for a while. After all, a willingness to conform
was a sign of good manners. But he found that the new stance threw his rhythm out of whack. Called back to the big team in
midyear, he could only manage a .188 batting average in 43 games, although in one memorable contest he did hit a single and
a home run off the PL’s leading hurler, Hideo Nomo. He subsequently declared, rather dramatically, that he would rather stay
on the farm team than continue trying to alter his swing.
“I’ve been hitting this way since high school,” he said. “That’s my batting. I’d rather stay on the farm than attempt a switch
now.”
“These young guys really say what they want,” remarked a somewhat bemused Doi, granting Ichiro’s wish to return to the minors.
Ultimately, Ichiro’s stubbornness, rare for a player in Japan, paid off. In 1994, Doi was forced to resign because of the
team’s mediocre record and a new manager, an irreverent spirit named Akira Ogi, took over. Formerly a second baseman with
the old Nishitetsu Lions, based in Fukuoka, he and his teammates had been as famous for their postgame debauchery as for any
exploits on the field. Ogi, a mere .229 career hitter between the foul lines, was a free-spending nightlife aficionado who
could negotiate the dense thickets of bars in Tokyo, Osaka and Kobe as well as any man alive. He liked to dress in the fashion
of a Japanese movie gangster—in white suits, white enamel shoes, gold chains and dark sunglasses—and liked to bring nightclub
hostesses with him to the ballpark.
His transition from player to manager seems not to have affected his approach either to the game or to life. Under Ogi, there
was no player curfew and few other rules. It was fine with him if an Orix player stumbled back to the
ryokan
drunk out of his mind, as long as said player was up the next morning running around the practice field and sweating the
alcohol out of his system.
“Drink hard, but practice hard,” Ogi was often heard to say. “That’s my motto.”
By all accounts, it was a philosophy he personally adhered to well past his middle years. Until he retired as BlueWave manager
in 2001, he would lubricate himself until the wee hours, arise in the morning for a run of several miles and follow that with
a sauna and a bath, during which he would douse his private parts with alternating buckets of hot and cold water. He boasted
that this ritual kept him young well into his 60s, able to vie with his players for the affections of young ladies in cities
all over Japan.
His on-field strategy was not remarkably different from the dogged step-by-step, base-by-base approach followed by the Giants
and most other Japanese teams, who worshipped at the altar of the sacrifice bunt. (After seeing Nippon Professional Baseball’s
button-down style of play during a lengthy stay in Tokyo, author David Halberstam was moved to remark, “They play as if they
were wearing blue business suits.”)
However, Ogi
was
unburdened by a belief in
totei seido
and the widely-held notion in Japan that orthodox form was all-important. He did not think there was anything at all wrong
with Ichiro’s swing and confessed that he could not figure out why Doi had not used him more. Thus, one of Ogi’s first acts
as manager was to stick Ichiro in the starting lineup, mostly in the leadoff spot, and let him hit any way he wanted. Ichiro
responded with a breakthrough season that baseball fans in Japan still talk about. Playing in Kobe’s idyllic new park, Green
Stadium Kobe, notable for its fan-shaped playing field and multicolored seats, he became the first Japanese player to accumulate
over 200 hits in a season, finishing with 210 in 130 games for a batting average of .385. The latter was a new Pacific League
record, just shy of the Japan record of .389 held by American Randy Bass, set in 1986. Batting leadoff, Ichiro also whacked
13 home runs, drove in 54 runs and,