Archive for the 'Lessons' Category

Festival of Fools

Published by Bob Sanchez on February 13, 2008 in Lessons. 0 Comments

When there’s a festival within biking distance, KCTC will often ride to it and take a breather at the festival site. The Akiba Festival happens in mid-winter every year out by the Kochi-Ehime border, about 45 miles out of the city.

Four of us left the Bike Shop early and took a direct route while a larger group of gnarly bikers took the scenic route and departed at the regular time. The snails and I reached a dam and the rabbits met us there twenty minutes later.

We crossed over the dam and took the road less traveled. The national highway continued on the opposite side of the chasm, and we tottered along a bumpy one-lane road on our side. I marveled at how peaceful the scene was and nearly forgot that we were headed for a Japanese festival, which is anything but serene.

We passed through a tunnel and BOOM there was the line of cars and tour buses. The climb began and bikes and cars alike struggled up the steep incline that showed no signs of evening out.

There was barely enough room for both bikes and cars, and tree roots caused many bottlenecks. Drivers glared and honked pointlessly as they squeezed past us. Loud noises rile me up, and there’s no quicker way to get me to explode than to ram something obvious into my ears at a high volume.

Add to this mounting frustration the double-digit grade and lack of turnouts, and you have a very unhappy Mac. I had no choice but to keep going because there was no room to stop. Dead tired and about ready to blow my stack at the idiots laying on their horns, a pile of leaves off the road finally offered sweet respite. But not before I emptied my lungs into the gorge.

I peered up the jagged rock before me and saw a parking lot, but I’ve seen enough mountain roads here to know that that was just Lot 1 of countless lots to come, each with about five parking spaces. This precarious, aggravating mountain hell was never going to end!

It finally did, and I’m not sure exactly how. Memories have been erased for my protection, I’m sure. The Bike Shops’ van was parked in Lot 58 or thereabouts, and I slowly changed into streetclothes. My hands were numb and my fingers useless. It’s something I’m coming to hate about the cold - my hands don’t work very well and when my fingers slip or miss whatever I’m aiming for and hit something else, it hurts like hell!

We were so far away from the festival that we had to bike there from the van. I put my gripes about Japanese festivals in my back pocket and rode along, feeling very naked without my helmet. We dodged pedestrians the whole way and passed two or three lines of people waiting for shuttles to take them up the mountain. The number of people, the lack of space, and the steepness of the walls of the canyon made the situation ridiculous.

We left our bikes in a drainage ditch and watched as a procession of colorfully-dressed children walked by. One boy was playing a little theme on a wooden flute and a couple of others beat drums. A man in a red demon mask followed in the back carrying what looked like a gigantic house duster. It was a yellow, 30-foot stick with a bunch of black feathers sticking out of the top, and that stick appeared to be the focal point of this festival.

We followed the kids to a large performance area that looked like it could be terraced rice fields the other 365 days of the year. Each level was PACKED with people and every third person had a camera. I don’t mean cell phones or cute little digital cameras, I mean telescopic lens, crosshares, that KASHINK!!! shutter sound, the works.

Many of these amateur photographers were so focused on their snapshots that they took a step or were pushed right over the edge of the terraces. At least half of the people in the crowd were older than 60, and everyone that took a spill before my eyes belonged to that group.

The men in demon masks started to play catch with the big yellow stick, and when one would catch it and work against the momentum, the stick bent so much that the feather duster touched people in the crowd.

The moves got trickier and one demon tried to make a diving catch of the stick only to miss and go toppling over a terrace edge and into a pile of brush. All of his weight was concentrated over his right shoulder, which popped out of the socket and caused him visible pain.

The crowd laughed. They laughed! They were entertained by this! I held back for a few seconds, thinking that perhaps it was scripted and that a demon in pain was some way to symbolically chase winter away and welcome spring.

The guy didn’t get up and started kicking his legs and pounding on the ground with his good arm. The crowd continued to roar.

That cut me off from reality. I felt like I was watching the whole thing from a theater. What would make people cram themselves into a perilous chasm stacked with shaky, unlevel terrain and laugh at someone else’s misfortune?

Few times in my life had I felt so disconnected from everything in front of me. My body was there, but I was not a part of any of it - the honking, shoving, and elbowing up the mountain. The price-gouging at the food booths. The risking of life and limb for the same photograph you could get on a postcard for 30 yen. Celebrating somebody’s agony.

Mob mentality is not unique to Japan, nor do I think what happened on the hill constituted it. However, I don’t understand why people like being a part of the crowd. I can’t comprehend what is enjoyable about doing what everybody else is doing to the point of personal discomfort and loss of principles.

The scene at this winter festival was chaos and madness. I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to escape, but freedom was not forthcoming; we would have to endure everything again on the way down the mountain.

I have never done well with crowds, but it seems especially bad for me in Japan. I recall sitting in a car in a riverbed waiting two hours to move, let alone get out, after a summer fireworks show in Fukushima. I had to physically rough some people up to escape from a huge music festival in Ibaraki last summer.

What is it about gigantic events that appeals to people? Perhaps it comes from watching hordes of people pass through the gates of Disneyland as a youngster, but I have an extreme aversion to being one of the paying suckers.

Japanese people seem to enjoy this situation by and large, although I know this kind of thing goes on at every rock concert and political demonstration across the globe. However, it’s one thing that will continue to stand between me and total understanding.

Retirement

Published by Bob Sanchez on December 9, 2007 in Lessons. 0 Comments

It has been eight years since I abandoned my dream to play professional baseball, and I have finally accepted that decision completely.

I knew that I would never wear the jersey of an MLB club or appear in a starting lineup as soon as I gave up the dream. However, peace with that decision has come in waves, the last of which happened last weekend.

My school hosted a teachers’ volleyball tournament, and when the volleyball coach heard that I used to play in Fukushima, he asked me to join in. Volleyball captivated me in college and I really enjoyed playing, so I accepted the offer.

We practiced after school every day in the week before the tournament, and the coach put me on the B team as the middle blocker. It was supposed to be a friendly tournament, but the B team was trying to run plays and I had never played in the middle before, so I didn’t know what I was doing and we didn’t mesh well at all.

The brackets sacrificed us to another school’s A team, and the match looked every bit of it after five minutes of “play.” Who am I kidding, it didn’t even look like volleyball. We were down 15-1 and hadn’t even rotated once. We couldn’t pass, we couldn’t attack, we couldn’t block, and I was absolutely no help.

I can’t imagine that anybody on either team was having fun. It was embarrassing and I was doing my best not to show how frustrated I was. Then came a chance - I got a great set and pounded it down for our second point.

FREEEEEEEEET!!!!

The whistle blew and the tower ref gently touched the net on our side. I had touched the net on my downswing and the point went to the ringers on the other side of the tape.

I blew up at the ref, “Look at the scoreboard! We’re losing by 15 points! What kind of call is that?” My teammates rushed to get between the tower and me and told me to calm down.

Speaking objectively, I had gained no advantage by touching the net; I hadn’t pulled it down to spike someone in the face. Given the situation, the ref making that call would be akin to an ump squeezing the strike zone in a blowout baseball game.

But for me to say what I said and point the finger at the ref is a decidedly more serious offense in Japan than it would be in the States. I knew it, but I had reached my boiling point and had to let some of it go.

I went up for a joust on the very next play and pulled back, apprehensive and thinking about the damn net. I ended up with my whole arm in one of the squares this time and brought the net down with me for an obvious net violation.

I was seeing red as I growled and ripped my arm out of the net. I stalked off the court and pointed at our sub: “Get in there! I can’t take any more of this! This is ridiculous!”

None of this looked especially great considering that I was wearing a jersey with my school’s name on it in my school’s gym. The rest of the team played on and lost Game 1, and we had to go out for the ritual of Game 2. I didn’t want to go out there, but knew that it wouldn’t look good to sit out and pout.

I didn’t bother blocking or attacking at all, I just did what I could to keep the ball in the air. That A Team purposely kept it close, which put me in an awkward position. I was really trying not to care and let it be “just a game,” but I didn’t want there to be a Game 3 just for the sake of sportsmanship. I served the ball into the net to lose it, 28-30.

The baseball coach chewed me out after the game: “This is a FRIENDSHIP tournament, Mac! FRIENDSHIP! There’s no reason to get all excited!”

I failed and still fail to see what is friendly about a single-elimination tournament complete with refs, line judges, and scoreboards. When I saw the attackers’ faces as they went up to the net, I sure didn’t feel friendly vibes.

It’s no secret that I have and have always had a problem with competition. I came to understand it a step at a time, to the point where I could finally concede that getting worked up over a round of golf or a blacktop basketball game was foolish. But, when tested enough, I still caved.

Most of it is me expecting myself to do well. I studied volleyball in college, both in theory and action. I played once a week in Fukushima. I expected to pass and attack correctly with just a bit of rust when I stepped on the court.

I have these expectations because I started with nothing in baseball and got to a decent level through practice and study. As a player, baseball teased me with small successes and I chased the carrot every time. Staying after practice for an extra bucket of ground balls and heading to the batting cage during lunch had an effect on my performance.

So I expected to learn how to do athletic stuff with my body through practice like this, even though I have not devoted the same amount of time or effort to any other sport. About a year ago, I accepted that I am not a professional athlete and that it is ridiculous to expect anything close to that level out of my body with respect to any sport.

The volleyball outburst showed me that there is something deeply wrong with me when the whistle blows and I’m between the lines. Something about doing well in athletics that is inseparable from my soul. Something that says I’m not telling the truth when I say that this is the last meltdown.

And so, I am finished with physical competition. I would love to throw the football around or go to the driving range, but if there’s a scoreboard or an official, no thanks. If we are truly out there to have fun, we don’t need a prize or a bracket or someone wearing stripes.

All we need is a ball and a stick…

Shut Up and Follow Me

Published by Bob Sanchez on November 27, 2007 in Lessons. 0 Comments

I’ve been single for a month now and really haven’t had to talk about it too much. I made announcements to my family and a few close friends and I suppose the rest has taken care of itself.

Either that or I don’t know very many people.

One person on the short list is Mr. Futon Shop, the guy down the street who sold me a spare futon and an autumn blanket about a week before the breakup. He’s a loud fella with a few gold teeth and kinky salt-and-pepper hair that he wears in pompadour. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a Japanese ‘fro.

He didn’t know anything about my ex, but she came to visit last month and we were spotted by MRS. Futon Shop while walking around town.

A few weeks of work and gossip later, I strolled over to Mr. Futon Shop’s to see if he could recommend a tailor to me, as I needed a pair of pants hemmed. I barely got “Please excuse me for intruding and barging into your fine Futon Shop, Mr. Futon Shop” out of my mouth when he bellowed,

“Oh, Mac! Who’s this dish you were walking around town with? NOW I know why you needed an extra futon! Eh? Eh? Am I right?”

I was quite unprepared to talk about the situation in Japanese, but I thought it might be good to practice on someone who probably didn’t care all that much. That was a miscalculation, but I proceeded to tell him that we had broken up.

We did it mostly because our lives are heading in different directions and are showing no signs of getting any closer. We had been long-distance for over two years and needed to focus on our own stuff.

In response to this careful and thoughtful explanation, I got a gruff,

“Bah! You know what you should’ve done? You shoulda said, ‘Shut up and follow me wherever I go!’ I said that to Mrs. Futon Shop and look at us!”

Keep in mind that fifty to sixty seconds before this, I was thinking about a pair of pants that was an inch too long.

I’m not sure how long it would’ve taken me to fashion any kind of answer to this staggeringly 1950s comment, but I didn’t have to worry because a gentle voice came out from behind a stack of futon blankets to my left:

“Ohhh, Mr. Futon Shop, kids these days don’t think like that. Times are different and talking like that would never work.”

I hadn’t even seen the little old man in his seventies seated casually on a chair against the wall.

His eyebrows were easily as wide as his face, and thus he became Mr. Eyebrows. He didn’t have the look of a customer waiting for his futon mattress to be cleaned or repaired, and a quick glance at the table next to him revealed a cup of tea on a saucer.

“What are you talking about? There comes a time when a man’s gotta take charge!” Mr. Futon Shop bristled.

Mr. Eyebrows held up a long, bony hand and cooed, “Now, Mr. Futon Shop, this kid is a foreigner and we don’t know what in the world he thinks. Plus, kids these days aren’t rushing into marriage.”

The conversation that followed was as could be expected between two older guys talking to a young man about settling down and getting married. There were a few more “If you really loved her”s from Mr. Futon Shop and some insightful comments from Mr. Eyebrows, and I threw in a word or two here and there.

The topic went to my job, and I expressed my concern that I could be sent anywhere in the world to do my job and that I would gladly go, but that I didn’t want to uproot someone else each time that happened.

My final words were, “I just don’t know where I will be sent or what will happen.”

Mr. Eyebrows furrowed his brow, which must have taken some special muscles that I don’t know about. His coal-black eyes peered out from beneath his gigantic yet well-maintained eyebrows.

“Nobody knows that, son.”

I often get to thinking that whatever business or conversations I conduct in Japanese take place in some kind of different dimension and that everything is separate from my “real” consciousness in English. There are many differences between the languages that are better off forgotten when the conversation is happening in one language or the other.

Then a topic like this comes along, and I’m struck by how similarly it unfolds. Aside from being completely blown away by the “shut up and follow me” blast from the past, this could’ve happened at a doctor’s office or a barber shop in the States.

And when Mr. Eyebrows unloaded that gem on me, I was overcome with a feeling that this conversation counted. It didn’t fit into the Japanese file or the American file, this was a truth about life that transcended language and culture.

Yes, I honestly thought that most other people have stability and don’t worry about the future the way that I do. I get caught in my own little cloud and forget that there are six billion other people on the planet who have a lot of the same concerns.

The Fastest Biker in Kochi

Published by Bob Sanchez on September 29, 2007 in Bike and Lessons. 0 Comments

I think I’m a serious biker.

Come on, I rode 15 miles a day in Hawaii going to and from work at sunrise and sunset. I haven’t owned a car since I graduated from high school and have only driven in one of the past six years. I have big, strong legs and I use them to ride as fast as I can. I’m gnarly and I’m faster than you.

I needed a new horse in Kochi, so I visited the bike shops in my area only to find that none of them had frames in my size. One kind gentleman pointed me in the direction of The Bike Shop, about two miles away from my apartment.

I located The Bike Shop and passed through the narrow door into a cramped, crowded room jam-packed with bicycles and accessories. Bikes hung from the ceiling and leaned against walls and display stands. Spare inner tubes peeked out from behind a rack overflowing with helmets.

I had to wade through bicycles to get to the back wall where a woman studied gloves and jersies with a pair of reading glasses. She had dark, leathery skin and a hawk nose, and she looked up when I said, “Excuse me, I’m looking for a bike.”

Looking into her face for the first time, I was struck by how much she reminded me of Santa Barbara volleyball legend Kathy Gregory, albeit a Japanese version. Something about this woman said, “Trust me, I know bikes” in the same powerful way that volleyball knowledge emanated from Coach Gregory.

I told her what I was looking for: something sturdy and smooth, but cheap. Something that I could tour the area with but wouldn’t set me back six months’ pay. Most of the price tags in the shop had more zeroes than I was thinking about, and I was fairly certain that I wasn’t going to come away from The Bike Shop with a new ride.

Mrs. Bike Shop worked on me and had me deciding between a $400 hybrid with fenders and a $700 road bike that looked much too serious for me. I deliberated a bit before going with the hybrid because it looked like other bikes that I had enjoyed riding in the past.

It’s the best bike I’ve ever had. It’s also the worst bike in the Kochi Cyclists’ Touring Club.

I joined KCTC after exploring Kochi on my own for about two weeks. I awoke every morning at 5:30 and rode up and down the coast on relatively flat terrain. I zoomed through the city streets to get to the beach, sure that I was the fastest thing ever to spin two pedals.

On my way back home from these rides, I’d pass junior high and high school students with their heads down, slowly wheeling their way to whichever gulag their uniforms represented. And I laughed. Look at me, I’m going three times as fast as you are. I’ll be shat, showered, and shorn before you can even sniff the school gates.

Obviously, this much biking prowess needed another outlet, so I asked Mrs. Bike Shop about the club and she invited me out for the next Sunday Ride.

I showed up in my baseball shorts with an athletic pullover, running shoes, a helmet and cool gloves.

Everyone else had a fancy road bike with super skinny wheels, proper biking attire including clip-on shoes, spare tires and pumps attached to their bikes, and two water bottle racks each. I had a bottle of water in a bag tied to my rear rack.

So at first glance, I knew I’d be spending time catching up. But most of the members were middle-aged and I thought I stood a decent chance of hanging with them.

WRONG. Mrs. Bike Shop called everyone together and said, “OK, today we’re going up Mountain X and then down to Valley Y. The distance isn’t there today, but it’s so damn hot that we’re going someplace cool.”

I had never been up a mountain on a bike, but I was ready to give it a try. We sped off (rather, they sped off) toward the mountain. We followed Mirror River, which passes through downtown Kochi, to its source and it was just gorgeous. I wanted to jump off my bike and go for a swim.

Fishermen and farmers were out doing their thing along the way, and green overflowed from every hillside and riverbank.

I reached the first rest stop just two minutes before the rest of the bikers were ready to continue the climb. There were so many switchbacks that I lost count, and at one point I decided that I could only handle three more before I would have to take an unscheduled break and fall further behind.

Luckily, the next one was the peak. I don’t think I’ve ever gone as fast on a bike as I did going down that mountain. I caught up with the pack going down, and it was thrilling to be in line with them, zooming past townsfolk and cars alike.

We got to a city-looking area, and it was the city to the east of Kochi. I figured we’d head back to The Bike Shop then, and I was very already patting myself on the back for making it the whole way. The leader made a quick right and we were off through a valley full of rice fields and little two-story houses.

There was enough of an incline that I got tired and started seeing spots, so I pulled over to the side and rested for a few minutes. I got back on and arrived at an intersection where Mr. Bike Shop waited patiently.

To the left was an unfinished tunnel. To the right, more valley. Ahead was a rather sketchy-looking tree-shrouded road that went straight up.

Mr. Bike Shop grinned and delivered what I would come to know as his Gem of the Day, a phrase in English so simple yet so appropriate:

“From here, four kilometers UP!”

I made it about a mile into the crooked, thin road up the mountain and almost passed out. I had to get off the bike and rest for about 10 minutes. I felt bad that Mr. Bike Shop had waited for me, but I just had no energy left. I had used up even my fumes.

I walked the bike the rest of the way up where a few bikers were waiting. We rode down, and it was fun, but I felt like I hadn’t earned it and deserved to walk the bike down.

Everyone was waiting midway down the mountain at a fork in the road. Mrs. Bike Shop (the only woman in the club) said, “Come on, Mac! We’re going back to The Bike Shop,” while everyone else tackled mountain number three.

I felt like a little baby for about five seconds until I was hit by THE MOST INCREDIBLE VIEW EVER. Kochi City splayed out beneath me - rivers, trees, buildings, hills, and the Pacific Ocean off in the distance. It was just fantastic, and the road down into the city was fun, too.

Mrs. Bike Shop said I could go home, but I wanted to be at The Bike Shop when everyone got back so I could pick up some words and maybe some tips about biking. I was dead tired, but I liked the challenge and was glad that I went back to the store.

I found out that the leader had won the 45-49 age group bike marathon weeks earlier as well as several other races, so I didn’t feel so bad.

Mrs. Bike Shop said that I had gone 40 miles and that my slowness was due to my bike as much as it was to my shape and inexperience. I was willing to say 70-30 in favor of me just stinking, but it would be nifty to try one of those road bikes just once.

In sum, I got smoked. Creamed. Whipped. Taken to school.

I thought I was a serious biker.

A Life Invested

Published by Bob Sanchez on July 1, 2007 in Lessons. 0 Comments

I had the unique opportunity this spring to intern in the Seattle Mariners Scouting Department for ten weeks. I made my living arrangement via craigslist, budgeted some money, and prepared to live, learn, and work without pay in a strange new place.

Lessons were many and close together (the opposite of few and far between), but I had a few favorites.

One of the main Baseball Operations executives, a 28-year veteran of the business, summed up the front office in a more interesting way than anyone else.

He said that 90% of the employees are fans - they want the Mariners to win, but they will continue hiring, firing, adding, subtracting, copying, faxing, emailing, lunching, and vacationing no matter how the Mariners do.

The other 10% are putting their careers and reputations on the line every day and night, with every trade and contract extension, with every press release and interview.  These are the people that I worked with.  They are not there to do a good job, they are there to win.

When their efforts produce victories, the mood is pleasant and times are great. When everything they’ve done results in failure, objects fly through the air or are otherwise destroyed and the atmosphere is gloomy and threatening.

Thanks to this conversation, I was able to better understand what was really happening while the big boys were upending popcorn boxes and smashing crackers when the Mariners weren’t playing well. They’re deeply invested in the fortune of the team and the bottom line. I wasn’t able to put it together myself because I was invested in myself!

When I began writing letters to the HR departments of all 30 MLB organizations four years ago, I wanted to do anything to get in the game. I didn’t realize that these franchises are businesses with all of the moving parts of other businesses that I’m not interested in.

Now, having been inside of one for a couple of months, I know that I want to be invested in somebody’s well-being, whether it’s one club, one professional circuit, or, ideally, the game of baseball itself.