Sandy and the 1¢ Cowboy

Forward:

I occasionally run low on inspiration for Oriental themes since I currently live in the Midwest and not in Japan. I suppose I could write about Japanese auto plants, or Korean missiles, but instead I thought I'd reflect on an old friend from my childhood.

I ran into Sandy at the supermarket today. It had been a long time since we last rode together. I put a hand on her plastic mane. How are you old girl? It’s been awhile. She was as ready to ride as the first time in the late 1950’s. She still had her black leather saddle, stirrups, and reigns, with the bit firmly in her excited mouth. I noticed that she hadn’t raised her prices since then. A bounding 60 second ride was still a penny.

When I rode her as a young boy, nothing was as exciting, or sparked my imagination more. Not the roller coaster, the spook house, or the double fairiswheel at the State Fair. These were all too intimidating for my youthful constitution. No, all I needed was a few pennies in my pocket and I could change an otherwise long and tiring trip to the grocery store for an exciting ride on a spirited horse. I don’t remember which store we were in, or who else went along, I just remember holding on to Sandy’s reigns for dear life as we bounded off into the dreams of my boyhood.

In those days my heroes were the black and white stars of daytime television: Roy Rogers, Superman, and Casey Jones. I would rush home from school to see the Man of Steel. Turning on the set just in time to hear the narrator recount: Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! When I took my first plane ride on a trip to Florida, I was sure that if the engines failed, Superman would be there to support the plane. I knew because I had seen him do it on last week’s episode.

When I was a bit older I would catch the afternoon shows only when it rained. Otherwise, virtually every waking moment not in school was spent playing sandlot baseball, football, or my favorite: the neighborhood-wide game of army. When the warfare began, little kids–like me–usually ended up as prisoners to the big kids who ran the show. We wasted lots of time quibbling about rules, who was on whose team, and who was dead, and who was not, but once the game got into full swing; it was sheer excitement to run through backyards and alleys with a black plastic Tommy gun pretending to be at Normandy, or Bastogne.

We would play until it got dark, or until our mothers would call us home for dinner. Perhaps mothers' voices carried further in those days. Because it seemed that just as I scored a run or a touchdown, or ambushed the enemy from my carefully concealed spot under the hedge, I would hear, "Time to come home for dinner."

C’mon Mom, just five more minutes. Some kids who lived down the block had a dinner bell to summon them. Yet, I can’t remember ever thinking that I would rather eat than play outside. There was just too much to fun to be had with a wooden bat, an old glove, a worn-out baseball, or a toy gun. Or when the kid next door brought out the only football in the neighborhood, at least the only one we could find. I had left mine outside and the dog had chewed it up.

But there were rules to the endless hours of play: never steal stuff, never talk back to grownups, and never cross the busy street at the end of the block. These were the rules we lived by. Everything else was pretty much forgivable, other than a note sent home from your teacher. That would get you a scolding, but probably wouldn’t keep you out of the ballgame going on across the street.

Yet even before I was old enough to actually hit a baseball, I had moved on from supermarket cowboy to big league ball player. While Sandy waited patiently for my return, I would spend my cold winter evenings reading up on stars like Harmon Killebrew and Dizzy Dean from a page-worn almanac of baseball stats that I kept under my bed. Had the Mick really hit a 643 ft. homerun? I imagined myself a big league pitcher until I realized that the catcher was throwing the ball back harder than I was delivering it to the plate.

Other pursuits followed as I grew older and I forgot about my able mount. Nowadays she has mostly been replaced in supermarket entryways by video games and lottery ticket machines, but when the Country still Liked Ike and nearly every family drove around in a big Buick, or a Pontiac, a 1¢ ride on a spirited, mechanical horse was all the excitement I needed. It is good to know she is still out there.

Lions in Spooner, Wisconsin

Forward:

I originally penned this news item/ story for the children of a close friend, but I thought others might enjoy it as well. The sighting got me thinking about the role of the fox in Japanese mythology. How they presumably live for thousands of years often taking human form only to vanish, then re-appear in other time and place. I have a story about these mythological creatures as well, so look for it in the near future and thanks for reading.

As I drove through Wisconsin on my way to Chicago, I heard the news on the radio: A lion had been spotted near Spooner. Coming right after a commercial for chainsaws, it certainly caught my attention. This was no sighting of an escaped zoo animal, or exotic pet. No, this was a wild mountain lion on the prowl. This sighting and one near Milton, Wisconsin the previous year are the first locally in more than a hundred years. As I drove through the hill country and past roadside cheese shops, my mind wandered (except when passing trucks) to images of lions roaming freely in Spooner, an area better known for deer hunters and Packer fans. There was speculation that these lions had wandered in from the Black Hills of South Dakota, or areas far to the west. While the lion spotted near Milton was later killed in a suburb of Chicago, the one found near Spooner resisted attempts to capture it, or fit it with a tracking collar. DNR officials were able to track it up a tree, but the animal fled before the tranquilizer dart took effect. Nonetheless, lions in Wisconsin? It did seemed odd, yet upon further investigation, nothing could be more natural, or shall I say, more primordial?

18,000 years ago lions, similar to present-day African lions, lived in Alaska north of the great ice sheets. To the south roamed the American lion, which was the largest lion ever to have existed weighing almost a thousand pounds. These animals ranged across the North American Continent, and probably hunted the mega fauna that covered vast regions of post-ice age North America. These great cats were nearly twice the size of modern African lions, and a pride on the hunt must have been a truly awesome sight.

In addition to the great lions, sabretooths, scimitar cats, New World cheetahs, and jaguars would have hunted the abundant game that once lived in the vast plains and great primordial forest that grew in the lands left by the retreating ice. Early man would have hunted, and been hunted by such striking beasts. We know this to be true because unlike cataclysmic meteor impacts, or plate tectonics that may have led to the end of the dinosaurs; the mammoths, mastodons, and other great mammals were mostly hunted into extinction by man.

Yet the way in which early man lived tens of thousands of years ago has always fascinated me. When I was a boy, I would spend countless hours at the local science museum looking at displays and exhibits on the early inhabitants of Minnesota and Wisconsin. Who presumably lived by following the great herds of bison, elk, and other beasts migrating with the seasons. Unlike the image of the plains Indians on horseback, these early people would have hunted on foot, and carried everything on their backs, or possibly made use of the first domesticated dogs when they moved to follow the game.

The horse, however, is a true native of North America evolving more than 50 million years ago, along with zebras and camels. These early mammals, however, departed for Europe and Africa, and were long gone from America for many thousands of millennia before the next horse arrived with Columbus in 1492. It would have seemed very out of place to see zebras and rhinos on the American savanna some thirty million years ago.

Meanwhile, descendants of the great North American cats remained to prosper and spread throughout North and South America. Today we know them as bobcats, lynx, panthers, modern jaguars, and mountain lions-also known as pumas, or cougars. It is thought that mountain lions became extinct in North America then migrated back north from South America over the last 13,000 years.

I do not know where the lion found in Spooner came from, and it may never be known since it has slipped back into the northern forest. I hope it has a safe journey, but I also hope that it doesn’t attack a hunter or camper. Chances are the cat will never be seen again. It has simply vanished into the arboreal mist.

© Copyright James Noah 2009 with special thanks to Tim Flannery

Cow Soap

First of all, let me put to rest your fears that this is a story about some new kind of bovine hygiene product. Quite to the contrary, it is definitely about people soap, or more specifically-Japanese soap. For those of you who have visited Japan for any length of time, I think you will recognize, or more likely, recall the fragrance of the ubiquitous Kao Brand White Soap. Kao Brand has an aroma unlike any soap I have found in the U.S. Not particularly strong, or pungent, it has a unique smell that to me epitomizes taking a bath in Japan. Which, by the way, is a really big thing there.

While most Americans quickly shower in the morning then rush to work, the Japanese love to leisurely soak in a neck-deep tub. Many Japanese also visit public baths, where one can enjoy a spa-like experience for around two bucks. There will, however, be lots of naked people around enjoying the bath as well. But not to worry, public baths are pool-sized, though only about two to three feet deep, and most keep their eyes to themselves. In addition to the home and public baths, hot springs abound in volcanic Japan. Many of the hot springs have lodging as well, however most simply pay for a dip in the therapeutic waters. Now before I diverge further, let me get back to the cow, or more accurately, Kao Brand Soap.

As far as I know, Kao Brand has been one of the most popular brands of soap in Japan for many years. Wherever I lived, or traveled, I would find a bar of it next to a sink or bath, and we had it in our home in Akita as well. To me, it is as much a part of the background aroma of Japan as ramen shops or temple incenses. It has a fresh, mild scent that reminds me of the clean, well-scrubbed land that, in my opinion, symbolizes Japan.

The reason I call it cow soap is that the old packaging had a small picture of a cow on it. Not quite sure why, but since many English words are misspelled in Japan, I naturally assumed that Kao meant cow. When I learned a bit more Japanese I understood that kao can also means one’s face. Facial soap? Now that made sense. That is until a few weeks ago when I stopped in at a large Japanese grocery store in Chicago. I swung buy to purchase some snacks for a road trip when I walked by the cosmetics aisle and saw my beloved Kao Soap. I took a closer look (with my glasses on) and noticed that in the upper right corner of the wrapper were two Japanese characters 花王 (kao) which translate as flower king, but in reality is the corporate name of the manufacturer, The Kao Corporation. Nothing to do with cows or faces. Damn, another of my assumptions about Japan shot to pieces. Personally, I like the cow analogy better, but maybe I could get someone at corporate to rethink the brand ID?

The Cow is currently in its place of honor-the soap dish of my bath. As it waits to set free long hidden memories of the Orient.

The Sanada Clan's Run-in with the Cops

In 1980 I lived at the Chokoku-ji Zen Temple in Nagano, Japan. Temples in Japan typically have a feudal-period clan designation which is a holdover from the days when Buddhism was regarded as the state religion. Clans would often have a family temple centrally located within the fief as a symbol of their piety. Clan crests can still be seen today adorning temples and shrines throughout Japan.

Chokoku-ji, it so happens, is the family temple of the Sanada Clan who ruled over the Matsushiro region of Shinano (modern Nagano) during the Edo Period. The Sanada Clan gained notoriety during the Battle of Sekigahara, September 15, 1600. September 15th, also happens to be my birthday, but more about my apparent link to this family later. The battle was significant because the outcome united Japan under Edo rule for the next 265 years. The Clan fought for both sides (think modern-day hedge fund) with brother fighting brother for both the soon to be vanquished Toyotomi, and later victorious Tokugawa. The Matsushiro fiefdom was a gift to Sanada Nobuyuki who had fought for the upstart Tokugawa (modern Tokyo) side.

During the year I trained there approximately ten Zen monks practiced under my first teacher, Yoshida Kozan. Yoshida Roshi ( zen master) had recently moved from his abbot position at the head temple of Soto Zen, Soji-ji, in Yokohama. Compared to the urban, bustling Soji-ji, the little temple in Nagano was definitely backwater. However, one would be hard pressed to find a temple more beautifully located than Chokoku-ji.
From the rear grounds of the temple, the Southern Range of the Japan Alps seem to jut out from the surrounding farmland. Covered in snow for ten months of the year, the peaks catch the morning sun and glisten like glassy spires seemingly just beyond one's reach.

The temple is located in the town of Matsushiro, where the Clan castle once stood. It is now a quiet little burgh in comparison to the capital city of Nagano. Its fate sealed when the railroad diverted to Nagano and not the Castle town. In addition to the spectacular alpine scenery, the temple grounds are lined with cherry, apple, and apricot trees which bloom in succession when spring arrives.

Yet one of its most impressive features are the tombstones of the Sanada Clan patriarchs. Found beyond the back garden in two opposing ten-foot tall granite rows, the whole lineage of the clan stretches back stone by stone some three-hundred and eighty years to the founder of the temple. I found the name inscriptions a bit hard to read since they were etched in a combination of Sanskrit and Japanese kaimyo, or heavenly name. However, the Sanada name and Clan crest were clearly visible on every grave. Yet, belying this bucolic setting, the place had an air of past glory, not unlike the aura of an ancient battlefield. It was definitely not a place the locals came to picnic. I had walked the length of the feudal graveyard a few times, however I didn't pay the place much more attention until a new monk arrived later that summer.

His name was Kodo-San, and he had been a construction worker before deciding to become a monk. Like many Japanese men, he had done some kendo and judo in school. While not a large fellow, he was tightly muscled and he looked like he could take care of himself.
One warm evening after meditation-and before lights out-he came into the monks' quarters wearing work clothes and drenched in sweat. Several of us inquired as to what he had been up to?
"I have been practicing kendo by the Clan graves. The area gives me a great feeling of power, and I run down the stone pathway between the tombstones kiai-ing at the top of my lungs and slicing the air with an axe handle. It’s great exercise and I am tapping the martial spirit of the Sanada warriors," he revealed.
"Oh, I see," was about all I could say. It had never occurred to me to train in this manner even though I was working out at a local dojo twice a week in addition to teaching karate at Nagano High School.

Yet I was fascinated, so several nights later I decided to give it try. I found a convenient axe handle and headed for the hallowed ground. Kodo-San was right, it was exhilarating. I charged down the stone path with my sword held aloft like I had seen Toshiro Mifune do in movies such as Yojinbo, then howled and slashed away in the night air. I gave it my best battle cry, but I don’t think the Sanada spirits were too impressed because I didn’t feel much 16^th Century samurai glory pulsing through my veins. What I mostly felt were a lot of mosquito bites on the back on my neck. It also felt a bit creepy out there on that moonless night because there was a rumor going around that the area in back had once been an execution ground for local criminals and enemies of the Clan. Besides, I had just finished reading Kwaidan, a downright scary book which had a story about long dead warriors coming back to haunt the living. I tried to maintain my samurai-strut, and keep my imagination in check, as I headed back to the monks' quarters.

I returned to the Clan graves a few more times, but the training usually left me hoarse, so I stopped going back at night. Nevertheless, one of the monks who acted as the temple accountant, produced an old Clan seal which he said was used to certify executions. Whether it was authentic or not only added grist to the rumor mill. In any event, I thought I'd leave well enough alone and leave the Sanada warriors to their eternal rest.

In the Fall, Yoshida Roshi retired to his small parish far to the south in Tanba, just outside of Kobe, and I headed for civilian life in Okinawa. I married in November, and had the great fortune to train for, and compete in the All-Okinawa Karate Tournament in December. It had been an eventful year to say the least.

The next year my new bride and I moved back to my hometown of St. Paul, Minnesota. We bought a small place in a new sub-division on the north side of town. The area was still largely underdeveloped with woods bordering the roads and the new construction. I often hiked through the underbrush and mature oak stands that lay just beyond our property.

One evening after work, I put on my hiking boots and headed out on a walk through the trees. For some reason I got to thinking about Kodo-San's unique training method, so I found a suitable stick and began to do suburi (slicing the air) with my makeshift blade while adding in yells and grunts whenever I sliced through an imaginary opponent. I'd felt somewhat self-conscious when doing this out behind the old temple in Japan, although no one had taken any notice. What the heck, nobody will hear me out here. So I let loose with series of savage yelps and whoops. As I sliced and diced, I got to thinking that the old Sanada boys would be proud of me now! Why, they probably could have used me at the great battle. So I let loose one more primal roar, then stood back to admire all the vanquished foes strewn on the ground -imaginary at least- and headed home with a feeling of triumph.

It was then I noticed the flashing lights. Gee, I thought, I wonder if someone had a break-in, or a domestic? When I got to the edge of the clearing I realized that the patrol car spotlights were directed at me. My God, has something happened to my wife? I had a moment of panic. Then I heard one of the officers say,

"Stop right there and drop the weapon." Weapon? I dropped the sapling and stood there with a confused look on my face and mud on my boots.

"Whatcha been doin' in there, sir?" asked the Ramsey County Sheriff. It had apparently escalated into a multi-jurisdictional affair.

"Well, I was just practicing martial arts in the woods. I just live right over there," as I motioned towards my house.

"We had gotten a phone report that someone was getting beaten to death in these woods." said the city cop.

"Don't know anything about any beating. Just me beating the trees and yelling," I responded somewhat sheepishly.

"Why would anyone want to do that?" asked the sheriff as they looked at me with suspicion.

"Like I said, martial arts practice."

"Mmm, let's have a look." Then he pulled a two-foot long black flashlight from his belt and marched into the woods. Ghosts of Sanada, don't fail me now!

When the cops were satisfied that no blood, or bodies were to be found, they gave me a stern, if somewhat comical warning: "Better practice karate inside. It scares the hell out of the neighbors."

"Right, sure, no problem." I didn't ask if the guys had heard of the Battle of Sekigahara, or the Sanada Clan. Might as well let samurai souls rest for the day.

When I got back in the house my wife asked what all the commotion was about. I told her and we shared a good laugh.

"I doubt that would have happened in Japan," she consoled. "If Japanese people had heard the yells they would have recognized it as kendo training."

"I suppose you are right, since I don't remember the cops showing up at Chokoku-ji to arrest any monks." We chalked it up to a cultural misunderstanding and decided it was cause for a celebration, so we headed to our favorite sushi bar. We told the Japanese sushi chef our story and we all had a good laugh. Laugh as we might, the warriors of old weren't done with me yet, or so it would seem. Full of fish and sake', I hit the sack still thinking about the bizarre misunderstanding.

That night I had a vivid dream that Sanada Nobuyuki showed up at our townhouse door in full battle regalia demanding to know why I hadn't stood up to the cops to defend the family name! I awoke with a jolt. Man, these Sanada guys don't play around! I fumbled in the dark for my practice sword and curled up with it in bed with thoughts that forgiveness would surely be forthcoming for one as righteous as me? Kodo-san never told me about this side of the deal! In the morning my wife asked me what on earth a sword was doing in bed.

"Long story, Dear."

Epilogue:

It happened once again when I was practicing nunchaku at night in the yard next to my house. An off-duty fireman thought I was a stalker, or someone trying to break into the house. Same explanation, same result. I guess old warriors never learn.

Descendants of the Sanada Clan now live in the Tokyo area and are involved in the film and entertainment industry.

© Copyright 2009 James Noah

Obaa-chan

Obaa-chan, your childless carriage pushed with a back bowed by a meager war diet and the weight of a post-industrial society that has moved from feudal to digital in your lifetime. Where have your children gone?
Was it a .50 caliber round through the chest on Mindanao? His youthful, pensive face staring back through the smoke of your prayer incense. Or perhaps it was a Bullet-Train out of town when she could no longer stand the smell of the farm?
Where have your children gone?
Maybe off to the Juku, or the sex club? Your knowing, patient hands still cooking meals for a generation no longer interested in waving the Rising Sun, dusting off pictures of the Emperor, or toasting victories in Canton.
Obaa-chan, I know you were once young, but do your grandchildren know that you had hair as shining and skin as soft and fair as any who now peddle their flesh in Ginza on a cell phone? Do they know that the takuwan pickles in their bento are from a recipe you learned as a girl in a time when you weren't allowed to speak in the presence of your father without his permission.
Do they know you are day-care to a generation, and rain-swept, roadside grime and mud labor to a nation?
I know, but I could never have endured as you have through wars, famine, and now isolation. I know, because you once showed me your picture as a young girl in monpei, bidding your brother farewell at the train station. So handsome in his uniform; you bowed stoically as he headed to his grave in the Pacific.

But I will not bother you now for a story. You are too busy knocking the snow off rows of long, white radishes drying in the winter sun and setting up an offering of rice for your brother's long awaited return.

Author's note:
When I first visited Japan almost 35 years ago, I often saw Obaa-chans (grandmothers) in the Japanese countryside with terribly bowed backs. Purportedly caused by a calcium poor war diet and long hours stooped over in the rice fields. They would often be pushing a cart that looked something like a cross between a baby carriage and a shopping cart. It struck me that this nation would truly have been lost after the war had it not been for these stout, resolute women.

To the Green Sea

Author's note:
I have heard a few comments of late that my recent posts are not very zen-like, or filled with martial arts philosophy. I would agree, however I find most zen writing rather boring. If you want reflective meditations on peace and harmony, don't go to Japan for zen training. If you want to know what one day was like; read below. I'm not saying this is the only way, I'm just telling you how it was.
'nuff said?

To the Green Sea - a book excerpt


It was one of the coldest and snowiest winters that anyone could remember. Even the old monks who came by on occasion remarked that it reminded them of the days after the war when the monasteries were one of the only places with food and young men became monks out of necessity. Those winters were cold they said. Blankets were scarce and discipline severe. I knew they were right. The worn wooden shoe box with the hand written names above it counted seventy-five in number. Almost three times the number of training monks on hand now.

It was my second winter at the zen training temple in the quiet port town of Onishi. January was the month of kangyo, the winter training. Regardless of weather we would march ten to fifteen kilometers through the nearby villages each day to collect alms in support of the temple. Normally we would take the same course in and around the town, but once each season we would walk through Onishi, cross the river, and visit the small fishing village of Nishimura. No one minded going out there in summer, but the winter trip was hard, and we would be exposed to a piercing, biting wind most of the way.

On the morning of the march into Nishimura, I woke to the coldest day so far that winter. I slept next to an old, ill-fitting window and the wind in the night had blown the snow in through the cracks to form small drifts on the top of my blankets and across the floor. Yet I'd learned that a few degrees below freezing were better than above for marching because the slush on the road would freeze hard keeping our feet dry a bit longer. Feet and hands suffered the worse.

Meditation started at five, chanting at six, and rice at seven. At seven forty-five the roll call began with a monk beating a steel plate which hung in the entrance to the temple. We rushed to get ready. The steel plate sounding out in a jagged, steadily rising clang as we assembled on the hardened dirt floor of the Entry Hall. The head monk shouted,
"Everyone going out today must stand at attention to receive the day's instruction and recite the chant." Our nickname for him was The Apache. He would not have looked out of place in a maximum security facility.
It was cold, yet it seemed that the tighter I bound my garments the warmer I felt. One man would pull the chin straps on his kasa hat so tight there would be marks on his face for hours. We all had our little ways of keeping warm, but it wouldn't matter for an hour into the march warmth was something months away in a dream. In the Entry Hall we stood at sharp attention, heads up, looking strong. It was easy to look tough now, our feet were dry. The head monk spun towards us and barked,
"Move."

We marched into Nishimura to a bitter cold wind rolling off the ocean like a giant wave, dashing against the corrugated metal houses and blowing the cold even deeper into our bones. At the moment I thought,
This is what it really is to be cold. Who cared if I couldn't feel anything from the knees down? Someone had to break a trail in the two-foot deep new snow. It was so cold I became euphoric. Without gloves in the cold we lost control of the muscles in our hands. It would start slowly with the little finger then move on to the next until the whole hand curled into a weak fist. It was a daily ritual watching men try to straighten out a frozen hand with the still good fingers from the other.

Each year important villagers and inn keepers in Nishimura held a formal meal for the monks to commemorate our visit. After our morning march through the village we stopped at the appointed place. A spacious inn with very gracious people. But there would be a price to pay for indulgence in food and wine. The problem was that our frozen feet would swell from the Inn's heat and when it came time for the return march, we could no longer get our now wet, stiff tabi socks on without great and painful effort. Some walked the 5 km back to the temple barefoot.

Dinner that night was instant Ramen-if anyone wanted it. Most recovered in their rooms huddling around small hibachi coals. Some of us sat quietly in the Meditation Hall. I would stuff a thin blanket under my robe to stay warm. Body heat would keep me reasonably comfortable in the still air-and my feet were dry. Not a bad day after all.

© All rights reserved James Noah 2008

The Summer of '37

Author's note:

There are perhaps as many stories of love between East and West as there are grains of sand on the shore; this story is simply one of those small grains.
Due to the length I have included it here as an excerpt. The full version is available upon request by leaving a comment.

He wasn’t sure at what moment he had become so drawn to her that he could not conceive of ever being apart. He used to fool himself that he would be able to walk away without feeling the fallout. Now the very thought of being separated caused him physical pain. Her touch was now his touch, her skin; his skin. Her smell; his. It seemed that the small of her back was perfectly formed for his hand. And when her dark hair brushed against his arm, it sent a pulse of warm, electric current through his entire body. When she was close he would breathe in her essence to the very core of his being and feel completed.

Her fragrance so intoxicating, so refined, that the only comparison he could make was something that might be described in the West as aromatic cedar and citrus. Or was it jasmine flower and sandalwood? To Warren it was an indescribable mixture that held him to her as metal shavings to a magnet. He knew he was lost to her and he dreaded the day she would leave. It was still spring. He knew she wanted to leave in the fall, but the long days of summer lie ahead.

The president’s voice brought him back from his daydreams. He planned to make his getaway after the awards presentation; it was just too beautiful a day in Northern Japan to stay inside in a suit and tie. He gazed past the picture windows of the ballroom to see Tonbi Hawks slowly circle above one of the steep wooded hillsides of the city. Warren knew he would receive one of the sales awards. He tried to focus, but as the speeches drone on he drifted back to his reflections.

He thought about his life, and in retrospect he could say things were going almost as he had planned: be an athlete and travel the world in his early twenties, finish school and find work in an exciting overseas position, then be on the road to success before he was 30. In reality, he had cut his athletic career short to marry while still in school, struggled to find work after graduation, and was about ten years past where he had imagined he would be. But the fact was that in the summer of his thirty-seventh year he finally found the kind of career he thought would have come much easier.

He had worked very hard to find all the other meaningful positions he had had before, yet this one had come by almost completely by chance. He rationalized that he had been laid-off from those previous jobs due to circumstances beyond his control. Hadn’t it been a major oil spill that caused cutbacks in the first, and the Gulf War slowdown in the second? The company had let so many people go that when he saw his boss clean out his desk he knew his days in the advertising and promotions department were over. He was sure he would find something right away, but it was not to be.

When he was at the end of his savings, and prospects were looking bleak, a good friend called to say that some Japanese customers were in town and would he like to meet them for breakfast in the morning. David was a good friend to offer, but Warren agreed somewhat reluctantly. He had read that Japanese were famous for not doing anything on the spur of the moment, much less hire someone, but he supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to exchange business cards. To his surprise this group of young executives from Japan was probably the most vibrant, open-minded group of business people he had ever come across. One of the men-a young ad company president-took a particular interest in Warren’s situation. After the others left, they continued their conversation in the hotel lobby. And despite a language barrier, they both knew the lingo of advertising. By the end of the conversation this energetic, young CEO had tentatively offered Warren a job at his company in Japan. He rode a high all the way home. It would be a big change, and a challenge, but he needed it and it had come at the right time.

Cal, however, was not as thrilled with the prospective move. She had a career and her friends were here. And what was most deflating, she said he wouldn’t make it there.

“They are really looking for top people. You haven’t really worked your way up to that level,” she said. She might be right, but it was shocking to hear it from her. She used to be such a cheerleader for his career. She had an MBA and loads of school chums who were now in high positions; she had done it the right way while he had limped along and was now floundering. This position in Japan was the life raft he had been looking for. Couldn’t she see that? She went on, “You are going to end up back here soon enough, so why should I drag myself halfway around the earth just to end up back home?” He argued that they should stay together and enjoy the experience. And besides, weren’t they a team? She looked away.

He knew she hadn’t planned it that way, but he felt that they hadn’t been a team for a long time. Something had changed. Maybe it was because they didn’t have children? They had a routine, but she was no longer the one person he could completely confide in. Her body language told him as much.

So he made up his mind to take the job. He would move first and she would follow when things were settled. He didn’t blame her. Hell, maybe the fact that they had grown apart was as much his fault as hers. But for whatever reason, they had grown apart. Maybe the distance would draw them together. So he accepted the job and headed off alone.

The work turned out to be all and more that Warren could have envisioned. It was exciting. Both co-workers and clients respected his ideas, and he moved in circles that he could never have imagined in the U.S. He met ministers of the Diet, ambassadors of state, and worked with top international executives. He remembered how out of the loop he had felt back home. I was as though the business world was moving around him as he stood still. Even though he knew he could bring a special touch to make a company or product stand out, he had never been recognized at the level he thought he should be. He had been just another worker on the assembly line. But Japan was a different story. Now he had two layouts in national magazines, a story profiling his career in another, and his summer ad campaign for a car manufacturer was rolling out nationwide. Unfortunately, he had no one outside of work to share the success with. The more he called home with good news the more he sensed how they had grown apart. Callie had not come when things had settled. He had protested and she had resisted, but another spring in Japan had come and he was still alone. Yes, Japan had been different--and he had met Aki.

As the company’s lone foreign representative he was often requested to attend the many social functions that are so important to business in Japan. He respected his boss too much to say no without a good reason. So once again he accepted an invitation to attend a reception at a downtown hotel even though he was dead tired and looking forward to a night of rest. It turned out again to have little to do with work. A few clients showed up, but for the most part they didn’t look all that happy to be there either. Contrary to having anything to do with the ad business, the guest speaker gave an impassioned lecture on the Kamikaze experience during WWII. Apparently his brother had been in the suicide corp. Warren’s Japanese had improved over the last year, but the speech was beyond his comprehension and he felt very uncomfortable with the subject matter. He felt a little like a war criminal at a Holocaust convention, although no one stared at him or glanced at him any differently. No, the Japanese were by and large too polite and this group too progressive for that. Nevertheless, after the speech he sat alone as people mingled and drank the remaining contents of a bottle of sake that had been left at the empty table.

As it was with many of these functions there were in attendance several young women hired by the hotel to serve drinks and food and smile at the guests. Called Companions, Warren had never really paid much attention to them, although many were quite attractive. Somewhat like flight attendants in Japan: very eye-catching, but pretty much off limits for a private conversation. But as he sat alone a soft voice behind him said in English,

“Can I pour you some sake?” He turned to see a young woman in a white blouse and long black skirt with her hair attractively pulled back. He was taken aback because he had never met a Companion who spoke English. Her name tag read Aki.
“Wow, your English is quite good. What are you doing here?”
“I went to high school in the U.S., and I work for this hotel sometimes,” she said. Normally a server would pour, bow, and move on. But this girl stayed and talked. She talked about her plans to save money and go to college in America. He told her about his job and how he came to be at the party.
Now the night wasn’t boring at all. In fact he wished it would never end. She tried not to be too conspicuous by talking only to him, but the two of them caught the attention of one of the company’s biggest clients. The man, as was often his nature, cut-in between them and started to talk about how wonderful the speech had been. Aki excused herself and moved on to another group of guests. Warren pretended to listen to the man, but he never took his eyes off of her. She moved with such grace, such dignity. All he knew was that he wanted to get to know her better. He tactfully worked his way over to where she was serving and discreetly handed her his business card. She offered her number and he hastily wrote it down on a scrap of paper from his wallet.

As the night wound down and all the lights were turned up signifying and end to the party. As was often the custom, the companions would line up at the exit and bid farewell to the guests. The crowd moved towards the door, and Warren could hear that the conversation around him was mostly focused on what club or bar everyone was going to next. All he could think of was the time with Aki. As he approached the door he looked for her. All of the companions were wearing the same outfits and he thought he would miss her. Finally he saw her towards the end of the line. He went with the flow of the group and frantically thought of what to do. Would he ever see her again? To stop and talk would reveal his feelings to all. So as he passed he reached to shake her hand, and she in turn extended hers.

When they touched it was like nothing he had ever felt before. It was soft and warm and it sent a gentle shiver through him. On the drive home he thought of nothing else. He knew he would call her the next night. He also knew it was wrong. He was a married man. Maybe not happily, but attached nonetheless. What was he going to tell this girl when they met alone? It would not turn out right no matter how well he hid his true background. The only thing to do was not call her. It was the only right thing to do.

But the next day he thought of little but the brief moment of her touch. He called her that evening and her voice was as warm and friendly as it had been at the party, and she agreed to meet the following evening. He looked forward to the seeing her with an anticipation that he hadn't felt for a very long time.

They arranged to meet in the lobby of the old City Walk Hotel. Built in the 60's, it had once been the height of western-style luxury. Now it was a bit tread-worn and somewhat removed from the downtown loop. He got there early so he wouldn't miss her and sat in a soft, well-used lounge chair and read the Japan Times. At 15 minutes past the appointed time he thought she might not be coming, so he set down the paper with a feeling of disappointment, and headed for the door. Just as he reached it she appeared and her eyes lit up when she saw him. He was totally stunned by how she looked. She wore a black raincoat over a bright red sweater, and she looked even more desirable than when he had seen her in uniform. She was radiant.

He drove them to a quiet restaurant owned by a friend who let them sit in the closed upstairs section. With no need be feel subconscious about strangers, they focused on each other. Aki was a good listener, but when she spoke it was open and honest. The light never left her eyes the whole evening. It was a magical time for him-as forbidden as it might be.

After dinner they drove to his favorite place by the harbor. They sat in the car and watched the moored fishing boats rise and fall in the starlight night. She seemed to share what he was feeling, but he wasn't sure so he took a chance by reaching for her hand. To his relief her hand opened with warmth and tenderness and he knew that she felt it was a special moment too.

He drove her home early that night, but they met often over the next several weeks. Each time becoming more intimate, more attached. Though he had only known her a few weeks, to Warren it seemed like they had always been together. It seemed like they knew each other as well as any lovers could, and it seemed that they would never be apart. But he kept his past hidden. Never finding the courage to tell her, and his guilt grew in proportion to the attachment he felt. She made him feel needed and he didn't have to strain for her attention. It never crossed his mind that she might have a past too.

Hearing his name being called broke him from his reverie, and he walked onto the stage to receive the Spring Sales Award. The President, now Warren's good friend, handed him the award with a big smile. He was proud of the recognition. Coming here had been the right thing to do. Professionally it couldn't have been better. But he was involved now and things were getting complicated.

All in attendance were invited to the company picnic to view the cherry blossoms- which he knew was a euphemism for some serious drinking under the blossoming trees. But he had already made plans with Aki, and as the other employees headed to the park, he headed the car in the opposite direction to the Central Train Station. Although the presentation had been long, it was still early afternoon on one of those rare days when ambient air and body temperature so perfectly match that neither the sensation of heat nor cold is felt.

When he got to the station he saw Aki standing directly in front of the central entrance. She wore a yellow polo shirt and jeans. Her look surprised him. He usually saw her in the evening, after work in either a uniform or kimono. She looked younger; much like any other student who might be coming out of the station on a Saturday afternoon. He felt very conspicuous in suit and tie picking up this young girl. Their age difference of 15 years accentuated in the bright sunlight of the station plaza. As always, she had a big smile for him. She said, 'Hi' in English. He had been working hard on his Japanese, but for whatever reason she wanted to speak only English with him. They climbed in the car and headed out of town. He had found a rundown, mostly deserted park a few weeks before and he thought it would be a perfect place to take Aki. It was quiet and secluded. As they drove on she began to recount the events of her day. She had done some shopping and had visited a friend, but she didn't ramble on-she never did. Once through the city he found a road that led to the park.

As they drove on she looked at him and said,
"I have to tell you something." Warren braced for what he thought was coming.
"I used to have an American boyfriend. He was a foreign exchange student, and we met through a mutual friend." The revelation caught him off-guard, but he felt somewhat relieved. "Kevin" had returned to the states and she said that their relationship was over. But she also revealed that she was sending him money.
"Are you out of your mind," he blurted.
"He just needs some help with school loans." she defended.
"I had no idea you were doing this. You work two and sometimes three jobs just so you can send this guy money?" he said in disbelief.
"I'll stop."
"Aki, the more money you send to him the further away your dream of going to school in the U.S. will become."
"I know. I'll stop." He suspected that she wouldn't, but he didn't want to press her. Maybe she was over this guy but felt some obligation that he wouldn't understand. And as much as he wanted her to pursue her dreams of going off to school, it would take her away from him-a scenario he didn't want to face.
He spotted the turnoff from the highway and after a few kilometers down a narrow road, came upon the entrance to the park.

From the gravel parking lot the place looked like it had once been the site of an ancient castle. A wide, flat plain surrounded a raised, flattened hill that was overgrown with brush and mature Red Pines. She had prepared a lunch and he had a blanket in the trunk so they began to climb the worn stone steps up the hill to where the castle once stood. Although younger than he, her breathing became labored as they climbed. He knew she had played basketball on a very good team in high school, but like many in Japan, she had totally given up any sports after graduation. Once on top they found a clearing that looked out through the pines to the rice fields and plains beyond.

Aki opened the stacked bento lunch boxes that she had made. Small portions of neatly cut vegetables and meat were arranged in orderly rows in the upper box and seasoned rice in the box below. She had put time and care into it.

After lunch they laid back on the spread out blanket and looked up at the hazy sky through the gently listing pines. Warren couldn't remember a moment of such complete happiness. Down below were worldly affairs to fret over-his work, her plans, his attachments, and her attachments too. But on this hilltop, at this moment, the cares of the world could not reach them. The thick trunks of the pines seemed to hold back the world and provided a peaceful solitude in a crowded land. They didn't talk and they didn't embrace. They just lay back and absorbed the pine-scented breeze.

After awhile some other picnickers set up nearby, so they went for a walk on the far side of the castle knoll. The path wound through thick forest and as they walked their arms found their way around each other's waist. As they approached the bottom of the hill, they heard a crashing in the forest off to their left. Suddenly a stag and two does jumped into a clearing next to the path. The buck stopped and zeroed in on them. Warren didn't think the deer would charge, but he felt very vulnerable standing in the open with his arm around Aki facing a force of nature who didn't care if he was in love with this girl or not. After a moment the buck casually broke his stare and stepped back into the dark woods. As they walked back up the hill he tried not to be too disturbed by the encounter. He did feel vulnerable being with Aki. She was the love he had always felt he wanted-as forbidden as it might be. She was in his arms. There was no space between them, and yet one mistake would leave carnage beyond the self-centered world he had created.

She had to work that evening so they packed up their things and headed back down the castle hill. He had not taken much notice on the way up the hill, but as they descended he saw that the ancient path was lined with mature cherry trees in full bloom. A growing breeze was driving the falling petals like snow across the path filling in cracks and crevices with pink blossoms. He looked at Aki and noticed petals in the hair as well. She couldn't have looked more beautiful.

This place was part of the Japan he loved. The modern world was exciting, but it was the aesthetic beauty of nature wrapped around the remnants of old Japan that held his fascination. Different from the vast, wild beauty of the Rockies, or the North Woods, it was a cultivated beauty that grew in every available spot in this tight, well-kept world.

They drove back to the city in silence, though not a cold silence. Aki placed her hand lightly on his leg as they drove. Cal would never have done that. She would have wanted to discuss things, come to a decision, but he knew that wasn't being fair. That was just the way she was. It was part of what made her successful. Besides, he knew he was the one who should be condemned. Yet he still felt a glow from the time he and Aki had laid together on the hilltop. He wanted that peace to last. He wanted to be with her always, and keep the world they had created. It would be unimaginably hard if she walked away.

© Copyright 2008 James Noah

Hockey Night in Hachinoe

I flipped on the television in my cubbyhole-sized hotel room in Tokyo looking for NFL playoff news. Finding none I watched instead an interview with Masayuki Ikeda, the young coach of the Furukawa Electric Hockey Club. Furukawa it seems was the perennial cellar-dweller of the of the JIHL (Japan Ice Hockey League) usually finishing last in the six-team league. Despite this Mr. Ikeda was quite upbeat saying that the prospects for winning were good. He had some talented, young players who were eager to reverse the team's fortunes. He also said that he looked forward to the upcoming showdown with the Oji club the next week.
Oji, the powerhouse of the Japanese league, didn't show much respect to Furukawa according to the coach, and he stated that his guys could skate one-on-one with Oji. Pretty tough talk, I thought, for the normally reserved coaches of Japan.
The next day I called my friend Iwahana who I knew had played semi pro hockey some years before. He reveled that he had been a starter for the Oji team; then retired to work as a salesman for the team's owner, the New Oji Paper Company of Hokkaido. I told him that I had watched the interview of the Furukawa coach and he said that he knew him and that they were friends.
Other than my association with Iwahana, I has no previous connection to pro hockey in Japan. I didn't even know a league existed, and at the time I was living in Akita - a snow-country town in Northwestern Japan. I later found out that the six teams are all owned by large companies, usually carrying the name of the parent firm as part of the team moniker, i.e., The Snow Brand Ice Bears. Iwahana called me back a few days later to tell me that he had spoken to the Furukawa coach and told him of our conversation. The coach said that he would like to meet me and invited us to come to their game against Oji in Hachinoe City next Thursday.
Hichinoe is on the Eastern, or Pacific side of Northern Japan, and I lived on the West, or Japan Sea side; however it is only a few hours away by train. Iwahana and I decided to go see the game, so that next Thursday afternoon I took the Tohoku Express to Hachinoe. Hachinoe is a seaport town with a working harbor, and the feel of a blue-collar industrial town on the Great Lakes, say a Cleveland, or Buffalo. Lots of drab, brick buildings and people bundled up against the cold.
I met Iwahana at the hotel near the JR station and we had a quick drink in the hotel bar. He reminisced about his playing days, but he said that unfortunately he was now working too much and smoking too much. Before we left he told me to grab my jacket and just wear old clothes, if I had any, because the arena is unheated and it might get rough.
"What, is there going to be a brawl?" I asked jokingly.
"No, but we are going in through the players entrance, and the kids will think you are a player or coach. They might rip your clothes," he replied.
His statement really piqued my interest. "What kind of game was this going to be?" I had grown up following the Minnesota North Stars, and the Golden Gopher hockey teams. I had played pee-wee and bantams when I was a boy, but hockey in Japan? This was going to be interesting.
We arrived at the Ice Arena about 30 minutes prior to game time. The arena, a white, two-story high building could have been mistaken for any other warehouse in the area, minus any trucks or loading docks. It reminded me of the many public ice rinks that dot the Upper Midwest of the U.S. No gauntlet of kids looking for autographs or loose clothing in sight however, so for now we were in the clear.
Once inside I saw that Iwahana was right, it was cold. Fans sat on bleachers in heavy jackets and some had blankets as well. It reminded me of the Old Mariucci Arena on the campus of the University of Minnesota, without the maroon and gold or rabid fans. We found our seats just as the teams came on the ice for the pre-game skate. The hated Oji Eagles in Montreal Canadians look-alike home jerseys, and the upstarts from Furukawa in visitor white. Actually it was hard to tell from the fan response who the home team was. This was neutral ice, and I think the crowd was just hungry for some hockey on a cold Thursday night.
The puck dropped and the game began. As the game progressed, the different styles of the teams became evident. The fast breaking, hard-checking Furukawa team, and the well schooled passing and puck possession team of Oji. Furukawa started strong with several fast break opportunities, especially by a couple of import players from Czechoslovakia. But it was the steady, disciplined play of Oji that was slowly taking over the game. Iwahana provided excellent commentary on the tendencies of certain players and on the flow of the game in general. He told me that he had played with Oji's top center and that the veteran was very crafty in how he would wait for a defender to commit before either passing or shooting. At the first intermission Furukawa had played hard, but trailed 1-0.
We drifted out to the concession stand, but all I really wanted was a hot cup of coffee. They did have hamburgers, ramen noodles, small dishes of curry, beer, but no coffee. We each got a beer and headed back to our bench. I also bought a program and read of the many ex-NFL and European players in the league. The teams were also complemented by many Canadian-born Japanese players. I believe that like baseball in Japan, each team in the JIHL is allowed a quota of foreign-born players.
The 2nd and 3rd periods revealed the dominance of the team from Hokkaido. The Czech combo managed to score one goal, but Oji ended up on top 5-1. After the final buzzer the fans headed for the doors. We stayed in our seats until Iwahana thought the time was right, then we headed for the players area.
I stayed out of the locker rooms, but Iwahana ventured into both and emerged with a hockey stick from each team as a souvenir. He told me that the Furukawa coach would meet us for dinner in about an hour, but now came the tricky part. I could see the double doors at the end of the hallway were open to the outside, and beyond the doors a crowd. Fans waiting for the players to come out, and we were going to be first!
When we got to the door I could see many young fans illuminated in the outdoor lighting of the arena. We began to push through the crowd in the direction of our car. Kids were asking for the stick and I could feel hands closing on the shaft, so I pulled it in close and pushed on like a Trojan. As the boys saw we were steadfast most of them returned to their vigil outside the arena to wait for the real players, but one young fellow persisted in following us all the way to the car. He wasn't leaving empty handed. I wasn't, however, going to give away a real Koho professional game stick to some kid-even if I gave him points for persistence. We finally made it into the car in one piece. One benefit of tangling with the crowd though, I felt warm for the first time all night!
Eventually we arrived at the restaurant and had a casual dinner with the coach. He was a very engaging, outspoken fellow, and he talked openly about the Oji game and the league in general. He seemed very optimistic about the future of the Japanese league and the rebuilding of the Furukawa team. After dinner the coach had to return to the hotel to check on a couple of injured players. Iwahana suggested that we go to a bar where hockey fans hung out. I didn't want to miss that so I agreed and we headed over to the Blue Line Club in downtown Hachinoe.

The Blue Line seemed like a typical Japanese bar from the outside; simply another door among many in the three-story bar complex. Once inside, however, the scene was very different. More like a sports bar in the U.S., NHL posters covered the walls and a life-sized cutout of Mark Messier in the entryway; which seemed appropriate since the Rangers had won the Stanley Cup the year before. We found a table and ordered a round of beers. I wanhana motioned towards a group of women across the room and said they were part of a local women's team. He also said that there were several hockey-friendly bars in town. What struck me was how smoky it was. Not uncommon for a bar, but the players were puffing away as well. These might be hockey folks, but they liked smoking and drinking too. Nearly everyone I saw had a cigarette going.
After awhile the smoke became overwhelming and I begged Iwahana to take me back to the hotel. He suggested that we find another hockey bar. I told him that if the others were like this one then I was not interested. He conceded that the others were probably like this one; maybe worse. So we headed back to the hotel and Iwahana dropped me off. He reveled that he was heading out to another bar to meet some friends. I thanked him for the evening, and the stick, and headed back to my room to catch any NFL football scores.

The next morning I checked out and walked the few blocks to the JR station. It was cold, but not bitter. I bought my ticket back to Akita and waited for my train on the outdoor platform. I stood there wearing a long, black coat, a sports bag over one shoulder; the Koho still in my hand. As I tried to stay warm, I heard young voices calling out behind me. I turned to see a train full of school-bound kids calling to me from the open windows.
"Who do you play for?" one voice asked. "Hey mister, can I have that stick," called another.
Standing on that platform in a long coat with a gym bag and a hockey stick, I suppose that I looked like a player. Who else would be standing around with a left-handed Koho on the day after the JIHL had come to town?
I boarded the west-bound train with my gear and a load of memories of Hachinoe. The NHL and college hockey is the stuff of dreams for rink-rats from St. Paul, to Saskatoon, to Moscow. I just didn't know that hockey rules in the ice-gripped towns of Northern Japan. You might think of sushi and Nintendo when you think of Japan, but just make sure you include poke-checks and slap shots too!

Afterword:
The Furukawa Electric semi-professional team disbanded in 1999, due to financial difficulties. Because of an outflow of support, and financing, from the home community, the team reformed as the HC Nikko IceBucks the following year. The team has remained at or near the bottom of the league.

© Copyright 2008 James Noah

The Champ in Japan

I stepped out of the train station and walked the short distance to the Yokohama Arena. It was still an hour before the fights would begin, but the crowds were already moving towards the arena doors. And this was definitely a fight crowd. Young, boisterous, and sporting black tee's with their guy's face on the front.

Their guy was former WBC bantamweight champion Joe Tatsuyoshi. Flamboyant, and outspoken, he didn't fit the mold of the traditional Japanese fighter. Often clowning and showboating in the ring, he had captivated the attention of many of a new generation of fight fans. In particular, the fans of his adoptive hometown of Osaka. The other guy on tonight's card was current WBC Super bantamweight champion, Daniel Zaragoza, of Mexico. I had not heard of him before, but I read in the fight program that he had been the holder of several world titles over a nearly twenty year career.

The pre-fight buzz in Japan said that this was the perfect opponent for Tatsuyoshi. Zaragoza at age 40, was at the end of a storied career, and was ripe to give up the title. Joichiro Tatsuyoshi, known as Joe, was named after the famed boxing cartoon in Japan, Tomorrow's Joe by his father, and avid boxing fan. Joe had suffered several recent setbacks in losing the title and incurring retinal damage, but he was still in his twenties and was a skilled, if somewhat unconventional fighter; often sticking his chin out in defiance when hit. The local line was betting on Joe and the fight was in Japan. I'd received a ticket in the mail from one of my customers, and while not at ringside, it was close enough to see the action. But, that night I was more that just a spectator, or a fan. I felt that I was in essence part of Joe's corner.


At the time of the fight I was working in Japan importing new and innovative products. One of products that I had come across was a high-tech mouthguard manufactured in my hometown in Minnesota. I had already made inroads into professional hockey, college rugby and football, and high school boxing. (high school boxing is big in Japan and most schools have teams) Sales were just starting to take off when I got a call from one of my biggest clients. It just so happened that they supplied equipment to Joe and had close ties to his trainer. They had told Joe about the new high-tech, shock absorbing mouthguard from America, and he liked it. He had also agreed to use it in the upcoming title match, hence my interest.
When I heard the news that he was going to use the mouthguard, I called all my customers and friends and told them to watch the fight, which would be on national television.
I can't say that I was really a fan of Joe's. I had seen a couple of his fights, but being a foreigner in Japan, I probably felt more compelled to cheer for Zaragoza, even though I knew nothing about him. Nevertheless, I was solidly in Joe's corner, or at least my mouthguard would be.
There were several spirited undercard fights featuring Japanese fighters pitted against foreigners. The Japanese won every match. The crowd cheered for the fights, but this only whet their appetite for the main event. It was clear that they were here to see Joe's triumphant comeback.

A short intermission followed the last undercard, then the lights went out and the music went up. The crowd volume went up as well when the champion made his way to the ring. Many around me speculated in what round he would fall. I had not heard booing or cat-calls during a sporting event in Japan before, but there was no mistaking who the fans wanted to win. Now Joe's music began to pump and the crowed responded. They yelled, clapped and stomped on the bleachers until I thought it might collapse. Joe jumped the top rope into the ring. Daniel looked fit and was a bit taller than Joe, but his face weathered and scarred from a long fight career. Joe bounced around the ring with youthful exuberance hitting the air with short, snappy punches and waving to the crowd. The crowd roared in approval. I could see the trainer put my mouthguard in Joe's mouth. I could feel the anticipation like a bass drum beat on my chest.

The bell rang and the fight began. For the first 30 seconds or so, each fighter threw several short punches, but all were blocked by arm or glove. Then in what seemed like a ring length charge, Zaragoza threw three right jabs in succession ( he is a southpaw) forcing Joe to retreat. Then with all his momentum behind him, Zarogoza dropped a straight left hand solidly on Joe's chin. Joe's knees buckled. Zaragoza kept firing. Joe, nearly defenseless with his back against the ropes, looked ready to go down. He tried to evade, clutch, and cover-up; but Zaragoza merely stepped to the side and threw another crashing left hand.

Somehow Joe survived to the first bell, but he was hurt and he wasn't fighting back. The crowd was beyond stunned; they were angry. This Mexican had hurt their guy! Surely Joe would come out swinging and drop this old champion.

The second bell rang and Joe came out to fight albeit on somewhat wobbly legs. Daniel absorbed this and countered with clean punches of his own. Somewhere towards the end of the 2nd round, Zaragoza ducked under a desperate hook from Joe and countered with another crashing hook to Joe's chin which knocked his mouthguard, (my mouthguard!) nearly out of his mouth. Joe clutched to survive while he chomped on the dislodged mouthguard like a half-smoked cigar. Then in the heat of battle, Joe threw the unseated mouthguard out of the ring. I sunk back into my seat in horror.

Mouthguards get knocked out in fights all the time and nobody takes much notice. However, mouthguard salesmen who have notified all their clients to watch an event that was supposed to highlight what a great product they have, do! It was a sales rep's nightmare. Sort of like how the shoe rep might have felt when Linford Christie threw his track spikes in the trash after fouling-out in the Olympic 100 meters. Not the moment you want on world-wide television.

In the meantime, Joe had troubles of his own. having survived the first two rounds, he tried to mount a comeback. He did rally a bit in the middle rounds much to the delight of the crowd, but it never turned the tide; only treading water towards the inevitable end, and it came in the 11th. Joe, tiring badly, started to show the effects of the endless blows from Zaragoza. Though he still stuck his chin out in defiance. When Joe took numerous unanswered punches to the head, the referee, having seen enough, stopped the fight. TKO in 11.

Joe dejectedly dropped to the floor of the ring pounding the canvas. He then stood up, grabbed the mike and apologized to his fans for having wasted their hard-earned money on what in his mind must have been a fluke. By doing this he seemed to redeem himself in the eyes of the crowd. He was still their guy - outspoken, and defiant. The way the youth of Japan wished they could be, I suppose, in something other than hairdos and fashion.
Zaragoza's arm was raised, and the crowed began to file out. In the interest of self preservation I kept my eyes open for an enraged fan looking to get even, but no one took much notice of me. Most were looking down dejectedly.

After all was said and done, there wasn't much fallout to my sales due to the fight. Customers mentioned it, but they still placed orders. To some degree the publicity was helpful. I continued to make good inroads with contact sports in Japan, and quite a few of the local high school boxing teams wanted to outfit their teams due in part to the notoriety. Months passed and I didn't think much about the fight. Quite a spectacle, but not a seminal moment in my sales career.
In any event, I hadn't been a big Joe Tatsuyoshi fan, too flashy for my taste, and I didn't know much about Daniel Zaragoza, his career, or background. I carried on selling sporting goods and enjoying my life in Japan.

The next spring we decided to take a family vacation to the Big Island of Hawaii. We had been there before to enjoy the extremely diverse climate and terrain. Swimming and surfing on the beach one day could be followed by a visit to snow-capped Mauna Kea the next. After the 8 hour flight we arrived in Honolulu. We picked up our bags and got in line for customs. As I pushed the luggage cart forward a few feet at a time, I casually look to my left. There stood Daniel Zaragoza, with his wife and two young sons.

There was no mistake, and you couldn't miss him as a fighter. Nearly as tall as I at 5'10", with broad, athletic shoulders, yet the waist of a ballerina. I remember thinking,
How did he ever get down to the 122 lbs. bantamweight limit? He had a butterfly bandage over one eye, but otherwise looked no worse for wear. I wanted to tell him that I saw his fight in Yokohama the year before, but my Spanish is limited and he didn't speak English. He just nodded a smile and we shook hands. He had me shake hands with his boys too. I turned to my son George, who was eleven at the time and said,
"This is the champion of the world right here," Then Daniel reached over and shook his hand as well. What strange coincidence!

He was returning from beating Joe again in the rematch, this time by unanimous decision; and taking a much needed vacation with his family in Hawaii. I never told him that I had been in Joe's corner that night, at least in a small part. I recently read that Daniel had been inducted into the Boxing Hall of Fame for his three titles, his appearance in the Moscow Olympics, and many exciting fights over a twenty-year career.

This guy had lived and breathed boxing his whole life. His father had been a boxer and his brother had fought in the Mexico City Games. Daniel fought in Japan three times over his career, winning each time. Joe and the Japanese press never knew what hit them. I knew. This guy was tough. We had met.


(Special thanks to Mizuno Sports and Daniel Zaragoza)

A Night Life

Author's note:
As always, thank you for your interest. As I wrote in my previous post, I recently returned to Kyoto for the first time in 25+ years. It was in many ways just as I remembered it. What had changed more than anything was me. This time I came as a sightseer with a digital camera. Years ago when I walked the streets as a young zen acolyte, I had felt like just another part of the landscape. More than in any other large city in Japan, monks were a common sight. A young foreigner in a black robe seldom brought on a second glance.
The influence of Buddhism in Kyoto is certainly strong with many practicing monastery's as well as the famous tourist sites. Both can be inspirational to the visitor. But Kyoto is also the home of the Gion. The famous Geisha district from the Edo Period. I do not pretend to be an expert on Kyoto, or the Gion. The following is simply a story of experiences and impressions which I hope you will enjoy. I will add a followup story at a future date. Besides, it wouldn't be much fun if I didn't leave some of you hanging!

Gassho

A Night Life

Chapter I

I sat in the car and watched clouds roll down the distant mountains that surround the city. Spring had finally arrived on the Kansai Plain. Still, a few patches of snow could be seen on the northern hills looming above the old tile roof houses. My car was parked on a narrow street lined with small shops selling wares from shoes to groceries. A few blocks away was the outskirts of the Gion- the night district. I leaned back in the seat and watched the people passing by. As I looked down the street I saw her.
She was wearing a simple but elegant kimono and wooden sandals, and she looked as if she was headed to one of the Ochaya on the Gion. I watched as she picked her way through the maze of shoppers and children on the street.

A light rain began to fall and form beads of water on the windshield. After a moment I started the car, drove a few blocks stopping in front of a small cafe'. I could see her through the shop window. Her head delicately tilted to one side as she traced the streams of rain on the glass. I got out of the car, pulled up my collar up against the rain, and ran inside.
I shook the rain off my jacket and sat down across from the woman I'd seen on the street. The waitress brought ice water and set it down on the low glass table between us. She was having coffee. I ordered one also. We sat in silence as condensation from the sides of the glass began to form little pools of water on the table. Finally I volunteered,
"How is business at the club?" Now her face softened and she replied,
"It's slow during the evenings, but it usually gets busy after midnight." I nodded in reply.
Her name was Ami and seeing her again reminded me of how her face always looked a bit sad when she spoke even though her voice was warm and friendly. I had always believed that it was a mask worn to distance herself from the insane world around her. She, like many of the women who worked in the clubs tried to distance themselves from the corruption of the night world. I wondered if her efforts hadn't drawn her even more tightly into the swirl of pimps and hustlers, con-men, and yakuza. Yet she seemed so innocent so untouched and vulnerable, not the street-wise woman you would expect.
Her appearance reminded me of old 19th century photographs of geisha. Although the photographers of that day often photographed the women in comical posses, their sensuous beauty shown through nonetheless.
Geisha, so often misunderstood in the western world were actually master performers of traditional dance, music, and conversation. And while labeled as whores by non-Japanese, their approach to sex was more monk-like than anything resembling a prostitute. Unfortunately very few geisha still existed in Japan. The training too long and arduous and the devotion to the art too complete to attract to attract many modern women. Since this country had rebuilt and westernized, it was the women that worked in the night clubs on the neon strips who had replaced the geisha. Replace them not only in sheer numbers, but in the tastes of modern Japan. Nevertheless, these new-age geisha's resembled their predecessors in one undying way. And it was in that men who went into the clubs looking for quick pleasure usually left out of money and alone. For then , as now, the high prices that these skilled and sensuous women commanded were not for intimacy, but for the illusion of it. And Ami had that illusion, with subtle and unspoken allure. I often saw it in the way she walked, or the penetrating yet soft gaze of her eyes when she looked at me. Tragically, the night world used her and others like her to turn a profit. Used them to empty the wallets of men who couldn't afford it, but were willing to throw their money away just to catch a glimpse of intoxicating femininity. But Ami was not a geisha, nor had she ever been; though she was often mistaken for a veteran of the life. She had grown up around the Kyoto nightlife, and I suppose it was natural for her to have bought her own club when she learned the business. It wasn't a seedy club by any means. It was an upscale club for high-end clients. The ladies who worked there were sophisticated and drinks were expensive. Yet I sensed a dark undercurrent of organized crime behind the neon lights. There was just too much money changing hands for one small night club to escape attention. Whether it was protection money, or free entertainment, I was sure that an ante had to be paid. Ami denied it, of course, and she would say,
"You are a foreigner. You don't know how these things work." What I did know was that from the moment I walked in her place, I was way over my head.

Ami's voice brought me back to the present when she asked why I hadn't come by to see her for so long. I started to ramble on about how busy I'd been, but I stopped in mid-sentence when I saw her turn her head away and stare out at the wet street. We chatted for a few minutes more then she said,
"I'll be late for work," as she ran a finger along the seam of her kimono.
I noticed again her simple yet stunningly beautiful garment. A weave of golden threads running through a background of rich, yet subtle blue. The cloth virtually flowed around her accentuating the curves of her body and holding my eyes transfixed upon her.
"I'll drive you," I said.
"No, it's close, I'll walk." I didn't insist. I didn't feel that she was angry, or even irritated with me. I had gotten used to her lack of conversation when we were in public. I knew it was just her getting ready for work persona. She would transform into a flower of conversation when with her patrons at the club; though her private moments were spent in quiet.
After a moment she stood up and started for the door, then stopped, and put a hand on my shoulder.
"Won't you stop by the club tonight for me? I don't like the men that come by these days." I nodded a yes. Then she smiled and hurried off; her lacquered geta clattering lightly on the floor as she left. I watched as her small figure merged with the rush hour crowds scurrying to stay out of the rain. Her color and style a contrast to dark suits and black umbrellas on a street that payed no attention.
I wanted to see her again, but I knew I couldn't walk into her club and expect to talk to her alone; especially on a busy Saturday night. I wanted to drive up above the clouds to get out of the rain, and get away from the city and its people. I left the cafe', got in the car and waited through the rush hour traffic before finally driving out of the city and up into the foothills. By the time I got to the mountains the rain had stopped leaving a thick blanket of fog over the dark pine forests. When I arrived at the pass it was starting to get dark and the lights of Kyoto could be seen through the slowly lifting clouds. I pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out in the chilly air, and walked to the edge of the railing to look down upon the shimmering lights of the city. Memories of Ami came drifting up like a mist from the valley below.

Chapter 2

I first met her a few years before on a narrow backstreet in Kyoto. It was warm summer day and as I passed by a outdoor flower shop, I saw her kneeling beside a row of potted gardenias in bloom. I stopped and stood beside her, pretending to look at the flowers.

"I love the smell of gardenias, " she said, without looking up. At first I thought she was talking to herself, but then she looked up at me and smiled. Our eyes met and I felt the passion of her presence like a wave of warmth across my chest. I tried to speak but words suddenly seemed unimportant. All I wanted to do was listen.

"Their bloom is even more brilliant at night," she continued. I could add nothing. I knew she was the most sensual woman I had ever met. She stood to face me and a flower petal fell from her lap and fluttered to the ground. Later that night, I thought of how she was like the night flower as the moon shown onto her slender back while she lay asleep on the bed beside me.

I had forgotten how much I loved her. I hated thinking about all the customers she would entertain and all the lies they would tell about how affluent and influential they were. These men would pay for her attention and she would play along, or brush them off like dust depending on her mood. Although sincere and almost childlike when we were together, she was a master of manipulating men when she was working. Most men couldn't tell whether she truly cared about them, or if it was just an act. That, is what kept them coming back. My downfall was to have fallen in love with a woman who men couldn't resist being deceived by. I don't know why I had called her again after a year apart, then asking her to meet me at the cafe'. I wanted to hold her again and feel the simple touch of her fingertips on my arm. But there was so much baggage that went along with her choice of lifestyle and the people she associated with. Maybe I just wanted to be in her presence again? I got in the car and drove back down towards the city. I wanted to see her, but I didn't want to be treated like just another customer. Ami often treated me like a stranger when I had been at her club before. But I was driven to see her, so I decided to wait until shortly before closing time to go in. Maybe it would give me more time to be alone with her and convince her to go out with me after work.

I got to the club a little after one a.m. There were a few customers drinking with the girls of the club in the dimly lit corners of the bar. Through the cigarette haze I could see Ami with an older man. His tie was undone and he had his arm around her as she sat on the edge of the booth mixing drinks. As I walked by she said, "Welcome," as if we had never met. I started to wonder if I was making a mistake by coming to the club. I went up to the bar and ordered a brandy.

Ami came by to see me after awhile. She looked a little drunk, but she tried to hide it. It was near closing time and I asked her if she wanted to go someplace where we could talk. She said that she would like to, but someone was waiting for her out front.

"Who is it," I asked, but she brushed past me and began talking to one of the other women in the club. I was getting that same feeling of jealousy and frustration that had driven me away from her more than a year ago. Yet, just watching Ami move around the club straightening up and turning off lights, I knew that I wanted to be with her. Suddenly she walked up to me and said,

"Let's go." Now she was almost pushing me out of the club.

"I'll call a cab," she said as she led me to the door.

I stepped out to the dark street. The rain had come and gone leaving the oily, acrid smell of wet concrete and asphalt. The lock clicked shut in the door behind me. Now I wasn't sure if she was coming out. The street was deserted; no sign of anyone waiting for her. Standing on that empty sidewalk I felt as if I was waiting for a bus that would never come, on a line long since shutdown. Finally, the soft glow of cab lights came down the street and I raised my hand. The cab stopped and the door swung open, waiting. Ami came out the side door of the club. She asked if "he" was there.

"Who," I asked again, but she just looked around frantically and didn't answer me. I tried to get her in the cab, but she resisted.

"There he is," she mouthed. I looked in the direction of her gaze. Across the street in the shadows stood a man looking down at the ground. I felt as if I'd been watched the whole time. Of course, I knew there were others vying for her attention, but I had never seen one of her men so close, and now I was the one being watched. Ami hesitated briefly then shoved me into the cab and told the driver to go to an all-night piano bar on the other side of town. We fell together in the back seat. I needed to feel her warmth and closeness again. She pressed herself against me and kissed me passionately as city scenes rushed by the windows of the cab. Ami fell asleep in my arms as we drove on into the neon-lit night.

We had lived together once, but it was now more than a year since we had gone our separate ways. I often worried about her and the company she kept. So I had called her and we had met at the cafe'. Before our meeting I had rehearsed a speech on how I still cared for her and that I thought she should leave the club life. We would move to another city, start over, and have a life of our own. Yet when I saw her face and heard her voice again I knew it was hopeless. My will to persuade her was like the air rushing out of an over-inflated balloon. Numbed by her presence, I'd let her slip through the fingers of my life again.
I wanted her for my own, but I knew that was impossible. She had often broken dates to be with other men. Later when I'd ask her about it she would say,
"I thought you understood. That's part of running the club. They're important patrons, and I was just having a few drinks with them." Then she would be hurt and angry because I had mistrusted her. She was wrong about me though, I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand.
The taxi stopped suddenly and the automatic door swung open.
"Here we are," the driver said.
The piano bar was on the top floor of a tall, downtown office building. It was a trendy, elegant spot where a lot of club people hung out after hours. The tables were set against full-length windows to view the lights of the city. I was crowded and the host welcomed us as if it were early evening instead of three in the morning. Ami wanted to order drinks, but I told the waiter to bring coffee instead. Ami didn't put up a fight. Maybe she was too tired to protest. The red tail lights of taxis went back and forth on the street below. Some of them stopping in front of the all-night spots, while others drove on into the night.
I noticed that Ami had a ring on. She had never worn jewelery before, So I gestured towards the ring and asked if she was engaged now. She started to laugh then explained that one of her regular customers had given it to her. She had refused his proposal, but kept the ring anyway. She held it up for me to see.
"It's not a diamond, but I suppose it was expensive ," she said casually. The poor fellow probably loved her as hopelessly as I did, yet she flaunted his defeat by wearing the ring. Her callousness amazed me as much as her intriguing sensuality.
Ami stared to get sleepy and I decided it was time to get her home. She wanted to go to another night club. I told her that it would be morning soon and we should go home. She finally agreed. We caught a cab and I started to give the driver the address of Ami's apartment, but she insisted that we drive to my place first. I struck me that she might be living with someone, so I agreed even though it was out of her way and a long ride back alone. As we rode on she asked me to come by the club again next Saturday. She said she would finish early and she suggested that we go to an inn somewhere in the mountains. I couldn't tell if she was just leading me on again, or was sincere. Finally she made me promise to come by for her even though I knew it would never work out. I knew the scene, it had happened too many times before: I'd stop by the club and it would be full of customers. Ami would act as if she knew nothing of our date. And when I'd ask her she would say,
"Oh, was it tonight? we're awfully busy now let's make it some other time." So I promised her again, even though I was tired of playing the game.

The cab stopped in front of my danchi. Ami had lived there once. That all seemed so far away now. She pulled me close. No longer alluring, the image shattered by the smell of stale perfume and too many cigarettes.
"See you Saturday," she said with such conviction in her voice that I almost made up my mind to be there again. All I said was,
"Goodnight." The cab door closed and I watched the red tail lights drive on then out of sight down the street.

Chapter 3

I never stopped by the club that night, and I never heard from her. I went on with my work and I supposed she went on with her life of the night. On a Sunday morning after enough time had passed so that I wasn't sure anymore when the promised Saturday had been, I was drinking coffee and reading the Sunday paper in my apartment. It was a familiar name that froze me. The type read:

"Seiyama Ami, Gion nightclub owner, stabbed to death in her apartment. Suspect in custody is a male thirty-four years old. Unemployed. Thought to be a member of a Kansai crime family. Victim believed to have known suspect."

I dropped the paper and looked out at the morning city. I imagined Ami still sleeping on my shoulder, breathing softly with her hand on my chest. Now her life was no more than a few ink lines on the police blotter of another Saturday night. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. I smashed the coffee cup against the wall and watched in silence as blood and coffee dripped down the wall. I closed my eyes and envisioned a great fist of pain and malice rise up from the foul underworld and crush the dreams and passions of a woman named Ami. And the city stood by as that life was crushed and felt nothing.

In the autumn, I returned to the city and stopped by the cafe' that Ami and I used to visit. Snow began to fall and rush hour traffic jammed the roads. From across a familiar street, I saw a young woman wearing a light blue kimono trying to make her way through the throngs of commuters. I started to rise out of my chair for the resemblance was too great. Before I could take a step, she turned the corner and was gone.

© Copyright 2008 James Noah