COOPERSTOWN, N.Y.
“Not bad, eh?!”
Ichiro’s inflection and facial expression would’ve been equally appropriate on stage at the Here-After in Belltown as it was at his podium, looking out on the field of Cooperstown’s Clark Sports Center. As he recounted his own achievements, Suzuki’s sheepish grin at his mild rush of self-promotion sent laughter rippling through the tens of thousands assembled, and millions more at home. Of those present, a plurality, if not a majority, were present to honor and celebrate Ichiro most of all. And yet, as Ichiro delivered his hilarious, thoughtful, uniquely earnest remarks, I felt a tang of bittersweetness.
This was Ichiro, in one of his final moments as the center of attention. No one is the same at 51 as they were at 27, or 18, the other ages when, as Ichiro noted, he’d been a rookie prior to today, beseeching his increasingly delighted new compatriots to go “easy on the hazing.” And yet, this was Ichiro as he’s always been. Funny, not just through the cheap amusement of cultural disparities so often highlighted in his early days. Earnest, in a way that’s obvious this weekend as it is in retrospect, but wasn’t always the prevailing theme. Thoughtful, not merely in the rote understanding of the term, but a man bursting at the seams with thought and reflection. Precise, perhaps as compulsion through a certain lens, yet in his eyes the only means to achieve the goals he set for himself.
Famously, Ichiro was insistent on conducting interviews through an interpreter. The fact that Suzuki eventually grew into a skilled multilingual communicator is an impressive feat, but one that often engendered a hint of frustration. With more than 20% of MLB’s players hailing from a non-English speaking country, we’re familiar with expecting the attempted second-language interviews. In recent years, interpreters became required by MLB, and language training through the minor leagues has grown more common. This has led to players like Randy Arozarena expressing themselves through coach Manny Acta with greater eloquence, to say nothing of 24-year-old Julio Rodríguez, who reads and listens to books in English and once upon a time requested to be interviewed by this author at age 18 in my native tongue to help him practice for when he was a big leaguer one day.
But Ichiro, contrary to much early coverage of his transition stateside, has never been atypical or singular because he’s Japanese. He is atypical and singular because he is Ichiro.
Over the course of the weekend, I spoke with Japanese and Japanese-American reporters who’ve covered him for decades. Story after story reflected what non-Japanese-speaking fans and media only glimpsed. A player who took his responsibilities seriously, yes, but not himself.
The conclusion of his first Mariners tenure was reflected through the negative space of these beliefs. Where some saw him chasing statistics, or remaining insular, he saw himself pursuing leadership by example and attempting to give the team and the fans the very best of himself. Ichiro yearns to be understood. Perhaps something stronger than yearning. Those reporters who could speak his home language, and those who’d secured longer interviews with the man through translation, noted the deliberation Ichiro can and will take with each question. It was evident in the weekend’s press conferences as well. No matter how mundane, it’s frequently beyond the length of consideration of any other athlete I’ve seen or heard of. If expressing himself correctly is a daunting task in the tongue he’s spoken his entire life, it’s no wonder he was wary and reserved through interpretation to expose himself beyond the top layer of complexity.
On an afternoon with five lovely, distinct speeches, Ichiro’s was the funniest. Billy Wagner was genuine, the distillation of a workmanlike ethos in an undersized lefty reliever who remained as astounded at the fortune of his legacy today as he was the day he finally got the call. Dave Parker II, speaking on his late father’s behalf, delivering a serpentine compilation of his dad’s words and his own befitting of The Cobra, before concluding with a poem of his dad’s creation as perfect as the Pirates’ pinstriped hats he was inducted wearing. Willa Allen, the picture of grace, speaking forcefully on her late husband’s behalf of the compassionate, unshakeable man that so many in the press and public took too long to recognize beyond their own prejudice. C.C. Sabathia, a towering, genial figure who dedicated his speech to the women in his life while stretching his 6’7” frame as a bridge from Allen to Parker to the next generation of Black baseballers he hopes to help shepherd.
But through the laughter, Ichiro spoke with an eye to what Allen’s widow sought. Understanding. Of the man he is and was. That his consistency and structure are the foundations of his philosophy towards the world, a philosophy he built through baseball since childhood. His reference to an essay he’d written in sixth grade on his “dream” to be a professional baseball player mirrored Allen, who’d stood up in his classroom as a young Black boy in the 1940s and proclaimed he would be a Major League Baseball player. Goals and dreams of a world that did not yet exist, that is what Suzuki and Allen created. As Ichiro explained to us, however, a dream can be impossible, but a goal is something you can make reality if you are consistent and dedicated.
When asked afterwards what inspired him to give the speech in English, Ichiro explained that he was in America, and that he felt the people who had made the effort to come see him and celebrate, in the place he’d called “sacred land,” deserved to understand him as best he could. In that speech, he spoke about the importance of taking responsibility for himself; showing up prepared every game, every season, in good health and with his equipment maintained, all so he could provide his team the best version of himself. Five years retired now, and Ichiro has no team in the traditional sense – though the men behind him on that Cooperstown stage, and those whose bronze likenesses flank his, are his eternal teammates.
And yet, as Ichiro stood at that podium, there was a feeling of camaraderie that swept over the field of the Clark Sports Center. This was Ichiro taking responsibility for himself, showing up for his team one last time, but instead of a singular team it was for his fans. One of the greatest baseball players of all time, he’d given his all for the 28 years he played professional baseball. There was no more to give on the field, but in this speech he gave us something more, something better. On his induction day, Ichiro gave us a piece of himself.
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