Play Mutton Leg, Man....

We thought we were the pioneers. As kids, we "war babies" rode the wave of that new music--that thang they call rock and roll--as it first blared out of little transistor radios on the beach. Or from cars that looked like big sharks with huge fins and grinning chrome mouths. Those of us who remember that first "Sh-Boom, Sh-Boom," that "Sha-la-la," or THE Chuck Berry lick, had no idea at the time but we were listening to Volume 1 of the sound track of our lives. All we knew was our parents hated it so it must be good and as Danny and the Juniors once put it, "Rock and roll will always be, it will never die. It'll go down in history though I don't know why. I don't care what people say, rock and roll is here to stay...."

Of course we thought we were here to stay too. We entered our teens so proud that WE were the generation that had discovered sex and drugs in addition to rock and roll. Okay, so we were a little late to the party on the first two but you've got to give us the third. Rock and roll WAS here to stay. That music took over our lives as soon as we heard it. I remember an elementary school assembly in 4th grade when my entire row started singing "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog..." in our little squeaky voices as a rather bewildered-looking principal at the podium and our teachers glared, motioning fiercely for us to quiet down. I don't think we planned it; I think it just happened, a spontaneous outpouring of an anthem that said, we can do whatever we want and you can't stop us now....

As I descended into "real" life from the heights of adolescence I never could get this music out of my head, especially the ballads, Dream, Donna, Lonesome town, Love Letters in the Sand and of course the Doo Wop--In the Still of the Night with that seminal sax solo--and Maybe, that piercing wail by a teenaged girl that broke your heart even though it had never had a crack in it before; and Dion and the Belmonts, Roy Orbison, and American Bandstand with Dick Clark before all of that hideous plastic surgery, and The Locomotion, the Twist, Motown, Marvin, Aretha, Temps, etc. backed by the greatest R&B musicians in the history of the world, and then in 1963 the British Invasion, the Beatles, the Stones, their wannabes and then the birth of the Monster guitarists, Clapton, Hendrix, Beck, Richards, and then an ocean and a continent away in California the aching sweetness of the Beach Boys, the Byrds and Janis and the Dead and the Airplane and Neil Young and back in New York near my high school, the Village "folk" scene--Bob Dylan, Phil Ochs, Dave Van Ronk, Eric Anderson....

Way before all that I went to camp. I was 10 and played a little guitar around campfires sometimes trying out some Elvis tunes much to the delight of my snickering friends and the younger counselors. About a week into the summer I was leaving the dining hall heading towards pottery or whatever activity they had planned for us that evening when a magical sound floated from the back behind the kitchen. I didn't know it at the time but I had heard my Pied Piper. I asked my mates to tell the counselors I was back at the bunkhouse and wandered back behind the kitchen to see what was going on.

There was the camp cook, Johnny, a guy from Harlem. He was smoking a cigarette, sipping a Rhinegold and around his neck was the most startling thing I had ever seen--a golden alto saxophone. Johnny had always been friendly, giving us little winks and smiles as we watched him dish up his camp stews and stir the "bug juice" they gave us to drink. Sure enough he grinned, put down his cigarette, and started to play some jazz on that saxophone. He had a big wet growly sound. Maybe he was a player in New York cooking during the summers to make ends meet. But I wouldn't have thought that at the time since I knew nothing about anything. All I knew was I was going to stay there until night fell listening to him as he played what I later realized were be-bop licks and jazz standards like Misty, Autumn Leaves, Satin Doll.... I came back the following evening after dinner and since it was a reasonable camp, the counselors, seeing no harm in this, let hanging out with Johnny be MY evening activity more often than not.

A few days into it Johnny asked me if I wanted to blow the horn. I remember being a little scared as he strapped the shiny thing on my scrawny little neck and, my Jewish heritage never too far beneath the surface, I wished I had my own mouthpiece when I took that first tentative bite because his was wet with spit, but you want to play saxophone, you do anything to play saxophone. That night with a lot of patient coaching from Johnny I did get a sound out of that big golden horn. Every available evening after that (when we didn't have a hay ride or trip to a Pennsylvania Dutch fair) I would go behind the kitchen and try to learn how to coax notes out of Johnny's saxophone. He'd sit back in his chair as the evening sun went down, smoking and drinking his beer and in a few days he had taught me to play Mutton Leg, a simple blues lick. But my grand project was learning to play what was at the time my favorite Top Forty song....

Love Letters in the Sand by (God help me...) Pat Boone, with the bow tie and the two-tone shoes. My goal was to get it into a condition reasonable enough to perform at the talent show on Parents' Day at the end of the summer. I couldn't read music at the time and had to learn the song by ear, which in retrospect probably was good for me long-term, but which, alas, resulted in a gruesome performance at the show during which I actually halted mid-way through that tricky bridge in desperate confusion. The assembled parents were averting their eyes while mine were starting to blur. Up jumped Johnny in his white cook's outfit from the audience. He sauntered to the stage and said, "My friend Kenny is learning the saxophone and it's not easy but he's going to start again now...." I looked up at him smiling down and he said in his quiet voice, "Play Mutton Leg, man..."

When you can't do what you want to do, you do what you can do. So I did...with Johnny clapping rhythm behind me. I left the stage glowing like the golden sax around my neck, walking next to a horn player from New York whom I would never see again....

This is not an autobiography, only a hazy memory. Now, looking back at more than 50 years of playing this rock and roll music I never cease to be amazed how to this day I am still shattered by the sound of it....the Chantels--teenagers forever like those on Keats' Grecian Urn--crying "Maybe...." or the way those early Beach Boys harmonies still conjure up driving to Jones Beach in a convertible in high school.... "Round round get around I get around, get around round round I get around...."

I'm gray now but I still perform in bar bands a few nights a week playing some jazz but mostly rock and roll songs written by teenagers for teenagers. Sometimes I wonder if my love for this music hasn't teetered into a grotesque parody. Should a 63 year old man still be singing "Gimme some lovin' you got-ta gimme some lovin' " in public? Is this a good thing? Isn't there something at least vaguely pathetic about someone my age prancing around with a tambourine in the corner of a country bar shouting, "This could be the last time, this could be the last time...." Have I become that "poor little fool" I sing about in the Ricky Nelson song?

But it has slowly dawned on me that we will never stop singing these songs. Because the ones that were once about teenaged girls are now about something else we have lost. Now the one we yearn for is not a beautiful girl...it is our youth. War babies seeking our lost youth in vain. And today when I sing an early Beach Boys song it's suddenly a sky blue Saturday on the Saw Mill River Parkway in a gun-metal gray Chevy convertible. My best friend is driving. Two pretty girls are in the back seat separated by my guitar. There's a cooler full of illicit beer in the trunk, the radio is blaring, our hair is flying in the wind and we're on the way to Jones beach...during a summer that seems as if it will never end....

Alas, while it has become starkly apparent that, unlike rock and roll, we are NOT here to stay some of us did actually turn out to be pioneers if only because nobody in the history of the world has ever lived this long still singing rock and roll songs...nobody. Some of us have been playing this music for more than half a century. We're still younger than the Rolling Stones and we have even developed a new venue for our sacred music--long-term care facilities!

Let's get this party started....

SUMO: The Original Japanese Baseball

Kaioo has got to be roiling inside though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Sumo wrestlers have elevated impassivity to an art form. He has lost the day before and if he doesn’t win his match today, his chances to triumph in the first National sumo tournament of 2002 are virtually extinct. He is squatting on his haunches, one fist on the sand of the ring waiting for his opponent’s fist to touch which signals the beginning of the fight. Kaioo has a strangely kind face and reputedly the strongest hands of any sumo wrestler at present. He does more than 50 push-ups several times during his daily three-hour workouts and he practices his face thrusts by slamming his palms as hard as he can into telephone polls. Yet he is so flexible he can do a full split. And when he isn’t exercising, he is eating or sleeping… exorbitantly. Kaioo weighs more than 400 pounds.

Kaioo is facing Purple. Not knowing the names of most of sumo wrestlers, I identify them by the color of their mawashi, a silken loin cloth. The mawashi has two purposes: first, it obscures the wrestler’s full glory, but perhaps more important, grasping the mawashi is a critical strategic objective. Imagine wrestling someone and you are both wearing belts. If you can grab hold of the other person’s belt you gain an instant competitive advantage, a handle (literally) on the other person’s center of gravity. If you can obtain that, I’m betting on you. Otherwise the wrestler’s only adornment is their long black hair pulled back and tied to form a ginko leaf at the top of their massive heads. One of the many wonders of sumo for me is that I have never seen a mawashi come undone (Thank God for that) even as it is pulled and jerked by people as strong as Kaioo….

There are six national sumo tournaments a year, each taking 15 days, and then a roughly 6 week hiatus in between each one. The tournaments are all held in the Ryogoku Kokugikan an indoor sumo hall in Tokyo. VERY briefly, there are 1000 sumo wrestlers in the game at any given moment and they all are ranked according to how they perform in the tournaments. Each is ranked in one of 11 descending divisions. I’m not sure how many divisions actually participate in the national tournaments but the following definitely do:

• Yokozuna (there are only 2 currently and both were hurt this time, so we’ll bid them adieu for now but they’ll both be back for the mid-March meeting.)
• Ozeki (there are only 5 at present; each one has to have won at least one tournament and perform well in all the current ones or he is dropped back down to:
• Sekiwake, Komusubi and Maegashira divisions.

The ring in which these people fight is a two-foot high, 18 x 18 foot square mound of clay covered with a thin layer of sand. Unlike a western boxing ring, the fighting area is round and there are no ropes. When one of these guys is thrown hard out of the ring—which is circled by a heavy straw rope--there is nowhere to go but into the crowd two feet below and about 4 feet from the ring. It’s hard to understand WHY people want to sit in the first few rows unless they thrill to the prospect of several hundreds pounds of sweaty flesh coming down in their laps or on their heads. It is apparently lucky to touch a sumo wrestler, but, c’mon! And they do go into the first few rows frequently, the most exciting matches being the ones in which both men are going out at the same time, flying through the air locked in bear hugs or still flailing at each other….

There are something like 70 definable sumo “moves,” most of which mirror various judo techniques, other forms of wrestling or boxing, but with open hands. The ONLY rule is no fists (well, no hair pulling, biting, or scratching either.) Otherwise, if it works, do it. One of the most fearsome opening techniques is face slapping or palm thrusting to the chin. These guys hit each other as hard they can but with open hands, the scariest technique being the throat thrust. Spread your thumb and forefinger as wide apart as possible and imagine throwing it as hard as you can into someone’s throat. These guys do this for a living. It is AMAZING they don’t die (this is considered a killing technique in Tae Kwon Do) but their necks are strong enough to take it. You win either by pushing the other man out of the ring or making ANY part of his body other than the soles of his feet hit the sand within the ring. If you slip and fall even before the other guy touches you, it’s sayonara until tomorrow’s match.

This may seem odd given the havoc they wreck on each other but sumo wrestlers ALWAYS treat each other with the utmost respect. Whenever possible they will strive NOT to hurt their opponent, often catching him and preventing him from falling into the crowd as soon as they successfully push him out of the ring which instantly ends the match.

PING! WAKE UP NOW!

Back to the match… Purple is squatting on his haunches, staring at Kaioo who has already placed his fist on the line which he can’t cross until Purple does the same thing on HIS line. The timing of when you put that final fist down is critical since that signals the beginning of the match. As in so many things, first impressions are everything, especially if the first impression is a 400 pound man’s forearm on your chin. Kaioo outweighs Purple by at least 100 pounds. This is good and bad, obviously good in a sport in which you win by pushing the other person to the ground or out of the ring, but bad because being lighter usually means quicker. Purple is so quick he would give a cobra pause for thought. His trademark move is a leg swipe. He ties up his larger opponents with his arms and if they don’t pull a massive leg away in time, one of Purple’s sinewy thighs has snaked around it and BAM, it’s over. On the other hand, you sometimes have to turn your head away watching what someone like Kaioo can do when a lighter fighter like Purple lets his guard down. Imagine raising a sack of rice above your head and throwing it on the ground to get it to spill open.

Purple’s fist touches the line and both men surge across the two feet that separate them. Kaioo has him. Huge arms are grasping for Purple's mawashi. If he can find the handle, Purple will be carried wiggling like a fish out of water to the edge of the ring and be dumped over the edge. The huge man is pushing the littler one towards the edge of the ring but somehow Purple squiggles away and as Kaioo lunges for him, Purple pulls the larger man’s leading arm off center just enough to unbalance him. Suddenly the snake strikes, a leg is wrapped around one of the tree trunks that support Kaioo and it’s over a half a second later. Kaioo crashes to the sand and his chances for winning this tournament are in tatters after 12 days, he is now 9-3, with three matches to go. Three other Ozekis have better records. But Kaioo still has a part to play…..

LET’S MEET OUR STARS!

In the first week, Kaioo had appeared to be the guy to beat. He was 5-0 after 5 days and bursting with confidence but so were three others:

• Tochiazuma—he bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Babe Ruth, that barrel chest, that huge gut and the round moon face. But the resemblance ends at the waist. First of all I’m just about certain Babe Ruth NEVER ever wore a mawashi, but much more to the point, whereas the Babe’s legs were rather spindly, Tochiazuma is supported by twin trees. This is where he gets the ability to wrestle with the quickness of a small man but is capable of withstanding the bull rush of the larger opponent by meeting him head-on. Holding on to Tochiazuma is like trying to get a handle on a greased bowling ball, except this one has legs like oaks.

• Chiyotaikai—I call him “Andy” because he looks almost exactly like Jan’s nephew with a few exceptions, namely, Chiyotaikai outweighs Andy by at least 250 pounds. But he shares the same warm and curious expression on his face. There is one other difference. I’ve known Andy since he was born. You can’t find a more even-tempered guy, but Chiyotaikai can be downright vicious within the circle.

• Kotomitsuki—My money is on this guy who looks pretty much like the big Buddha at Nara. He has a wide flat face, a pointed nose and the deepest, darkest eyes that are downcast slits most of the time. He is kind of a combination of all the others. He has the size of Chiyotaikai or Kaioo but has wrestling skills similar to Tochiazuma who can apparently adapt to any situation the other fellow throws at him. Most important Kotomitsuki has that look of eagles, the kind you see in certain ball players like Derek Jeter or (Damn it!) Curt Schilling. You just know they are going to beat you when they have that look.

I mean no disrespect (believe me!!) but for the remainder of this account I will refer to these three by their nicknames—The Babe (Tochiazuma), Andy (Chiyotaikai) and Nara (Kotomitsuki). Otherwise if you’re anything like me, you’d need a scorecard to keep track of them.

Every day at 5:00 the tournament is aired on NHK, the national television station. Actually it starts at 3:00 but the first two hours involve wrestlers from the lesser divisions and unless you REALLY are into this, the most exciting fights are those between 5:00 and 6:00 because they involve those who have a shot of winning the tournament. The last few days resemble the final games of a World Series. Little things are elevated by the intensity of the moment. You search the face of the wrestler “on deck” as he waits in the hall before entering the ring hoping for some hint of how focused he is today.

The TV producers feast their cameras on these moments. Andy always stands expressionless, a veritable statue. The Babe shakes his shoulders and his head at odd intervals, eyes downcast at a point apparently 3 feet in front of him. Sometimes he slaps himself very hard on both cheeks or crushes his palm into his chin. And then there’s Nara, constantly moving, doing deep knee bends, shoulder stretches, slapping his hands on his belt, a bucking bronco in his stall.


BEWARE! BASEBALL ANALOGIES AHEAD!

You wouldn’t know Kaioo had just lost to Purple as he lumbers slowly into the hall leading away from the ring. Sumo wrestlers wear exactly the same expressions whenever they are entering a ring, in it, or leaving. Many of them do smile and even laugh a little in the post-fight interviews. Apparently their post fight lines are written by the same people who do that for American baseball players, tu whit:

Q: What were you thinking when Wakanahana tripped you?

A: I was trying not to fall and was fortunate to regain my focus before the head butt.

Q: How do you think you will do against Onishki tomorrow?

A. I have to do what I have to do and maybe things will go my way.

Q: What do you think you need to do to win?

A. I will have to use my best skills.

Now how’s that for riveting insights rivaling those of Alex Rodriguez?

The similarities between sumo and baseball are as common as sunflower seeds in a dugout, at least to this observer, one major difference being sumo is a tradition that turned into a sport and baseball is a sport that has turned into a tradition. I think of baseball as a historical tapestry. Each play, each at bat, each throw is another thread and baseball players know this. Time stops the moment the pitch is thrown and the batter starts his stride. Everyone on the field knows that a new thread is about to be woven and it will be a thread different from any other one ever sewn into the tapestry. And when you step to the plate, you are bringing your entire history as a hitter to the event, every pitch you have ever seen and every swing you have ever taken are in the back of your mind and you try to use the lessons they have taught you to drive the pitch or go with it or foul it off, whatever the situation demands. And then one more thread will be sewn.

So it is in sumo. The sport stems from the 6th century. Once it was a shinto ritual. A single man fought an invisible god. If the god won, the harvest would be fruitful. If the man won, the crops would despair. This one WAS rigged. No man can beat a god. You get the sense as you see the hulking wrestlers perform their pre-fight rituals, throwing salt into the ring to purify it that they are paying respect to the gods who used to fight their forbears in rings at ancient shrines. All seem to be aware that they are involved in a game which has fascinated Japan for nearly 1500 years (though professional sumo didn’t start until the 17th century.) They are weaving threads every time they enter the ring.

Perhaps the most obvious parallel between sumo and baseball is at the most essential level—time. Theoretically a baseball game can continue forever and so can a sumo match. The fat lady doesn’t sing until that 3rd out in a baseball game and a sumo match doesn’t end until a fat man falls.

And both sports are essentially duels between two people. The pitcher can throw the ball on the outside corner, down the middle or on the inside corner or anything in between. He can throw it into the dirt, ankle high, knee high, at the belt, chest high, or, well, head high on occasion. Depending on his arsenal, he can make the ball curve, dip, flutter, disguise the speed, or if he has the arm, he can simply throw it so fast and in such a perfect location that a professional hitter can only duck or wave meekly at it. The batter’s job is guessing which kind of pitch is coming depending on innumerable factors, namely the count, whether there are men on base, the score, his history vs. this particular pitcher, their respective manager’s predilections, etc., etc.

Sumo wrestlers face a multiplicity of choices, too. Will the opponent explode out his crouch low or high. Will he be going for an arm lock, a leg throw, or come out slapping or thrusting? How has this man fought me before? What are his favorite techniques? Is a head butt in the offing? You really want to consider these things BEFORE the fun starts.

But after all is said and done, both sports are really absurdly simple. If a major league hitter guesses fastball and the pitcher throws a fastball, the result is frequently sayonara! And if a sumo wrestler guessing a man is going to come out low at him is correct, he merely stands up and crushes the oncoming missile of flesh to the sand below. Sayonara!


THE FINAL THREE DAYS

As Kaioo and Purple return to their respective dressing rooms, the camera focuses on Andy (10-1) waiting to enter the ring is absolutely expressionless staring blankly into the camera. And he looks exactly the same 5 minutes later as he heads back to the dressing room having just crushed Silver Belt, picking up the 350 lb struggling man as if he were a bulky bag of cement and dumping him over the two foot drop at the edge of the ring where he sprawls into the crowd. The latter is not the kind of person you want to fight when he has nothing to lose. Silver has had a reasonably good tournament but his only remaining role is spoiler since he is now 7-5. He is probably the meanest looking guy in the higher ranks at present with a lumpy hard-featured face and his expression of choice is a brutish scowl.

Now it is time for Nara and The Babe to tango. Nara (currently 9-2) had started the tournament looking invincible and winning seemingly at will, but he loses to struggling also-rans earlier in the week and now he needs to beat The Babe (11-0) to stay in contention. This is the first really critical match of the tournament. The showcase match each day is saved for the end, so after three hours of prelims the audience in the sumo center is primed (as is your correspondent).

Sumo matches are preceded by at least 3 mock squat-downs signaled by the position of the referee. The third man in the ring wears a funny pointy hat and robes of intricate brocade. If, after shouting, “Kamaete” (take your places!) his front foot is parallel to the two lines separating the squatting fighters they DO not spring at each but rather engage in a staring match (niramiai) in which they fix each other with the most menacing gazes they can muster. When the ref stands square to the fighters, the fight will start on the next squat down.

The referee has one other major role in addition to starting the match. He makes the first determination as to who goes out first. If his verdict is disputed, 6 ringside judges huddle to decide the issue. In the old days, the referee used to carry a sword so that he could kill himself if the judges decided he was wrong. (Now would that be a good idea in baseball or what!?)

As Nara and The Babe stare at each other for the third time, the crowd goes wild, yelling and cheering like an unruly mob at Madison Square Garden. The two return to their corners, get toweled off by their seconds, grab handfuls of salt, fling the harsh grains into the ring, lick their fingers, slap their mawashi hard a few times to get the chi going, and hunker down to face each other again. This time the ref is square to the fighters. This is it….

The Babe has not shaved throughout the entire tournament and at this point looks as scrufty as a big fat grizzled relief pitcher waddling out to mow ‘em down in the 9th. He has not just won his past 12 matches; he has obliterated people. But Nara doesn’t appear to be intimidated, his eyes blazing slits as he almost tenderly lays his fist on the line and waits for The Babe to do the same. The scraggly face is expressionless as he waits for the proper instant and only he knows when. Suddenly his fist touches down and they explode at each other like two SUVs colliding. Their initial forays are parried and they scuffle in the middle of the ring searching for each others mawashi’s. The first one to succeed will likely win because he will literally have the upper hand and be able to lift his opponent just enough off the sand to throw him out or down. And then, just as it appears to be settling into a long test, it is over. Nara has hooked his arm around The Babe’s armpit locking him into shoulder throw (shitate nage) and it is over. The Babe gets up slowly spitting sand. He bows to the victor and lumbers out of the ring as the crowd throws pillows into the fighting area to signal its approval of the bout.

But Nara’s glory is short-lived. He loses Friday’s fight to the pesky Purple (who at 4-8 is having a lousy tournament except for his ability to kill the giants). That day’s showcase match features Kaioo and Andy who is currently the leader at 12-0. Kaioo is going to be about as easy to fight as a wounded buffalo which is just what he turns out to be—bull rushing Andy in that first instant, stunning him with head slaps and then turning him around and pushing him out, all in about 10 seconds.

On Saturday, Andy wins easily and goes 13-1. But the Babe loses to go 12-2 . He has shaved, perhaps to punish himself for yesterday’s loss or to simply to change something, anything that will get him back on a winning track. But he fights listlessly and loses. Perhaps he is looking ahead to Sunday but he has dug himself quite a hole. If he had won Saturday, he and Andy would have wrestled one match for all the marbles. But his loss means he has to beat Andy in the final match to force a sudden death play-off. The Babe has to win both fights. Andy has to win just one. Just one more baseball analogy—this is like facing Randy Johnson twice and beating him both times when he is at the top of his game. Any takers?


ENDGAME

The BIG match is preceded by Kaioo’s last fight, this one against Silver. Both men are Ozeki rank on the way down. Their best years are behind them, but they still try hard today because although they won’t win this tournament, in order to maintain their Ozeki status (and all the attendant money and pleasures) they need to do well. After 4 mock squat downs, the ref stands square. Silver puts his fist down. Kaioo clenches the huge ham that is his right hand…. It touches the sand and Kaioo catapults out of his stance low, the top of the ginko-leafed hair on his head aimed right at Silver’s jaw. Silver has guessed wrong, expecting Kaioo to come out shoving or slapping. Basically Silver has guessed curve and Kaioo has thrown a fastball. The huge forehead catches him on the chin and Silver careens backwards like a small car hit by a bus. Kaioo has hit him so hard that HE goes out of the ring too but not as far into the crowd as Silver who has really ruined the day for three prim ladies into whose laps he falls.

They pick themselves off, bow to each other and the camera is now riveted on Andy and The Babe on either side of the ring. The Babe eyes are downcast, Andy staring straight ahead as he always does.

There are 4 mock passes. The niramiai is astounding in its intensity, both men staring holes through each other. The crowd is screaming and waving and the announcers (ex sumo wrestlers with big deep voices) sound like they are about to jump out of their seats with excitement.

The referee stands square. It is time for the huge fists to hit the lines. Two weeks of brutal combat involving dozens of wrestlers are crystallized into this moment.

Andy’s fist is down. The Babe’s follows. Andy comes out slapping. Not JUST a few slaps until he moves in, but like a windmill. On the replay, the announcers note that this 400 plus pound man slaps his opponent 24 times (in about 10 furious seconds) before The Babe somehow comes to his senses, catches the 25th punch with his hand, pulls Andy’s huge arm towards him unbalancing the giant in his slapping frenzy and pushes him out of the ring with an elbow to the chest.

The crowd goes absolutely mishugonah as we say in New York. The announcers are apopleptic. These big boys are now tied and in 10 minutes we get to see a playoff.

The camera snakes into the dressing room where we see each man being regroomed, his mussed up hair being combed and re-braided into the ginko-like top knot. Each man’s eyes are closed as the groomers work on him. Focus is everything now.

And then they are walking into the ring. They ascend the two foot staircase and face each other again. There are the obligatory 4 preliminary squat downs and interminable staring—this takes about 5 minutes during which I doubt I took more than two breaths-- and then the referee is square for the last time.

The fists come down. Andy has gambled on what worked so well for Kaioo. Perhaps he assumes The Babe is fearful of another slapping assault. He comes in low trying for the same head butt that Kaioo used to turn Silver into lap meat. But The Babe has GUESSED head butt and he rockets out of his crouch high, crushing his hands down on the back of Andy’s onrushing neck. It is over in one second. Andy is spitting dirt and The Babe has won!

The two men bow and then the screen is filled with the huge face of The Babe. He strives to look impassive but two tears stream down the right side of his face and another snakes down the left. Even the announcers are silent as the camera drinks in the tears of the Champion.
########################################################################

White Caps

Miosi-sensei races out of the van up the stone steps to the top of the gray dike holding back the raging Inland Sea. He is followed by Tomi-Ken. I fall in step with a stocky fellow in a red and white raincoat that says “Harbor Master” on the back. Two boatyard guys cigarettes dangling join us. We are standing on a floating dock beneath a huge metal conveyance that is used to deposit and extract boats from the sea. Everybody is discussing something but it is obviously a sad topic since the reigning look is a shrug and downcast eyes.


I am standing next to Miosi-sensei who looks like a Chinese Emperor, a smooth flat face, heavy lidded eyes, prominent, almost skeletal cheekbones; he sports a little chin beard tied up in a pony tail. “Ken-san…” he says looking at the tide which is clearly receding
before us. Miosi-sensei closes his eyes and searches for a word. “Today is….unfortunately,” he says shaking his head.

What is “unfortunately” is that the whole damn weekend has been screwed up. Incredibly Miosi-sensei and Tomi-Ken have misread the tides. Our plan had been to set sail from Hojo (a harbor town near Matsuyama) for Naka-jima an island about two hours away. We were going to spend the night partying on-board Sarah, a lovely 36-foot J-Boat co-owned by Miosi, Tomi-Ken and friends. We were to arise at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning to harvest wakame (seaweed) in time to beat the tides back to Hojo. But the trick is gauging the tides because the harbor becomes a mudflat at the nadir of low tide and if you miss the window, you are out to sea, literally, for hours. How my two friends made this mistake is a mystery to me. But wait, they aren’t alone. Their shipmate the Captain (I never did understand his name, so I just call him Captain) has joined us, an equally befuddled look on his face. I’m thinking, you know maybe it’s just as well I won’t be going sailing in rough waters with these guys! So far, they seem to know as much about sailing as I do. A scary thought….

The sky is darkening and the waves have turned glum except for the white caps crowning just about every one. The Inland Sea is dotted with islands which create treacherous tides and strange wind patterns. Lake Cayuga on its worst day looks like a turbulent bathtub compared to this water. The wind has picked up and there is clearly not much left to discuss on the jetty, so the group adjourns to the marina offices. Tomi-Ken turns as we walk up the gangplank and says one word with a rueful smile. “Beer…” The afternoon takes a different tack.

My companions have decided on an alternative plan. The Harbor Master has gallantly invited us to camp out in the marina offices that evening. In the morning with the tide on our side we will set sail for Naka-jima and harvest seaweed after all. Things get jolly pretty quickly. Tomi-Ken (he’s actually Kenro Tomita but he’s called Tomi-Ken for some reason) starts unpacking the evening’s feast—onabe—a slow simmering stew consumed in stages.

As we chop vegetables, the Harbor Master, Yamauchi-san, is regaling us with tales of his adventures as a crewman in an international regatta in Key West in 1997. He pulls out maps and shows me everywhere he has been in America. Yamauchi-san’s red and white rain gear looks strangely familiar to me. I realize why when he returns to the table with a newly popped beer. This stocky round guy resembles a can of Asahi Dry—the red in his rain gear is identical to the red in the label--a vision which is reinforced by the fact that there is almost always a can of said beverage in his hand. He pulls out a sheaf of photos and sure enough there he is surrounded by very large Australians posing before a sleek racing vessel on a Key West dock. They are all hoisting flagons. But Yamauchi has a red and white can of Budweiser.

Miosi-sensei is studying maps of the sea. Miosi is always studying something and that perhaps is why everybody calls him –sensei instead of –san. In no particular order he is an organic rice farmer, a dentist, a marathon runner, a meditator (TM and zazen), an English student, and a lecturer on environmental causes. He’s also the designated translator this weekend. Every group I’m in has to have one and the task always falls to the person whose English is best or rather least worst. It always amazes me how easy it is to communicate in Japan. You take the few Japanese words I know, mix them up with whatever English the translator knows, add some food, drink, and sometimes music and, voila, you all are speaking the same language.

For example, onabe is VERY easy to understand. A simmering ceramic pot cradles steaming kimchi broth. The first stage contains pork, cabbage, thai (a fleshy white fish), tako (octopus), ika (squid), mushrooms and tofu, all tossed into the roiling broth. About 10 minutes later, you ladle some into your bowl. Outside, a storm is howling and I wonder how much fun this would have been aboard Sarah tossing in the Naka-jima harbor. But here in the cozy marina offices, the onabe pot bubbling, everyone excited about tomorrow’s sailing, a delightful evening is shaping up.

This meal lingers for hours. The next stage features cabbage, more savory greens, and mushrooms. Later, udon (noodles) are added. The final stage stars mochi (rice cakes) which emerge redolent with the flavors of all the previous ingredients. Ironically, the only thing missing is our quarry—wakame--which is brown in the sea but turns a brilliant dark green when plunged into a roiling onabe pot.

Since we thought we were going to be in the boat all night, nobody had brought musical instruments, but Miosi-sensei introduces us to a chanting exercise in which each person holds a note (any one will do) until he can’t breathe anymore and then picks another one and jumps into the musical fray again. The result is a rich quavery constant chord that segues from the celestial to the dissonant depending upon which notes show up at the same time. This is strangely invigorating.

We find futons in the second floor conference room and turn in for the night. It is a restless one for me because at least 3 of these guys snore…and I’m probably one of them. I awaken around 7:00 a.m. and start some tea in the little kitchen adjacent to the Harbor Master’s office. The morning is clear and bright and the wind is up. It looks great for sailing, at least according to my amateur eyes accustomed to Lake Cayuga.

I should point out that I had been dreading the sailing part of the weekend. I’ve always loved being around water and boats but, alas, have an unfortunate propensity to get seasick in rough waters. This never happens to me in Cayuga no matter how choppy it gets because you can’t ever be more than a mile or so from one shore or the other and the best way (perhaps only way) to avoid sea sickness is to focus on the nearest land mass. The sail to Naka-jima was going to be a real test since we would be on open water for at least two hours, miles from land though islands would always be discernible in the distance. I had resigned myself to getting sick and in fact told Miosi-sensei and Tomi-Ken that funaoi (sea sickness) was a certainty. Their response: no problem, Ken-san, just puke over the side, not in the boat, or the Captain will get mad.

Anyway, I’m drinking my tea on the jetty surveying the bright blue waters that will surely claim the remnants of last night’s wonderful dinner when the Harbor Master joins me. “Early morning shower?” he asks. This sounds just great to me since I wasn’t aware that the office was so equipped. After a bracing shower, I start to make some more tea but the Harbor Master has another idea. “Morning beer?” he says with a jaunty grin. Trying to mimic the breakfast habits of brawny Australian sailing lads is not my cup of tea literally or figuratively so I decline in my best Japanese, “I-ee, bieru nomimasen.” This is the first time I have ever used this phrase in Japan since it means, “No thanks, I don’t want a beer.” Just for good measure, I look sick, pat my stomach and say, “Funaoi….” He shrugs, pops open an Asahi Dry and toasts the morning.

One by one the others awaken. Tomi-Ken and his son Tetsuo start a bubbling pot of breakfast misoshiru (soy bean broth, rice and noodles.) I abstain figuring the less I have in my stomach prior to the sail the better for all concerned, except perhaps the fish. This time the boys have called the tide right. It is high at about 9:00 a.m.

Sarah like all the boats in the “harbor” is stored on a metal cradle high enough to encompass her long keel. We take a ladder up into her and start to prepare the mainsail and the jib, get the engine gassed up, etc. When we are done Yamauchi the Harbor Master cranks up a heavy duty machine made by Toyota similar to the ones that push airplanes back and forth on runways. This one is designed to pull the metal cradles holding boats to and from the massive contraption that bears the boats into and out of the water. Despite the ever-present Asahi Dry, this guy is a genius with this machine and that is saying something. If you’ve ever tried backing up a car to which a boat trailer is attached, you know what I’m talking about. Left turns out to be right except when it’s left and right is left except when it’s right and if you ever want to look like an idiot in front of goons wearing camo and baseball hats, try backing a boat down a loading ramp with a bunch of experienced fishermen watching you.

Yamauchi pulls Sarah on her cradle with the delicacy of someone picking up a single grain of rice with chopsticks. Soon she is airborne heading towards the deep water at the end of the jetty. We clamber aboard and all of a sudden Yamauchi himself has joined us in his red and white rain gear. The reason becomes abundantly clear as I survey the horizon trying to lock my eyes on land to avert funaoi as long as I can. There are NO other sailboats on the sea, just some bouncing fishing boats and huge tankers in the distance. This is rather alarming since there is one thing I have learned about sailing on Cayuga. If there are no other boats out, experienced sailors are probably trying to tell you something. In retrospect, I think Miosi and Tomi-Ken were upset that we hadn’t gotten on the water yesterday and damned if they weren’t going to at least give it a shot today. But it was way too rough for a 36 foot J-class with a less than expert crew and I think they asked the Harbor Master to come along since he was clearly the most experienced guy around.

It is amazing how quickly roles are established on a sailboat heaving on a heavy sea. Yamauchi barked orders and suddenly Tomi-Ken had the tiller, Miosi-sensei was human ballast leaning out against the wind; the Captain was demoted to first mate, in charge of the jib. Tetsuo was told to just lay low and I was assigned a tedious but important task. Yamauchi gives me his beer to hold.

In no time at all we were at least a mile away from land. The boat was literally flying through the water and waves were pouring over the prow. You definitely could have water skied behind this thing, well, definitely if you were an Olympic mogul champion. Otherwise, forget it. The sea was boiling. The wind was fierce and we didn’t have to tack to get very close to the first island whereupon Yamauchi yelled something and we prepared to come about. I know enough to stay out of the way and duck in these situations which I did as the boom whizzed over my head faster than the eye can see. We almost heeled over until the keel caught and we came about as the Captain and Miosi furiously hauled the jib over to the appropriate side. I almost spilled some of the Harbor Master’s beer but held on rather heroically and returned to my main duty—averting funaoi.

It was very clear we weren’t going to get to Naka-jima to harvest wakame this morning. Getting home was going to be enough of a challenge. About an hour into the return trip I realize two things: 1. I am not going to get sick. 2. Tetsuo is tossing his noodles. The unfortunate lad was prone on the deck, his head lolling over the side calling the dolphins, as his father put it. I now had two important jobs—holding the ubiquitous beer and also Tetsuo’s left ankle to keep him from falling into the raging sea. Tomi-Ken had all he could do to keep the tiller straight, but he did pull a camera out of his pocket and ask me to take some photos of Tetsuo in his unfortunate predicament. See why I like this guy? He has exactly the same sense of humor that I do!

We were about two miles from the harbor when we had to make a last tack. And then I realized another reason why I like Tomi-Ken so much. He saved my life. We were in the process of coming about when we hit a weird pocket of wind which wouldn’t let us go the direction we wanted but wouldn’t let us return either. We were pelted with stinging spray. Both sails were luffing violently and it seemed as if the mainsail might actually be tattered by the wind. Tomi-Ken was wrestling with the tiller; the Harbor Master was trying to force the boom to catch the wind aided by the Captain and Miosi. I saw they needed help so I started to get up when all of sudden a hand pulled me down and I heard the boom come round THWACK so fast you couldn’t even see the movement. The steel cap on the end grazed my head with a ferocity that I can still feel three days later. We had come about all right. And my head had almost come apart. I took a swig of the Harbor Master’s beer….

Later on the dock as Sarah still dripping from her morning’s exertions is being borne aloft to her metal cradle, Tomi-Ken picks up a brown piece of vegetation that has fallen off a hull. “Ken-san,” my saviour says with a sad smile. “This is wakame. We very… unfortunately…”

A few minutes later, Miosi comes up and the three of us stare into the sea one more time before returning home. He is searching for a word….

“Ken-san, how call white wave-su…?”
“White caps, Miosi-sensei.... We call them white caps.”
“Cap-su…? White cap-su…?” He can’t seem to hear the word correctly but I KNOW he knows it.

I search for a way to explain what caps are when a very rare thing happens. I actually have an idea! There is a loose dental cap in my mouth. I’ve been avoiding doing something about it for weeks but now the moment has come. “Miosi-sensei, the word is ‘caps,’ like this….” I pull it out my fake tooth and show him….

As I may have mentioned pages ago, Miosi-sensei is a dentist. I had been reticent about asking him for a recommendation of someone in Matsuyama to fix the cap since I was sure that would have resulted in his doing it for free, but the bottom line is it’s a pain in the, well, mouth to take a cap on and off depending upon what and when you are eating so I figured this was finally the moment to share the problem. I guess I was still giddy from the delight of realizing that I my head was still on. Sure enough, Miosi-sensei says he’d love to fix this for me. All I have to do is bring it (and my head) to zazen the next night and he’d just cement it in there.

And so on Monday evening, I find myself lying in an ancient tatami room, adjacent to a sacred stone garden, my head cradled on prayer pillows. Jan who has been recruited as an assistant is kneeling and shining a dental flashlight into my mouth. Miosi who has brought a portable dentist’s office to the temple—a compressor and all kinds of tools and drills, the same one he took to the Kobe earthquake site years ago--is doing that horrible thing they do with compressed air to dry your tooth. My mouth full of cotton. Just about the only thing preventing this from being a realistic dental experience is the blessed absence of that stupid soft rock they play while they work on you. I wave weakly up at Jinno and others who wander in and sit down on their knees to watch in silence as if it is very common for dental procedures to be performed in the anterooms of 300 year old zen Buddhist temples. Miosi’s upside down face is smiling with that little pony tail on his chin as he peers into my mouth. “Almost done, Ken-san,” says my shipmate. And soon it was whereupon it was time to get to the real business of the evening—meditation.

A man of many talents, Miosi-sensei packs up his dental tools and then presides over our meditation in the absence of Osho-san (our monk who has a funeral to prepare for the next day). Afterwards, Jan and I have to hustle to catch our train. Yes, we take a train to the other plane, as it were. When we don’t have a ride from Matsuyama, we ride our bikes 4 miles or so to the Matsuyama station, catch a 7:00 p.m. train to Iyo City, and then walk about a half an hour up the hill to Fukudenji, our temple. We usually need a ride back to the station though because the last train to Matsuyama is 10:30 and Tomi-Ken is kind enough offer his services.

Just as we are saying farewell, Miosi-sensei pulls up to the station followed by Jinno on his motorcycle. They have come to say goodbye, too. They have never done this before but it feels right. Not many people in Japan or perhaps even in the world have experienced a dental procedure AND a subsequent meditation led by the dentist together in a single evening so maybe the event—inconsequential as it is--deserves some commemoration. And somehow sitting in meditation together every week in that creaky old temple binds us all together in a wonderful way. We don’t like to leave each other.

The train slowly pulls away. Miosi-sensei, Tomi-Ken and Jinno, faces beaming in the night, raise their arms in farewell. Jan and I are the only two in the car at this late hour. The lights of Matsuyama twinkle in the distance. And if you close your eyes a little they look like white caps sparkling on a moonlit sea.

We feel so…“fortunately.”

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FAST FORWARD: 7/27/07

Just back from our whirlwind east coast tour. For those of you who don't know us, we have two kids (hard to call them "kids" at this point since they are 33 and 29). Both (well daughter Johanna and son Eli's wife Melissa) were due mid-summer, one on July 25th and the other on Aug. 8th. That's really all the background you need to continue so please do....

The key thing here of course is that Mickey Mantle was number 7 so it was critical to have as many 7's in the birth dates of these two grandchildren as possible. Thursday morning the 26th we got two calls in a row. One was from Johanna in Albany (due August 8) who said she was having contractions about 5 minutes apart. The other was from Melissa Zeserson in Swarthmore (due July 26) who said hers were about 10 minutes apart. At around 4, Johanna's husband Tom called to say things were progressing and that Johanna was expecting to go to the hospital sooner than later. Alas, I had a gig that night and hence couldn't leave until about 9:30 that evening, but on second thought (and I came to this conclusion all by myself!) we decided that getting to Troy (where Johanna was to be giving birth) was probably more important than playing for maybe 10 people at the Lost Dog Cafe in Ithaca. So when Tom called around 5 to say they were going to the hospital we packed up and jumped into the car and arrived at the hospital in time to be told that Johanna was deep into it and in fact wasn't too eager for any face time at the moment. Tom assured us he'd call us when the baby came and then went back to work in the delivery room. Sure enough at 4:15 that morning, they had a daughter, Lyla Thiessen Stebbins. "Thiessen" is Jan's mother's maiden name and Lyla was Johanna's first kitten...of course.

Meanwhile things had also started to move rather swiftly in Swarthmore where Melissa was having some powerful contractions by early Friday morning and they too were thinking about going to the hospital sooner than later. Back in Troy, we went to the hospital around 8 in the morning and there was Tom proud as punch but looking like a little ragged as indeed one would. On the other hand, Johanna who had just had a 19 hour labor with no analgesia and had screamed so hard she broke some blood vessels in her eyes, looked like she was ready to get up and do 5 miles. Cutest of the bunch by far was Lyla, a beautiful baby girl 6 lb. 10 ounces (no idea how long but probably not record breaking considering the genetics). She is very calm and though we know she can't do it yet, it seemed that she greeted us with slate blue eyes and kind of a half smile. She is VERY strong and absolutely adorable and looks a bit like the baby Johanna.

Anyway so we were passing her around, watching her feed and just enjoying the hell out of the situation when the phone rang at 4:05 in the afternoon and there was Eli announcing the arrival of Declan Kenneth (aw shucks....!) Zeserson, 7 pounds 10 ounces. And so Mickey Mantle was paid his due as both kids came to the plate on 7/27/07 and will be united by birth for ever more. With Princess Lyla in good and loving hands and her maternal grandmother on the scene, we left Albany about 4 in the morning of the 28th for Swarthmore to meet Little Lord Declan. The lad has his father's dimples including one in his chin probably courtesy of his Grandpa Fred's with a little assist from his mother Jan. He is not going to be bored in the next few days, weeks or probably forever because in addition to all the attention he will be getting from us, Melissa's family takes kids very seriously. They should because Declan is about the 65th born just to HIS generation in this far-ranging crew. At the moment two aunts and a grandmother are on the scene and the cousins are coming, the cousins are coming! Grandpa Joe Burkhart and I aren't quite sure which one of us young Declan resembles but Winston Churchill seems a better bet at this point.

So that's about it. Here they are. All involved are doing fine and something tells me we are going to be putting a lot of miles on the cars in the next few months. Grandparents 'R Us just can't wait.

Misty Day in Uwa-cho

Saturday was glorious and sunny. Jan and I had devoted the afternoon walking to little temples in nearby hills so we had nothing to complain about when Sunday dawned cold and rainy. In fact, the weather was perfect for what each of us had to do that day. Jan was giving a speech to a group of local business leaders intent on promoting opportunities for women, and I was off to Uwa-cho about an hour away to play a jazz concert. We both had awakened with that “how-did-I-let-this-happen-to-me” feeling. I mean over-reaching is my specialty but falling on my face in public wasn’t too appealing. As for Jan, she had not only conceived a 45-minute oral presentation over the past few weeks but, with the help of her erstwhile assistant Tomoko, had written most of the talk in Japanese. The fact that she actually insisted on giving me the speech in Japanese to see what I thought was indicative of her nervousness about presenting it. That is kind of like reading Finegan’s Wake to a monkey, and I did the obligatory head and armpit scratching punctuated by a few, “Ee…ee…e e…Ahs” just to indicate I was listening.. (Actually, I must say it is AMAZING to hear Jan speak Japanese, especially now that I know a little bit about what that entails. And to write it? Truly amazing….)

I had a much less rocky hill to climb but I was a bit apprehensive too. It’s one thing to try to play jazz in bars where people may or may not be listening and quite another to play a jazz concert to people in seats they have paid for. In America we throw tomatoes at posers. Here I think it might be dead fish…. So we drank our morning tea and coffee apprehensively, wished each other luck, and set off our separate ways into the misty Matsuyama morning….

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“What does “misty” mean, Mr. Ken?” asked my musical mentor here, Hiroshi Igaue. Somewhere out there in the blackness more than 300 people were waiting for the answer, but for me there was only Igaue, all slicked back in a tuxedo bathed in the white spotlight that surrounded us both on the stage in Uwa-cho. Perhaps a little digression is in order. After all, you didn’t get a program…..

Hiroshi Igaue is an eclectic piano player and all-purpose entertainer—jazz musician, magician, radio host, emcee, jazz club owner, martial artist, etc.—who has taken me into his musical family in Matsuyama, namely his traveling band which at present comprises Igaue, a wiry old drummer named Sakurai-san, and me. The bass players, singers, percussionists, and other horns change depending upon who can make the gig. This Sunday, the Igaue Show was playing the Ehime Prefectural Historical Museum in Uwa-Cho, an ancient town near the Inland sea not far from where the ill-fated Ehime Maru set out on its last voyage.

One of the reasons I think Igaue likes to work with me is he gets to be Buffalo Bob to my Howdy Dowdy, asking me weird questions like, “What does “Them There” mean in Kay Starr’s cooking version of “Them There” eyes? (Answer: I don’t know. Ask Gary Cooper or somebody who might have ever said, “Them there.”) Or, what does the “Rain” represent in Credence Clearwater’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” (Answer: I think you’ll have to ask their pharmacologist, Hirosh. I haven’t a clue….”) But right now, I am wrestling with, what does “misty” mean because I’m about to play it and he thinks the audience would like to know, straight from an American. Since accentuating the obvious is my specialty, I noted that it had been raining during our entire drive from Matsuyama to the concert hall in Uwa-Cho but when we got out of the car, the rain had stopped and it was, well, MISTY, and that’s the way the singer of this song feels when he thinks about his girl, “…misty…and so much in love.”

As a wise man once said, talking about jazz is like dancing about architecture and I like to think the audience understood the concept of “misty” a little better after the band finished the tune. This was some band—the bass player was from Osaka (read Chicago) and the trumpet player from Tokyo (read, well, Tokyo). The singer was from Matsuyama but she’s the best I’ve heard yet and just delightful to behold, frankly, in a slinky red dress, diamonds glittering. The drummer is an old pro originally from Tokyo who came here 25 years ago and never left.

Once again, it’s obvious, but I am always floored by how quickly a disparate group of musicians can come together and become a band. This group had never played together as a unit, at least in person, but then again I guess we really HAD rehearsed together for years—by playing these tunes in all manner of settings with all manner of other players. This is not to say the rehearsal wasn’t without some bumps. Actually, the trumpet player, a husky slope-shouldered guy with a long blond pony tail (yes, a LOT of Japanese people dye their hair these days) and an impassive face was at best stand-offish throughout the warm-up. For him I probably represented, for lack of a better term, a pain in the butt. As the reigning pro on the stage, he, not I, was going to have to determine which notes to hit when we played fills behind the singer together and unlike many people I’ve met here, the idea of having to deal with an inarticulate foreigner didn’t seem to appeal to him. He rarely met my beseeching eyes. The conga player/percussionist—a woman from Tokyo-- had the same kind of haughty air. But, well, what can you do…

Needless to say, the trumpet player was correct in some of his apprehensions. During the rehearsal, I missed some cues for solos, blew some notes on fills much to his obvious displeasure and, never having played “Night in Tunisia” in anything but an Ithaca living room before, I turned that one into Night in Bedlam. (The standard jazz “literature” is available in fake books more or less in the same keys for most instruments. But when you play with a singer, you can throw your fake book out the window because she will always have a favorite key for everything and that is NEVER ever the key in the fake book. If you’re a pro, you just transpose but if you’re me, you can’t do that so my only shot is learning the song in her key (D flat for me if you care about such things) by myself in a little room off the stage. I just hope the trumpeter can’t hear me as I stumble through the changes.

I was still a little jittery during lunch in the dressing room. I tried to hurry through it because I needed to practice some more and besides many people—especially musicians—tend to smoke while they eat here and the room hung with cigarette haze. I was carving my way through a delightful obento (box lunch of fish, greens, tofu, chicken, pickles, etc.) when I chomped down on something hard and suddenly realized why I’d had a touch of tooth pain on the right side recently—my zillion dollar cap on the bottom right had come off. None of the smoke-wreathed musicians sitting around me looked like his hobby was dentistry. Thank God I hadn’t swallowed the cap so I picked it out of my mouth pretending it was a stray chicken bone and when no one was looking popped it into my pocket. Meanwhile, the right side of my mouth felt like the Grand Canyon and I wondered when it was going to start to hurt. The one thing you don’t need when you are trying to fake your way through a jazz concert in front of several hundred people with an unpleasant trumpet player on your left is a toothache. A few minutes later in my little practice corner, my first foray into dentistry was successful. I was able to pop the cap back on.

When I got back to the dressing room, everybody was getting into their tuxes and spiffing up, the major problem seeming to be how you hold a cigarette while you are adjusting your bow tie. And then suddenly it was two minutes to show time. We were standing in the hall off-stage together when…we started to become band. Igaue looking splendiferous in his hounds-tooth tux was joking with the stage manager. Sakurai the wizened old drummer, was literally bouncing up and down on his toes and throwing punches into the air with a drum stick in each hand, psyching himself up. The singer was staring off into space just looking great in red. The bass player was smoking his umpteenth cigarette and looking for a place to snuff it. The trumpeter was fidgeting with his horn…but he gave me a friendly thumbs up as we walked on stage and a sense of camaraderie started to smolder.

I am always amazed at the difference between the way pros play in rehearsals as opposed to on stage. The bass player and trumpeter were obviously superb musicians based on what I had heard in the warm-up but on stage they were simply astounding. They were having fun and it was infectious. The trumpet player bounces up and down as other people play solos occasionally shouting approval (even for me). Two songs into this three-hour program I realized I never wanted it to end. The highlight for me was a duet between the bass player and the singer on “Someday My Prince Will Come.” She sang the song in a breathy fashion as he laid down an intricate bed of rhythm and notes for her to rest on while she waited for her prince. Igaue eventually came out to join them softly on the last chorus. The trumpeter and Sakurai and I stood in shadows backstage. At the end, Sakurai, the veteran, just nodded, as if to say, “that’s it!”

Igaue saved what has become my signature song here for the end—Stand By Me. You know, I’ve played rock and roll for 40 years and there are a lot of songs I’d take to a desert island before I picked Stand By Me, but for some reason, it’s the one he likes best and when we are in that white spotlight again and he asks me, “Mistah Ken, what does “Stand By Me” mean?” I put my arm around him and say, “it’s when people have friends like you, Igaue-san….” (That’s one of the nice things about talking to 300 people who can’t understand you. You can be as soppy as you want and nobody even snickers.) Then the bass player started that classic introductory line and I’m alone in that white light piercing the blackness with this crackerjack band behind me and I realize how perfect the song is for this situation: “When the night has come and the land is dark and the moon is the only light you see…no I won’t be afraid, no I won’t shed a tear, just as long as you stand…stand by me….”

If they want an encore, Igaue always has us do “When the Saints Come Marching In” which a LOT of Japanese people know. This is one thing I AM an expert in—teaching Japanese people the words to “When the Saints” and this crowd all get “A’s”. We start playing and they sing along. The trumpet player is in Dixie heaven playing every lick Louis Armstrong ever invented. Sakurai the drummer, who always plays as if in a trance with his eyes half closed is wailing away and Igaue, a little half smile on, is doing a pretty good impersonation of Fats Waller. Meanwhile the singer and I each take a mike and stroll down the aisle offering audience members a chance to sing into the PA. Have you ever tried to offer anybody a wriggling scorpion? That’s the kind reception the mikes are getting. You can see people swaying and clapping but as you approach one who seems like a good candidate, their eyes freeze and they look very intently at the back of the seat in front of them. So the singer and I start to shout verses back and forth to each other over the audience and one thing leads to another and suddenly we are jumping up and down together in the front wagging our index fingers in the air shaking our heads seized by the fever this song has inspired for more than a century…and the saints came marching in, by God!

Later, I am standing alone in the Uwa-Cho train station. I am waiting for the last train out of town after a riotous dinner with the band and many of their friends at a local hotel where they are all spending the night. The highlight for me was a guitar pass-around and lots of English/American rock and roll, and the steak wasn’t bad either.

At the station, the mist that has wreathed the old town all day has thickened into a fog. The lights that govern the tracks are wreathed in pale red or green penumbra.

It is dead quiet. Nobody else is around. A song comes to mind…”Misty”… I almost take out my sax on the lonely platform but settle for whistling the tune in its entirety. I kind of missed the trumpeter’s solo in the middle. And now, a few years later and a continent away, I can still hear it.

Why We Run....

Rain was pelting the narrow streets of Dogo as my friend Kurihara and I left the local high school gym where we had just played volleyball in our Saturday evening PTA league. "I sink race cancelled," he said looking at the sky as a howling wind turned his umbrella inside out. The next morning we were both to run a Sunday road race in nearby Iyo City. This was an event substituting for the one I had really wanted to run---the Shikoku 10K championship--but alas, the registration deadline for that had passed and so Kurihara had somehow dredged up this local race as an alternative. He had entered the 1K and I had opted for the "long run"--a 3K. I was surprised to hear that weather might cancel a race. In my experience anyway that never happens in the U.S. (especially Ithaca) where races are run in every conceivable condition. So as the wind shook the glass doors of our apartment that night, I went to bed thinking that Sunday would be a vastly different day than I had imagined.

It was. The day dawned cloudy in Matsuyama but a bright blue sky was clear in the south over Iyo City. Sure enough, Kurihara called at 8:00 a.m. to say the race was a go and off we went--we two aging stallions plus our support team, Jan and his wife Fumi Kurihara. Since the race was to be staged about a mile from our zen temple Fuku-den-ji, Jan and Fumi walked to the temple while Kurihara and I jogged to the race staging area. It was a junior high school with no obvious porta-potties in sight. As any runner reading this knows, elimination strategy, as it were, is a major pre-race concern, especially if you're like me and drink at least 5 big cups of strong green tea before every competition. The matter had become quite, well, pressing, as I waited in line at the registration tables. Kurihara had disappeared as is sometimes his wont which was a big problem for me since as a Jewish person I have trouble even acknowledging the fact that people have to, you know, go to the bathroom or whatever and I'll be damned if I was going to go up to a Japanese person I didn't know and act out my request. Fortunately he reappeared just as I completed registration and I was able to mumble, "Kurihara-san, toilet, one-gai-shimasu!" It turned out to be about 10 feet away from me and THAT is yet another reason why I am finally trying to learn how to read basic signs around here.

That duty completed, as it were, it was time for my next pre-race ritual--peering at people likely to be opponents, namely the bald, the gray, the lame and halt at this point for me. There were more than a few likely customers, most of them wearing running suits, plus a bunch of kids wearing baseball uniforms. Obviously there was going to be a "fun run" for the kids before the main event. (I've always balked at that term "fun run." I mean if it's fun, you aren't running hard, right!) A few of the competitors were smoking prior to the race, something I've seen before in Japan and it's something I love because it probably means I get to do something I rarely have a chance to--kick BUTT in a road race(!)

A horn sounds and Kurihara motions me into the gym where the entire field is lining up in rows single file. I've only been to a few Japanese races but what always seems to happen is everybody lines up to hear ringing speeches by officials and then the entire group including the speakers who are always nattily attired is led in a series of exercises by a coach in a gym suit. Today was no exception. After 6 speeches (the last one from the principal of the school, Mr. Kurihara informs me), a supple-looking young lady in a white exercise suit leaps to the stage and leads us all in stretching exercise climaxed by about 10 minutes of Tai Chi which was just glorious. It's so much fun to see the school principal doing all the exercises next to little lads in
baseball caps and uniforms doing exactly the same thing.

But now it's time to run and I'm getting excited. The first race, Kurihara's 1K is in 10 minutes. We walk out to the staging area and there is the usual bustle of people roping off the finishing area, a loudspeaker being set up, a few runners warming up. About 25 kids who couldn't be more than 10 are at the starting line. Something is weird. I look at Kurihara and jokingly ask him if he thinks he can beat any of these little guys and he is looking serious and suddenly I realize this IS his race. There are 4 adults in his heat and 25 kids. Obviously the more serious people like me are waiting for the 3K. The gun goes off and Kurihara at the back of the pack follows 25 little fellows in baseball hats on to a road winding up a hill. (I hasten to add for the
edification of any runners reading this. that Kurihara is not a "runner," in the sense that he trains. He does jog a few times a week and is a terrific athlete, but running is not his thing. That would be golf and more on that in a subsequent posting.) Anyway, that said, I'm at the finish waiting for the leaders to round the bend and then there are about 10 little tiny kids followed by a huffing puffing Kurihara who has, indeed, copped First Adult.

I meet him at the end of the chute, congratulate him and then ask him to hold my sweats because it's almost time for my race. I mosey over to the start and see about 25 kids (about 12-14 years old) wearing baseball uniforms. There a few other men, but that's it.... Nada. Nobody home. Like it or not, I'm in...God help me...a FUN RUN!

It turns out just about all the "competitors" I had been sizing up during the warm-ups were just parents wearing running suits which are ubiquitous in Japan. I look around for a hole to crawl into. Perhaps aliens will abduct me at this moment. Wait a minute, wouldn't this be a GREAT time for an earthquake? But, no, it's me, 4 other men, two of whom are smoking, and 25 kids in baseball hats! I am 54 years old. I am the ONLY person in the race wearing shorts, not to mention a High Noon singlet. There is one other guy with gray hair but he is putting out his pre-race cigarette when I shoot Jan who has just returned from the temple a horrified smile. She in turn looks at me like I am wearing a Little Red Riding Hood outfit or a Godzilla suit at a Presidential Reception. There is just NO way out of this...no way but to run.

So I did. The gun goes off and I follow 25 boys in baseball uniforms up the windy mountain road. I'm wondering how to finish this thing with at least a smidgeon of honor intact. I mean I could just drop out and run home, but Iyo City is about 15 miles from Matusyama and frankly there are NEVER any 54 year old men wearing little running shorts and racing singlets who can't speak the language and don't have a single yen in their pants at any given moment in this area. I might well have been arrested on suspicion of being a nut (okay, no comments!)I decide the least embarrassing approach is win my age group and finish 4th behind the first three ballplayers. Well, I've won my age group about 25 yards out of the gate so, that rather modest goal accomplished, I pick my way ahead through the pack of fledging Ichiro's and pull in behind number runner #5. The leader really is a pretty good runner with a nice stride. He is bigger and stronger than his teammates and he has the look of a winner. (Ironically it is a BEAUTIFUL course, snaking through rice fields, beds of daikon and cabbage, and some of the prettiest broccoli I've ever seen. You knew this was going to be about food at some point, right?) The wind has blown the clouds away and you can see the roiling Inland Sea about 5 miles away, the islands masking Hiroshima looming in the bright blue distance.

Things are working out for me as planned until about the end of the first mile when suddenly it appears that runners #2,3 and 4 have each just been handed a piano, as a legendary runner Rick Cleary once put it, and they are now kind of staggering instead of running. I really have no choice but to put myself about 15 yards behind the leader and just enjoy the scenery. Then this kid puts a move on and it starts to get fun. I get within 10 or so. He hears me behind him, shoots me a startled look, and surges again. At about 300 yards from the finish, his right shoelace comes untied. Having made this mistake myself about 24 years ago in a race (and now I ALWAYS tie triple knots)I felt sorry for him and backed off. To his credit he kept up his pace, just widening his stride so he would lessen the chances of stepping on his shoelace. About 25 yards from the finish, I figured I might as well push a little and make him earn his victory. But as I crept up on his right side, damned if he didn't move over and even poke an elbow out at me to keep me back. Now of course if this had been a real race, I probably would have stepped on his trailing shoe lace, (well, not really, but you shouldn't elbow people in a race). However this was, after all, a FUN RUN, so I backed off and we finished a few yards apart.

He turned around to me in the chute, said something that I couldn't understand (probably,"Old men shouldn't look so foolish, you should be terribly ashamed!") and bowed to me slightly. I bowed back and then tried to pass through the finish area as quickly as possible so we could leave before the awards. But Kurihara would have none of that. Any race that starts with speeches from school officials takes its awards ceremony pretty seriously I guess and sure enough, we both had to trot up there, Kurihara for First Adult in the 1K and me for First Adult in the 3K.

And when I think about it, this race really did live up to its name. It was a run...and it sure was fun.

Mr. Kurihara's Volleyball Party

"Many New Year's parties tonight. Matsuyama very busy," explained my friend Kurihara as he threaded his way through a maze of cars, pedestrians, bikers and shi-den (trolley cars). Indeed downtown Matsuyama, neon blazing, was doing a pretty good imitation of the West Village in New York on a Saturday evening. Kurihara's English is very limited but he always seems to be able to convey what he means if not in words then through a mixture of words and gestures punctuated by laughter. I learned that this was the evening that many groups such as teams or businesses had their annual parties which is why Kurihara, his friend Fuji-san, and I were on our way to the banquet of our Women's Volleyball League. He explains this will be a two-stage evening--dinner from 7-9 and then something fun that involves music from 9-12:30.

Actually, I thought it was a Women's Volleyball League because 80% of the players are women. But it's not. The league I joined turns out to be an offshoot of the local PTA and, not unlike PTA's in the U.S., the majority of members are mothers. The league is supervised by "Coach," a rollicking mountain of a Japanese man who clearly has some volleyball experience. He leads the intense one-hour work-outs prior to the games and then joins one team or another during the competition. I'm happy to report that my play so far, if not artful, has been acceptable and I can
still outjump some 5' 2" elementary school mothers (okay, not all.

Kurihara, still a virtual child of about 45, is the best player on the court. Having played softball and golf with him during my previous stay, I knew he was like a cat, very quick, strong and flexible. He hasn't lost too much over the intervening years even though he had a bout with stomach cancer in the interim. He lights up the volleyball court with his spirit. It is clear that the other PTA members adore him. As we enter the banquet room above a popular restaurant, people cheer when they see Kurihara come in. Alas, I see the one thing I don't like about Japan, a traditional low Japanese dinner table which means I'm going to be in pain one way or another for the next two hours or so. There is NO way I can get comfortable sitting on the floor; not even a cushion can solve the problem. However, I am buoyed by what I see ON the table--gyoza, fresh tako (octopus) fried chicken tenders, tofu in all sorts of guises, about 6 different kinds of vegetables and a squadron of Kirin Lager Big Boys. And that's just for starters....

About 25 PTA volleyball players wind up seated around this table. I should note that nobody's spouse is present. This is apparently more the rule than the exception in Japan. Apparently, you tend to socialize wth your friends, male or female, and you generally hang out with your spouse in family situations. The little I know of Japanese social customs, at least in Matsuyama, there seems to be a great premium placed on being a "team member," whether that be sports, games, or social groups. But I digress...and food is on the table. Forgive me...

In what I am learning is classic Japanese style, I am well taken care of, seated between Kurihara and the one woman in the league who can speak a little English, Ume-san. The meal commences with a few speeches, one by the league President, one by the Coach and as we all toast his words, the President is looking directly at me and Kurihara mutters, "Mistah Ken, speech now!" As Ume-san translated, I thanked them for the joy of letting me join and apologized profusely for my poor play so far and then, well, let the gyoza begin!

New platters appear every few minutes, some heaped with sweet and sour pork, others with tempura battered shrimp and vegetables. The Kirin Big Boys are decimated quickly but reinforcements arrive and many people are ordering strange-looking orange or blue or chartreuse drinks disguising Japanese vodka, my new friend Ume-chan informs me. Kurihara is enjoying a plum wine spritzer while the Coach at the other end of the table is turning rather red gesticulating in front of a team of empty Kirin Big Boys. Meanwhile, the people around me are asking me to guess their ages. Now there's a high-risk game--publicly guessing the ages of women whom you don't know in a foreign culture. They all look to be in their low 30's so I always guess high twenties and they turn out to be almost 40, most of them.

But before anybody grows any older, the party ends abruptly at 9:00 sharp, just as billed. Apparently two groups are forming. I ask Kurihara what's up and he says pointing to the Coach and a cluster around him, "Drinking group!" He then points to himself and says, "Singing group. Mistah Ken which one?" I ALWAYS choose music when confronted with this conundrum (I mean you can drink while you play, right?) And about 15 of us walk through the bustling streets towards the Four Roses Karoake Palace. I've passed this place dozens of times but never gone in. It is a building several stories high just filled with Karaoke studios Our group has rented a "VIP Lounge" which is a comfortable room containing a huge table in front of couches lining the
back wall, all aimed at a very large TV/sound system unit. There are several well-thumbed volumes of song titles, all numbered and one of them, Thank God, is in English. We have two hand-held wireless mikes and some gizmo that summons up the desired song. This thing has
another nice feature. You press a button and a waiter magically appears. This works pretty well because all of sudden there is an array of snacks on the table, lots of pastel colored drinks and some more Kirin Lager Big Boys.

It is situations like this that have finally gotten me to confront a small problem I have here, namely that I can't speak the language. It is really easy to enjoy life as what amounts to a music-playing sports monkey, but ultimately it is frustrating. So I'm taking my first official Japanese lesson tomorrow. I just want to be able to say a few things that come to mind here just about daily such as, "Temple, Shmemple, where is the fried Tako stand?" or "Thank you so much for this garish and useless trinket commemorating the lovely afternoon we have just
spent together" or "I am so unlucky man because my wife refuses to dust now that I have arrived," or perhaps, "Mr. Kurihara, why are you wearing bug antennae?"

In characteristic fashion, Kurihara has pulled out a headband to which are affixed long black antennae crowned with red balls. Look, I don't know either, so don't ask. He has also produced two "Chicken Shake" samba eggs that get tossed around the table depending upon who is
singing what.

Kurihara says, "Mistah Ken first song." I had been feverishly leafing through the English listings to find the PERFECT song. To my horror, there was no Beatles section, but there was the blessed Clapton in the "C" section, so I choose "Tears in Heaven" which I know many Japanese
people like. The screen flickers to life and there are the obligatory crazy images that characterize the videos that accompany the lyrics in Japanese Karaoke systems, a hallucinogenic mix of couples walking on sandy beaches being pelted by blue cartoon rain, people staring
wistfully at sunsets, butterflies all over the place, race cars, cows.... The familiar acoustic guitar lick kicks off "Tears in Heaven" and we're off. The system has super reverb (which of course is very forgiving if a singer goes a little flat or sharp) and you can sing as loud as you want because the little gizmo that orders the waiter also has a volume button. Everyone seems to like that song and I hand the mike to Takafuji-san, an ex-Buddhist monk who is now some sort of
businessman. He sings a very nutty Japanese hit that everybody (except me) knows all the words to. Then one of the women sings a wistful Japanese love song and hands the mike to Kurihara.

"Now Unchained Melody togezzer," he says as he takes one mike and hands me the other. He has a rich baritone voice right from the heart and he sure doesn't need me to sing this song which is his wife's favorite, but I think I know what he wants, namely for me to help him with that one really high note which blued-eyed Bobby Righteous hits in the end when he sings, "Are you still mine....? I-eeee NEEEEED your love." It works great. Kurihara sings, "Are you still mine....? I-eeeeeee......" Then I hit "NEEEEEED your love" right on the nose or close to it thanks to the reverb and he comes right back with "....God speed your love...." almost as if we have rehearsed it.

Everybody has sung at least one song when the door bursts open and the Coach lurches into the room bellowing. Everybody is delighted to see him. The gizmo is pressed. A huge orange drink appears and he throws me a mike, keeps one himself and starts a song that is in Japanese but
has English words in it. Everytime an English word appears I sing it and the Coach just thinks this is the funniest thing, shouting out, "Engrish coming. Engrish coming, Mistah Ken!"

With the Coach definitely in my corner I fulfill a lifelong dream and sing "Can't Help Falling in Love with You," the whole song, not just the first verse which is the only one I usually remember. Finally, it is time for the last song and I have a request. When last I was in Japan, Kurihara used to always sing "My Way" in Karaoke or live music situations. I had waited 8 years to hear this again. He looked serious all of a sudden and crossed his arms in front of his face in the universal gesture that means No, but with a little arm twisting, he agreed. The room quieted down, even Coach.

And Kurihara began to sing.... I believe we all were thinking the same thing, how he had fought cancer, "took the blows," as the song goes, and won. He rips off the bug antennae and throws them in the air as the music swells and he hits the final, triumphant, "I did it MY Way." And the room, silent throughout, erupted in applause as Kurihara, a little smile on his face, gently puts the microphone down. He's the kind of person you want on your team.