Shohei Ohtani: Baseball's Most, Most Valuable Player

Shohei Ohtani.

Baseball’s first two-way player in a century.

In a sport landscape filled with players who are apparently “different,” Ohtani is caps lock DIFFERENT. The HIM of “Hims.”

Call him G.O.A.T.-ani.

Call him two goats.

Split him in two and he’d be worth two individual MVPs.

Break down his atoms and particles and they’d all be worth their weight in gold.

Condense his elite aura into fumes and he’d solve the global energy crisis.

That he even exists is provocative and downright offensive. What are all these other ballplayers even doing out there? Why can’t anyone else be more like him?

Who else is using half of the game to throw shutouts, and the other half to hit two homeruns?

Exactly no body. Count ‘em up.

Of course he’s the unanimous choice for MVP, for a second time. What the hell happened those non-MVP seasons? Sports writers were doing crazy non-paying attention, absent minded, feel sorry for everyone else voting. Of course he’s the MVP.

His yearly MVP coronation isn’t just an end-season award. It’s a state of being.

If Ohtani is breathing air in the vicinity of a ballpark, he’s the guy.

Create a fancy jewel-encrusted award for the runners up, because it’s not a fair comparison. There are other great, cool and elite baseball players in the game. But Ohtani is something more.

He makes your hyperbole sound like humility.

No matter what flowery, new age sports metaphors and clever wordplay you can come up with, you can’t encapsulate truthfully what Ohtani is doing.

We can’t even crack a proper metaphor on what he’s doing. It’s like if Pat Mahomes was leading the NFL in touchdowns and sacks? Maybe it’s similar to Michael Jordan when he was scoring champ AND defensive player of the year? Something like that, except Jordan was just doing his job. Ohtani is doing TWO JOBS at all-time levels, all of the time. You dig?

In video games and little league, Ohtani’s are aplenty. It’s backyard whiffle ball fun to do it all.

But that’s not how the gatekeepers, legion of lawyers, doctors and gods of baseball work.

The institution of baseball forces you to make a choice: Hit or pitch.

You are given permission to play in only one half of the game.

The scouts and coaches eventually make the choice for you. They pay you a stack to do one or the other. There is no multiple choice option. They whisper about “protecting their investment” and “reality.”

Until Ohtani. He’s the all of the above trick question of sports.

When he first announced his major league intentions after playing in Japan, he flexed and fronted that he’d only play for a team that let him do both.

Cute, they’d say. Let’s humor him, they’d say.

Maybe we’ll let him pitch out of the bullpen in the spring training, and then use him as a hitter only once the games start.

Or maybe we’ll make him our starting pitcher, and then use him to pinch hit once every ten games so he feels validated. He’ll grow out of this phase, they’d say.

Ohtani didn’t accept such shenanigans.

He demanded to be a proper two-way player in a traditional sport that only knew one way for 150 years.

Except a dude named Babe Ruth. He did both. A sepia toned, crusty century ago.

Then teams had to debate. Wait, is Shohei a better pitcher or hitter? What should we sign him as? What should we prioritize him as? How does he fit into our system?

His prodigious double talent forced the game of baseball to bend brains and inflexible “it’s always been that way” Hawaiian shirt wearing “baseball people” to learn all sorts of mental yoga positions. (sorry, not a pretty image)

Ohtani forced America’s longest running, most traditional sport to CHANGE.

When he touched down, he did it all. And people didn’t buy in. It won’t last—they said. What a lucky start—they said.

That was 2018. But the thing is, that lucky start has been going on for five years. A couple of MVPs later, we’re living in an alternate reality, where we’re being treated to regular shows of no one who is alive has ever seen incidents on the baseball field.

None of this was supposed to happen. The powers that be should have never allowed this. Players don’t get a choice. For a century, baseball ran the show. They told you how it was.

Now it flipped and Sho is The Show.

Baseball is a team game, but unique in that it puts individuals squarely in the spotlight. Ohtani is twisting all those spotlights to look at him, and casting a shadow over everyone else. And he’s doing it with no disrespect. In an era where players are running around and screaming about their personal narratives and how they are the greatest ever, Shohei Ohtani has a legit claim to all of that and he’s just sitting on his sofa high-fiving his dog.

Hashtag Wholesome.

Hashtag Whole Game.

Now we’ve all had some time to absorb what’s going on, but we still don’t know how to talk about. We don’t know how to properly hype what Ohtani is doing. His dramatic feats empty our heads and steal the words from our mouths.

It’s okay. Maybe we’ll be able to contextualize what’s going on later.

For now, just keep your eyes open and enjoy the show.

It’s historic goat level things that make sports real time historic drama like no others.

So let’s all mint nicknames, get hyped and enjoy the nightly goosebumps courtesy of Ohtani-san. Enjoy the ride as he smashes multiple balls into the cheap seats and dons his samurai helmet.

Baseball has never dreamed wilder or crazier than it’s doing with the career display the slugger slash hurler from the Rising Sun is putting on. These are competitive hallucinations made tangible. We’re living within the borders of a rare baseball card, surrounded by living, breathing golden baseball monuments.

And so we ride on, accelerating to an uncharted region on the sports map. It’s like learning that the world is round. And spinning like a baseball erupting from the hand or bat of Mr. Shohei Ohtani.

GAME 1: YOYOGI CROWS VS. BURNSIDE FREERANGERS

Sport returned last Friday night with an emphatic shot to the soul.

Out at Yoyogi Grounds, the polarizing baseball folk hero, Rockabilly, blasted a three-run home run against the visiting Burnside Freerangers, deep into the forests surrounding Meiji Shrine. Local baseball otaku are still scattered trying to track down the ball.

The soaring homerun was the highlight of the day, that saw sport returning to the world since nations around the globe have moved into lockdown. When asked if his play meant anything special during this moment of global uncertainty, Rockabilly simply said, “I’m not on Twitter.”

Rockabilly is a part of the legendary lineup of baseball’s known as the Yoyogi Crows. A baseball outfit with colossal ability. In this moment, their talent is only outstepped by the significance of existing as the only sport left on earth.

Against the dramatic premise, between the chalk lines, baseball remained the same. Steadily unfolding to the same rhythm it always has. Marking the times by not being changed by the passage of time. Mixing talent with luck. Elevating heroes and fitting others with goat horns.

THE CROWS BEAT THE BURNSIDE FREERANGERS 16-8

Meet Yojimbo

Yojimbo’s been hurling the rock since before they started keeping official records. According to rumor, he adds a new pitch to his repertoire every spring. Hitters should watch out for his unpredictable split-clawed slurve, unless they want to end up a new strike out meme. #yoyogicrows #baseball #japan

Annnnnnnddd Now.... Your Yoyogi Crows!

Sport may have paused around the world, but that hasn’t stopped the Yoyogi Crows from continuing their hardball dominance. Because the Crows are rebels—and they’re also a highly fictional motley crew of sandlotters. They’ll play nine innings against anyone foolish enough to cross over their chalk lines. For the Yoyogi Nine, hope never went anywhere. Play Ball!

Whether he’s moving up the middle to rob a base hit, or moving his hips to excite the tourists gathered outside of Yoyogi Park, Rockabilly always gives the people what they paid for—rock solid results.

The reliable veteran uses its triangular presence to anchor the diamond and provide leadership that results in constant digs and double plays.

Nothing cleans up the bases like this fully stocked Vending Machine loaded with energy drinks and Japanese performance enhancing elixirs.

Mamba Up

Kobe rose into our consciousness as I was in the middle of chasing my own athletic potential. And while I played basketball through high school, Kobe’s mentality and work ethic really touched my psyche as a baseball player. From high school to college to having a professional tryout as a pitcher, Kobe's mentality became a template for how I pursued and pushed my craft.  Being a Portland Trailblazer fan, it was a bit of an identity crisis to find myself respecting a Laker so highly—but his passion for training and pursuit of excellence was impossible not to respect. Kobe became my mental standard in how I looked at my preparations as a baseball player.

Watching Kobe and reading articles about his single-mindedness spurred me to compete at every phase of the game. Even in practice. Even in a “walk-through.” Even throwing into a net during an after practice session with no one looking on, I’d find myself thinking, how would Kobe approach this? It drove me to focus and compete for every moment. Every drill. To chase after every morsel of success. To stay hungry about proving myself. I also learned to never be satisfied. Even when the coach says “great job” or your teammates cheer your efforts, Kobe taught me to look inward and ask “was that really your best man?” Because of looking to how Kobe and Michael Jordan competed, I took a daily look at what I was doing.

In recent years, now that my on field days are through, I found myself connecting with Kobe again as a father of daughters. I respected and admired how he was passionate about his girls. How he shared his love of the game with them. And I was just inspired of that immense pride that came through when he would talk about them. Today I mourn the loss of Kobe, Gianna and the others lost. But I celebrate the inspiration, dedication and love that Kobe expressed and so freely shared with the world. The impact and lessons from his life and game will resonate forever.

Saturday with the National Pastime in Japan

Time was when baseball was the American pastime. It may still be in name, but recently football and basketball have broken away to the top of the American psyche. Baseball is still a major sport, but it no longer holds the urgent, most relevant place in the nation’s heart.

Hop the Pacific Ocean to Japan. Here, baseball has deep roots and a culture unto its own. The major leagues see the fruits of Japan’s baseball culture with the yearly all-world exports that come to America. The culture that is spawning these talented ballplayers runs deep. It’s baseball, but it’s also not an exact copy of the American version. It’s not even called baseball for starters. It’s YAKYU. It has its own rhythm, tradition and strict belief system born out of the Japanese spirit.

Japan has made the game of baseball their own. Transforming it into its national sport on its terms.

Baseball is everywhere. Walk down the streets any day of the week and you’ll notice packs of young ballplayers, in full uniform and helmets traveling around like rabid baseball gangs. With bat bags and gear in tow, they travel in full team packs. They head to and from practice. They stop and take shadow cuts in the alleys. They worship the game. A visual reminder of how pervasive the game is.

On the subways, people of all ages wear the hats of their favorite Japanese league teams. Young school kids hang stuffed team mascots from their backpacks. On game day, people will fully gear up in uniform, hat, holding tenants or plastic team bats. More baseball worship throughout the city.

On Saturdays, working men and women turn out to the local ballparks, in full uniform, to play the game. Here they use a rubber ball and sometimes play double or triple headers. These fully uniformed men and women, looking like pros, glide by on their bikes or scooters, racing to assemble at the fields. Many of them play for corporate, company sponsored teams. They play other companies. Coming together over baseball.

Locals stand and populate the bleachers, watching the hyper local leagues play their games. The talent level is amateur, but it’s full on baseball. Minus the hardball. But they keep at it, weekend after weekend. Holding onto the game in their way. Going through the routines. Swinging bats and limbering up before the game. Watching the previous game finish up. Communing with the gods of baseball. Or Yakyu rather.

In summer, the nation turns its psyche towards Koshien—the all Japan high school baseball tournament that dominates all media. Stars here become legends that endure for decades. Baseball in Japan rewards its followers with immortality.

As I pass by these Saturday games and observe them from the outside of the fence, I tip my cap to their diligent diamond worship. In a country where sport doesn’t hold the same cultural significance as it does in the west, there is something deeply significant with Japan’s connection to baseball. The inspiration and nostalgia moves me. All hail the national pastime. To Yakyu, the vehicle which transports the Japanese spirit. And every weekend, it gains a head of steam, rounds third and heads for home.

And Now... Your Yoyogi Crows!

From the Land of the Rising Heat

Roki Sasaki.

The next monster of one hundred years.

A spindly 16-year old who was born to hurl a baseball. To throw at blinding speeds. All of his long-limbed body folding and unfolding in proper timing and efficiency, to unleash a sonic boom with the snap of his right wrist. Eliciting oohs-and-ahhs with every blaze of glory. Poor high school hitters, trying to make sense of phenomenal warp speeds—fanning blindly at the gust of baseball wind rushing past them. Failing with the futility of trying to drink soup with a single chopstick. No chance in this world or any other.

It is the stuff of anime or manga lore. A Chosen Boy, rising to national prominence. The Japanese Dream. Gracing the nation’s newspapers. Dominating long segments of airtime on nightly primetime. Triggering the tweets of celebrities. A whole country in rapt attention of Sasaki’s mound exploits. If you’ve been following Japanese baseball for any amount of time, you know the cadence and intensity the country’s mainstream fervor burns with. You’ve experienced the hallowed tones used to speak of these myths who emerge from the depths of Japan. Splashing to the surface fully realized, heaven sent from the mountain top, into the spotlight of Japanese media hysteria. First there was Dice-K, then Darvish, then Ma-kun. All moving along the celestial baseball timeline. Now, here stands Roki Sasaki. Number one in your program. Number one trending topic.

There is an obvious innocence when you see Roki standing on the mound. He’s just doing what he’s done every day of his life. It’s impossible for him to know that the very axis of baseball power now spins around him like a tightly wound slider.

It’s impossible for him to know that a single speeding fastball from his fingertips, topping 100 mph cracks the earth to its very core. That it sends a tremor over land and cyber space. A single Sasaki pitch, in less than a second, travels the world. The smack of the catcher’s glove, mass broadcasting a clear message. Announcing a presence. A baseball Spector. A new man-child has awakened in Japan.

Ready your scouts.

Prepare your fanbases.

Notify your coaches. Ping the redditors. The hype is resonating. Empty your pockets and prepare your best offers. Work on your Japanese etiquette. For soon, baseball innocence will be ready for market. This innate ability is available to be bought and sold. This lively arm is ready to join the arms race immemorial between Yankees and would-be-Yankee-killers. Always just one mystical pitching arm away from tipping the balance of power in the baseball universe.

Roki knows not which chalk line he is drawing nearer every day. His moment of crossing is coming. The final inning change. Until then, the redditors are worm-holing deep into a wikipedia frenzy. The American sportswriters are firing up their mobile word processors. We’ve got a live one here boys. Hear that? That’s the sound of a thousand bloggers cueing up lofty think pieces lauding the modernity of American baseball’s reliance on science, and bashing the archaic ways of Japanese ball that would put young pitcher’s arm in danger through stoic, traditional overwork. For in Japan, pitchers throw everyday without mercy. Without rest. (And in the darkest parts of Japanese baseball, without water.) For here, pitch limits don’t exist and taking a starter out of a game is viewed as a sign of weakness.

Young Roki is sparkling culture shock in the sporting world. The presumptuous and stubborn East versus West debate. Old school versus new school. Wrong versus right. Crystalized through the lens of sport. One of the most rooted in tradition sports. Which has yielded vastly different mentalities and ballplayers on two sides of the world.

Young Roki? He’s just trying to climb to the top of Japanese baseball Mt. Everest. He stands now on a Mt. Fuji peak, ruling Japan, and looking to claim legitimate baseball immortality by powering his team all the way to the Koshien title. To win the national high school baseball tournament. For in Japan, this conquest carries a perpetual cultural royalty. It’s a deep sporting honor on par with rising to national fame during March Madness. Even millionaire Japanese MLB stars, like Dice-K and Darvish still speak in reverent tones about their time at Koshien. Considering it the crowning jewel of their careers. For better or worse, it’s all down hill from the cultural highs of Koshien.

Hence the intense burn. Hence the meteoric pitch counts. Hence the literal embrace of giving everything for the good of your team. It’s an iconic sacrifice that echoes the Japanese love of the collective. The country rallies around, imbuing itself with a self-confirmation of their national identity, holding a mirror up top who they really are, all by living vicariously through young sports stars in the national spotlight. Young icons who leave fleeting but indelible impressions on the psyche of a nation.

And so now, in this moment, the world turns to Roki Sasaki. It turns for Roki. For now he unwittingly shoulders the weight and soul of this island nation. Shoulders that are still developing, that are already capable of unusual feats of diamond magic and of turning the world’s head with the snap of a lethal, embarassment-wreaking breaking ball.

Enter Roki Sasaki.

The Ghosts of Baseball Past on an Unnamed Tokyo Alley

Doc Gooden

Doc Gooden by @oyldraws

Review: The Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience

Comedy trio Lonely Island has released a surprise “visual poem” in the style of Beyonce’s “Lemonade.” The object of the trio’s existential affection? The 1988 Oakland A’s super sluggers Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. The titular “Bash Brothers.” In 2005, Canseco released the bombshell memoir “Juiced” and quintessential tipping point document of the Steroid Era—calling out the names of dozens of major league steroid users. Loosely using the details from the book, Lonely Island reimagines Canseco and McGwire as a peak 80’s comedy duo. Andy Samberg stars as Jose, as Akiva Schaffer brings straight man “Mark” to life.  Overtly pumping steroids and weights, chasing babes and hitting bombs. The visual poem features liberal use of autotune and steroid shrinkage jokes, all set to License to Ill era Beastie Boys swagger. An extended playlist of all tracks from the visual poem are already available on Spotify.

The Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience feels like a good zone for Netflix originals. It flips a specific, one-off joke, and feeds it enough production budget to give it proper execution. There’s no need for a series, although following a “rap musical” version of the 1989 Oakland A’s does make an appealing pitch. As a pure, out of left field (er, maybe right field in this case?) piece of content, Bash Brothers hits it out of the park for 30 minutes of auto-tuned, 1980’s fever dream nostalgia. 

The Unauthorized Bash Brothers Experience is available to stream on Netflix.

Is This Heaven? No, It's Rural Japan...

Many moons ago, Nike was thinking about producing baseball gear and they brought me in to test their prototypes. I came into campus, took some BP, threw some long toss and gave detailed feedback about how I felt. A couple of weeks later, they’d make some tweaks and we’d do it again. It was a dream gig for a high schooler. After that, I continued pushing my baseball career until I eventually had a major league tryout as a pitcher. A few weeks ago I found myself on a pristine baseball field in rural Japan, shooting an amazing 15-year old female baseball pitcher for a Nike commercial. It was one of those Field of Dreams type moments of nostalgia where you think about the journey and are grateful for all the talented teammates you’ve been lucky to have along the way. Thank you to @atlasfoto for your eye and soul capturing this personal moment of reflection in the middle of our intense work grind.  ️