavily, Kokawa reached for his crutches and hobbled over to the young assistant. The boy nodded his thanks and scurried into the room. Kokawa watched him arrange the platter on the center table while stealing admiring, furtive glances at the lockers of the stars – Kikugoro Memoto, Totoya Kataoka, the gaijin Terry Fowler.

Kokawa tore himself away from the scene. He never was one of those players and would never be. He had spent the entire season as a defensive replacement, a demotion he accepted out of loyalty but that ate him up on the inside. No intern ever stared at him in amazement on their first day. In a year or two, few would ever know he had been a professional ballplayer. Kokawa shifted his crutches and began to walk down the hallway, letting the clubhouse door swing shut behind him. His bags remained on a bench in front of his locker. He would not need them again. He was retiring.

One month later, Stanley Miller was feeling the best he had in years. After he was cut by Fargo, he spent every day in a gym with a personal trainer, working to strengthen his chronically sore abdominal muscles. His agent couldn’t get him a tryout with any PEBA teams. Word had gotten around the league that Miller had hidden the real extent of his injury from Fargo’s medical staff. Miller didn’t care. When the Shin Seiki Evas of the LRS offered him a contract, he leaped at the opportunity to leave Tennessee. He would be assigned to their AAA club under a contract with an escape clause. If he hit his way to the majors and they wanted to later return him to the minors, he would first be offered an unconditional release. After three years of shuffling back and forth between Fargo and AAA, he welcomed the certainty. He signed the contract on Sunday morning. Monday night, he was at a bar in Kyoto, celebrating with his new teammates.

Rintaro Kokawa stared angrily at the ballplayers across the room. He was in town for his second surgery on his ankle in three weeks, at a hospital located directly across the street from Rodan Stadium. He had torn the hospital curtains from the wall in his room in frustration the previous night. His room faced the stadium and he had tried to block the image of the pre-game crowds streaming in. He could do nothing about the crowd noise and had to spend the evening in a painful half-sleep with the raucous cheers from the stadium filling his ears. He was dismissed the following morning and spent the day wandering around town, refusing the bed rest recommended by his doctor. Baseball had invaded the out-of-the-way bar he’d discovered across town.

“To new beginnings!” cried Miller, raising a glass to his teammates. They liked the loud, brash foreigner. Miller had grown a full beard in the previous month and looked like a lumberjack. The entire bar was enjoying their sneak preview of the new ballplayer.

Kokawa waited until Miller excused himself to use the restroom. He signaled to Miller as the American staggered past him. “Hey rookie – have a seat,” he said, kicking a chair towards Miller with his good leg.

Miller stopped and smiled. “You a fan? Go Rodans!” Miller cheered, dismissing Kokawa with a friendly wave.

“I’ve been where you’re going,” Kokawa hissed.

Miller paused, confused. “The bathroom?” he asked. Something about the expression on the face of the man with crutches, sitting alone in the corner of the bar, arrested Miller. Or perhaps it was Kokawa’s English, which was overly crisp and had a strong British accent.

“No,” Kokawa replied. “The League of the Rising Sun.”

Miller sat down in the chair with a heavy thud. “That’s the plan!” he grinned, glancing over his shoulder at his teammates. They had become engrossed in conversation with a group of women wearing Evas gear.

“You’re an American,” Kokawa stated. “You play in the PEBA?” Miller nodded. “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” Kokawa said, shaking his head. “Baseball is different here. You don’t play for yourself. You play for them. And when something goes wrong,” he slid the boot on his bad foot out from under the table, “you’re on your own.”

Miller squinted and sat up in his chair. His side gave a twinge of protest, and he winced. Kokawa’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name?” asked Miller.

“Rintaro Kokawa. I won a Gurabukin Award two years ago.” He stood up, leaning on a crutch for support. Miller stared. “You call them All-Leathers,” Kokawa supplied.

“Ah,” said Miller. He watched Kokawa walk away, the metal of his crutches clinking against the floor.

Miller soon learned Kokawa was right.

Kyoto used Miller as a pinch-hitter for the remainder of the season. Miller, who never connected with his teammates, left the country the week the season ended. When Miller signed a minor league contract with the Kentucky Thoroughbreds, the Evas filed a complaint with the Commissioner’s Office, claiming Miller was still under contract with Shin Seiki. Miller’s contract did not contain the standard year-end out clause given to gaijin players, making him subject to LRS service time rules and eligible for contract auto-renewal. The Commissioner’s Office voided his contract with Kentucky and the Evas sent him notice that he was to report to camp with Kyoto. Miller refused and was placed on the restricted list. Shin Seiki did not relent until late June. Kentucky had lost interest by the time Miller was released from his obligations.

Left with no other options, Miller signed a contract with the Crystal Lake Sandgnats to play for their Short-Season A affiliate as a player/coach. The Mauna Loa Vulcans finished the season with a 72-18 record, the best season in league history. Miller spent most of his time working with a young player, Ricardo Longoria, teaching him improved pitch recognition. Miller agreed to return for another season with Mauna Loa on the condition that he be allowed to continue playing. When Crystal Lake finalized the roster a year later, they had no room for Miller and he was cut for the third and final time in his professional career.

Miller still had some baseball left in him, or so he told himself. He attended workouts for five PEBA clubs, but his chronic injury had ruined his swing. He had no range in the field and even the most routine groundballs passed him by. A scout from the Bureaucrats pulled him aside and told him to stop embarrassing himself.

Later that week, Miller accepted a job with a used car dealership.

Four years later, Miller opened the paper and saw that Longoria, his former teammate, had won the Sovereign League Royal Raker Award. Buried at the end of a lengthy interview with the Crystal Lake star was a list of thank-yous from the young player. One of them was a blanket shout-out to all of his coaches in the minor leagues.

Miller felt something stir within him. He had never quit baseball. He never could.

Miller handed in his two weeks notice to the dealership, bought a new suit, and called his former manager in Mauna Loa. They didn’t have any openings on their coaching staff, but the manager promised to make some calls. Two days later, West Virginia’s director of player development called to offer Miller a job as a hitting coach in Rosarito, Mexico. Miller accepted and asked for a favor.

Kokawa’s cell phone rang at 2 a.m. He was still awake grading papers for the class he taught at his old high school.

“Rintaro?” asked the voice on the other end, full of static and carrying a hint of an American Southern accent.

“Speaking,” Kokawa replied. The voice confused him – he was expecting another prank call from one of his students.

“This is Stanley Miller. You gave me some advice I didn’t listen to many years ago.”

Kokawa pulled his laptop toward him and began to search the name.

“Do you still play ball?” Miller asked.

“No,” clipped Kokawa. “I’m retired.” He had found Miller’s StatsLab page. He began to remember.

“What do you do?” the American asked.

“I teach.”

“Baseball?”

“Math.”

“Come teach baseball. You can start with Kauai in June. PEBA team – they know how to treat their players. School will be over. Tell them this is your last year.”

“I told you, I’m retired,” Kokawa said. He idly ran his hand along the wooden cane propped against his chair.

“Guys like us, we never retire.”

Kokawa thought. “I’ll see you this summer,” he replied.