Yet on this journey, despite the density, human interaction — that particular quality of connectedness to others that has always inspired me to travel — was not as strong. At first I thought it was the language barrier (my Japanese was a sad representation of a month of Berlitz CDs, practiced in the car with my sons, 6 and 2). I also wondered if it was because I was a mother, so intent on protecting my children from external hazards that I failed to notice social cues that could connect me to other humans. As it turned out, until we wandered aimlessly into the bleachers of Meiji Jingu Stadium, I had just not found the right person.

TOKYO — In spite of the storm threatening to burst overhead, Shinjuku's Meiji Jingu Stadium overflowed with fans. Like most places we'd encountered over our two weeks exploring Japan, people here seemed to prefer a life lived in crowds. Train stations offered intimate introductions to the scents of those around you; restaurants invited you to share tables with silent strangers slurping noodles; even relaxing destinations like hot springs were experienced among hordes.


Despite the fact that the Tokyo Yakult Swallows and the Hiroshima Carp were not among Japan's leading teams, a good 30 minutes before the game our family of four could not locate seats together. We paced up and down the aisles until a woman in her late 50s, wearing a baseball cap and a fanny pack, grabbed my husband's wrist and nearly dragged him, with us in tow, to the top of the bleachers.

She picked up a few plastic bags filled with food that guarded the metal bench and instructed us to sit, before running up to the top of the stands where she held court on a blanket spread across the concrete. Gratefully we squeezed together, my husband's 6-foot frame shrinking as we took in the sights of Japan's second-oldest stadium. Though small by major league standards (it holds about 38,000 people), it looked as organized as one might imagine, with Swallows fans in red, white, and blue on one side, and the sea of orange-wearing Carp fans banging on drums on the other.


My husband and younger son went in search of food, while I stayed in the stands with Kai, an avid baseball fan who did not want to miss one second of his birthday present. The buzz in the air suddenly burst when the clouds exhaled a long stream of rain onto the stadium. Quickly the fans descended to find cover. But Kai — all youthful wisdom and enthusiasm — insisted we stay, even as the field was covered with a tarp. Our benefactor, now wearing a plastic bag on her head, ran and offered rain gear to cover us. Together, we sat watching waterfalls stream down the stairs, until the deluge stalled and a drummer called the game to begin.

My husband returned with small plastic Swallows baseball bats that our benefactor instructed him to purchase. As the first Carp player approached the plate, Kai started banging his bat. Our benefactor returned with a container of Yakult yogurt drinks for the boys and explained that when the other team is up, we are silent, respectful.

We all gazed at the Carp side of the stadium, ablaze with energy, singing in unison and even executing a series of choreographed movements where fans alternate standing and sitting, while singing songs of support and waving flags. Our role was not to affect the work of the other team, but to encourage our team to do its very best. The baseball game culture was a lesson in sportsmanship that suddenly made me fall in love with Japan all over again.


When the Swallows came up, our side of the arena exploded with song. After a few innings we deciphered the melody and vaguely picked up the words — many of them employing such English phrases as "Let's go, Swallooooowwws!" In the bottom of the third inning, one of the league's best players hit a home run and from under their seats the fans pulled out tiny umbrellas decorated with Swallows insignia, opened them, and started to sing a rambling melody. Our benefactor ran down the bleachers once more, offering us all umbrellas to take part in the celebration.

By this point the fans around us were either cheerful enough, or drunk enough, to engage in banter — many of them smitten with Kai's remedial Japanese phrases paired with his intense knowledge of the game. A group of young ladies sang pop tunes with little Nikko, snapping dozens of photos with him. As we connected with the people around us, the Swallows lead disappeared and suddenly they were losing by seven runs. Our benefactor returned once more to ask how we liked the game. When we mentioned that it was Kai's birthday gift, she unzipped her fanny pack and gave him all the baseball cards she could find that featured foreign players. We thanked her effusively and she waved us off, saying that all she wanted was to make us feel welcome and share the Japanese style of baseball with us, residents of the nation that brought her favorite pastime to her country.


After an entertaining seventh-inning stretch that featured the umbrellas again, our boys were exhausted. The Swallows were in the process of getting whupped, but that didn't seem to affect the enthusiasm of the energetic fans, expressing their emotions in a public way quite unusual in Japan, nor did it clear out the stadium. We, however, needed to get the little guys to bed. So we waved goodbye to our new friends, allowing our benefactor to squeeze us with hugs and pinch the boys' cheeks, just like aunties do in most cultures. As we slowly descended the stairs of the bleachers, Kai mentioned that maybe he'll play professional baseball in Japan one day because he likes how nice the fans are to each other and all the players.

More Coverage

• If you go to Japan for baseball

Michele Bigley can be reached at mishmell@sbcglobal.net.