By Adam Brownstein – September 22, 2023
I once devoted this space to the tale of a harrowing visit I made to a local dentist. The experience evoked disturbing recollections of Sir Laurence Olivier’s masterful turn as Dr. Christian Szell, the Nazi-cum-DDS foil to a young Dustin Hoffman in the 1976 thriller Marathon Man. The trauma of that episode prompted me to seek out a dental practice that was not only devoid of ties to hate groups, but also noted for its cheerful atmosphere and pain-free examinations.
Happily, my new dentist is excellent (Midtown Dentistry in Roppongi . . . tell them Adam sent you!). Just before Rosh Hashanah this month I made my way there for a semi-annual cleaning. As I leaned back to savor the gentle scrubbing of my gums, Layla (and other love songs) began to pipe in through the Muzak system. The tune triggered a flashback to a series of scenes in Goodfellas beginning with the leave-no-trace hits on the Lufthansa Heist gang and ending with the brief interrogation of Henry Hill in the confines of an FBI booking center. Feeling a state of supreme flow, I began to meditate on great interrogation scenes from a few of my favorite films.
Some cinematic interrogations are brief, but effective; to wit General Tarkanian and Darth Vader pressing Princess Leia for the location of the rebel base in Episode IV: A New Hope. Others, like Guy Pearce’s break out scene extracting the first vital clues of the Night Owl case (hush hush!), play to the art and science of the prisoners’ dilemma. Interrogation scenes can also be a terrific tool to establish a character. Do you recall Christopher Waltz’s chillingly brilliant portrayal of S.S. Colonel Hans Landa? It was the infamous scene when he queried a family of skittish French peasants about the whereabouts of Jewish fugitives that set the tone for the entire film. From the very moment Colonel Landa revealed his oversized pipe, you had to suspect an Oscar was heading Waltz’s way.
In exceptional cases, interrogation can be the underlying basis of an entire movie. The best example of this is the Usual Suspects, Bryan Singer’s extraordinary 1995 crime drama. Much of the narrative unfolds inside the messy office of a LA precinct captain. The office is on loan to the Armani-clad Detective David Kujan. Detective Kujan (played brilliantly by Chazz Palmenteri), patronizes and catechizes a frumpy suspect named Verbal Kint for the better part of an afternoon. In reality of course Kint is a wolf (to wit, a devil!) in sheep’s clothing. The sinister Keyser Söze enlists prompts from the ungepatchka interrogation setting to spin a tale of mind-blowing detail, walking free into the sunny afternoon after Detective Kujan falls for his ruse.
Sauntering out of the dental clinic with cinema on the brain, I made my way to the hallowed grounds of the Meiji Jingu for my next appointment of the afternoon. Originally built in 1926, the “Jingu” is one of only four stadiums still in existence graced by the play of the Bambino (the other three are Fenway Park, Wrigley Field and Koshien Stadium in Hyogo Prefecture). More importantly it is home to the Yakult Swallows, a team that embodies the grit and hope that are the stock and trade of the underdog.
Each year, an enthusiastic group of us from the JCJ make a kind of pre-High Holidays pilgrimage to the Jingu to cheer on our beloved Swallows. There is something both novel and nostalgic about going to the ballgame with other Jews. I suspect that it’s the expanse of grass, comforting delicacies (yaki-soba, not Vienna Beef) and easy pace of play that takes us back. Back to the endearingly terrible artificial turf of Veterans Stadium for the Phillies fans and the upbeat crooning of Sister Sledge for the Pirates faithful. To the bracing evenings at Candelstick and the teased gesture of Hope at Shea.
Over time, our night at the Jingu ballpark event has grown in popularity. Four years ago, we secured a dozen seats and had demand for a few more. I took charge as the “ticket guy” a couple of years ago, buying 20 together via the user friendly (not!) Yakult Swallows website. Last year, the JCJ required a block of 40, well beyond the website limit. A trusted friend and long-time season ticket holder kindly shared the particulars of his senior contact at the Swallows Ticket office, Mr. O.
“Mister O is terrific, but quite formal, Adam,” my friend explained. “Dress like a mensch when you go to see him. Blue blazer and a real shirt. You know, shul clothes. East Coast shul clothes.”
“Got it,” I retorted. “Anything else?”
“Yes, they only accept cash. So be ready,” my friend rejoined. “And it’s a nice gesture to bring the exact amount.”
My first visit with Mr. O was intriguing. The ticket office itself was not easy to find, located behind sliding unmarked doors adjacent to the Will Call booth. Once inside the brightly lit office, I held my ground at the ukettsukei informing the cheerful receptionist of my appointment.
“Ah, Buraun-su-tein-san,” she confirmed. “Mr. O is expected you. Just one moment please.”
I stood at the small reception counter, spare and clean save for a snow globe that housed a figurine of the Meiji Jingu, a Swallows desk calendar and a Munetaka Murakami bobblehead. I calmly gazed at these objects for a few moments until I was jolted somewhat by the arrival of Mr. O. He was tall and lithe, framed by a crisp black suit and white dress shirt. Open closer inspection I noted that his midnight blue necktie was adorned with a pattern of tiny Yakult Swallows mascots.
Mr. O beckoned reached out his hand, palm side up, beckoning me to the far end of the reception counter. He thanked me for my purchase and confirmed the location of our block of 40 tickets with the aid of a laminated seating chart of the Jingu. I issued a nod of gratitude after which he produced a small tray, purpose built for receiving cash. I unsheathed an envelope from my left breast pocket and soft laid the precise amount on the tray. Mr. O made a point to count it count bill by bill before thanking me. He bid me adieu with a gracious bow and a hope that my 39 friends and I would enjoy the game.
Unsurprisingly this year’s JCJ baseball outing required more tickets still. I had phoned Mr. O on a mid-summer’s afternoon to secure 60 seats for a pre-Rosh Hashanah match up vs. the dreaded Hanshin Tigers. As usual he thanked me for my patronage, noted the total price and asked me to visit the clandestine ticket office for pick up at my convenience. So, I arranged my schedule to do so after my dentist appointment.
The procedure at the ticket office was predictably the same as last year (the Murakami bobble head was stay on the counter). However, at the end of the transaction Mr. O asked me if I could join him briefly in the office. He beckoned me to a small ante-room next to the reception area. The room was furnished with two small sofas that faced each other and split by a small glass coffee table. Framing the sofa near the door was a large Japanese flag on the right and enormous stuffed animal version of the chubby Swallows mascot on the left. The environs felt on brand in just the right way.
“One moment, please,” Mr. O said. “I will be right with you.”
Alone in the inner sanctum of the Meiji Jingu I began to fantasize about what lay ahead. Perhaps I would be asked to join as an honorary (and aged) bat boy! Or might I be bestowed with an official Swallows cap. You know the FITTED kind from New Era that real ballplayers wear and not the adjustable model adorned by the great unwashed. Wait! No! It must be that today was the day that I was going to be given an audience with the Great Number 55, Munetaka Murakami himself! Yes! I would be meeting the slugger hero to both Japanese and Jews alike!
My dreamy state was broken by Mr. O who returned alone, closing the door behind him. He took up a seat opposite me and explained that he had a few questions that he was required to ask. Mr. O then preceded to interrogate me in Japanese and, for posterity and the amusement of the reader, I will recount the literal translation of my answers.
Q: Your group this year is even larger than last year, for which the Yakult Swallows organization is very grateful. May I ask if this is a group of business colleagues?
A: Your question is well received by the one sitting here. It is a group of the people who are not from work. It is a play group.
Q: I see. Well, can you please share what organization the group is associated with?
A: The group is only a group for friends. The friends who like baseball. The friends who are the go, go Swallows friends.
(At this point I could have sworn that the eyes of the massive Swallows mascot were trained on me. I began to feel beads of sweat forming under the blazer and OCBD shirt.)
Q: Hmmm. Well, you see, given the large size of the group this year I am required to take down the name of the organization. This is purely a precaution of course. Are the members of your group gaijin per chance?
A: Our group has so many types. We have the gaijin. We have the Japanese. We have the children who come from the homes of the big people who are gaijin and Japanese. Mr. O has trouble come to me today? Am I in trouble?
Q: Of course, you are not in trouble, Buraun-su-tein-san. But we do need to know the name of your organization for our records. Can you kindly share the name of your organization?
A: Well, we are the Friends of Adam who are the Friends of the Yakult Swallows. This is the name for us.
Mr. O proceeded to write down “Adam’s Group” in his notebook.
Q: Thank you. That will do for now. As you can imagine sometimes we have gaijin fans who are a bit rowdy at our Jingu Stadium. We need the contact information of any group that is large. I am sure that Adam’s Group will be well behaved, but just in case my I have your cell phone number for my records?
A: Of course. I am honored to say the number of my handphone.
And with that, Mr. O opened the door of the interrogation room. I was free to go, and not a moment too soon.
Walking back to Gaienmae Station, I was overcome by a mixed emotional cocktail of guilt, relief, and curiosity. Inside the interrogation room, I instinctively did not want to reveal that our group of 60 fans hailed from the Jewish Community of Japan. Judaism and the other monotheistic cultures West are not well understood nor oft spoken about in Tokyo. They are often viewed as curious cults in a country with a somewhat ambivalent attitude about organized religion. There are a few charming cultural associations. Einstein. Bernstein. Bagels. That’s about it. Not wanting to blow our cover and risk the night at the ballpark, I had played the ball where it lied with Mr. O.
There is a hopeful epilogue to my ticket tale. This year Rosh Hashanah fell on Shabbat. Seeing it on the calendar several weeks ago was a source of joy and sadness all at once. Joy in that it would be followed by an epically fun community dinner replete with overly salted chicken, fresh dates hand delivered from Israeli by Cantor Yoni, and matzo balls as dense as stones. Sadness because like all Friday nights, my pre-teen daughter would be at rhythmic gymnastics practice. Gymnastics in Japan is not like my AYSO experience circa 1979 (a casual two days a week of practice and one game on Saturdays). It is six days a week practicing for two to three hours a pop. It is a commitment that is not for the faint of heart. Missing a practice, even on Friday night, can be met with guilt, scorn and status diminishment.
But on the afternoon of Erev Rosh Hashanah I got a text from my daughter.
“Dad! I’m going to Rosh Hashanah tonight!” she thumbed.
“But what about rhythmic gymnastics?” I queried. “What about your coach?”
“It’s OK, Dad! I told my coach about it. I explained it’s IMPORTANT to me!” she answered.
As it turns out, my wife, who is Japanese, had coached our daughter to find the right way to share with the coaches and teammates about our family’s Jewish culture. It was a brave act that had my nachas meter redlining.
It’s funny. Both cultures are filled with the ideals we as parents need to teach to our children. Study hard. Treat others as you wish to be treated. Eat your vegetables. Etc. etc. But kids have the uncanny ability to teach us. They speak their minds. They don’t give up. They’re true to themselves.
I’m looking forward to our JCJ Night at the Ballpark next season. With a little bit of coaching from my daughter I think I’ll be ready to tell Mr. O more about our group.
The Tokyo Yenta 