appeased.
"How can you call yourself a Tigers fan?"
"But I am—a big fan. When I was in college, I went to the library
at lunch to read the sports pages. But I did more than just read
about baseball. You see, no other sport is captured so perfectly by its
statistics, its numbers. I analyzed the data for the Hanshin players,
their batting averages and ERAs, and by tracking the changes, even
miniscule shifts, I could picture the flow of the games in my head."
"And that was fun?"
"Of course it was. Even without the radio, I could keep every
detail fixed in my mind: Enatsu's first victory as a pro in 1967—he
beat the Carp with ten strikeouts; the game in 1973 when he
pitched an extra-innings no-hitter and then hit a walk-off home
run himself." Just at that moment, the announcer on the radio
mentioned the name of the Tigers starting pitcher, Kasai. "So
when is Enatsu scheduled to pitch?" the Professor asked.
"He's a little farther on in the rotation," Root answered without
missing a beat. It surprised me to see him acting so grown-up.
We'd promised that where Enatsu was concerned, we'd do anything
to keep up the illusion. Still, it made us uncomfortable to lie
to the Professor, and it was hard to know whether it was really in
his best interest. But we could not bear to upset him again.
"We can tell him that Enatsu's back in the dugout, or that he's
throwing in the bullpen," Root had said.
Since Enatsu had retired long before Root was born, he'd gone
to the library to find out about him. He learned that he had a career
record of 206 wins, 158 losses, and 193 saves, with 2,987
strikeouts. He'd hit a home run in his second at bat as a pro; he
had short fingers for a pitcher. He'd struck out his great rival, Sadaharu
Oh, more than any other pitcher, but he'd also surrendered
the most home runs to him. In the course of their rivalry, however,
he'd never hit Oh with a pitch. During the 1968 season, he set a
world record with 401 strikeouts, and after the 1975 season (the
year the Professor's memory came to an end), he'd been traded to
the Nankai Hawks.
Root had wanted to know more about Enatsu, so he would seem
more real to both of them as they listened to the cheers on the radio.
While I had been struggling with the "homework" problem,
he had been seeing to the Enatsu problem. Then one day, as I was
flipping through a copy of Baseball Players Illustrated that he'd
brought home from the library, I was stunned to find a picture of
Enatsu, and see on his uniform the number 28. When he'd graduated
from Osaka Gakuin and joined the Tigers, he'd been offered
the three available numbers: 1, 13, and 28. He'd chosen 28. Enatsu
had played his whole career with a perfect number on his back!
That evening, after dinner, we presented our solution. We stood
before the Professor, pen and paper in hand, and bowed.
"This is the problem you gave us," said Root. "Find the sum of
the numbers from 1 to 10 without adding them." He cleared his
throat and then, just as we'd arranged the night before, I held the
notebook while he wrote the numbers 1 to 9 in a line, adding 10
farther down on the page. "We already know the answer. It's 55. I
added them up and that's what I got. But you didn't care about
the answer."
The Professor folded his arms and listened intently, as if hanging
on to Root's every word.
"So we decided to think about 1 to 9 first, and forget about 10
for right now. The number 5 is in the middle, so it's the ...
uh ..."
"Average," I whispered in his ear.
"Right, the average. We haven't learned averages yet, so Momma
helped me with that part. If you add up 1 through 9 and divide by
9 you get 5 ... so 5 × 9 = 45, that's the sum of the numbers 1 to 9.
And now it's time to bring back the 10."
5 × 9 + 10 = 55
Root took the pen and wrote the equation on the pad.
The Professor sat studying what he had written, and I was sure
then that my moment of inspiration must look laughably crude to
him. I'd known from the start that I
"How can you call yourself a Tigers fan?"
"But I am—a big fan. When I was in college, I went to the library
at lunch to read the sports pages. But I did more than just read
about baseball. You see, no other sport is captured so perfectly by its
statistics, its numbers. I analyzed the data for the Hanshin players,
their batting averages and ERAs, and by tracking the changes, even
miniscule shifts, I could picture the flow of the games in my head."
"And that was fun?"
"Of course it was. Even without the radio, I could keep every
detail fixed in my mind: Enatsu's first victory as a pro in 1967—he
beat the Carp with ten strikeouts; the game in 1973 when he
pitched an extra-innings no-hitter and then hit a walk-off home
run himself." Just at that moment, the announcer on the radio
mentioned the name of the Tigers starting pitcher, Kasai. "So
when is Enatsu scheduled to pitch?" the Professor asked.
"He's a little farther on in the rotation," Root answered without
missing a beat. It surprised me to see him acting so grown-up.
We'd promised that where Enatsu was concerned, we'd do anything
to keep up the illusion. Still, it made us uncomfortable to lie
to the Professor, and it was hard to know whether it was really in
his best interest. But we could not bear to upset him again.
"We can tell him that Enatsu's back in the dugout, or that he's
throwing in the bullpen," Root had said.
Since Enatsu had retired long before Root was born, he'd gone
to the library to find out about him. He learned that he had a career
record of 206 wins, 158 losses, and 193 saves, with 2,987
strikeouts. He'd hit a home run in his second at bat as a pro; he
had short fingers for a pitcher. He'd struck out his great rival, Sadaharu
Oh, more than any other pitcher, but he'd also surrendered
the most home runs to him. In the course of their rivalry, however,
he'd never hit Oh with a pitch. During the 1968 season, he set a
world record with 401 strikeouts, and after the 1975 season (the
year the Professor's memory came to an end), he'd been traded to
the Nankai Hawks.
Root had wanted to know more about Enatsu, so he would seem
more real to both of them as they listened to the cheers on the radio.
While I had been struggling with the "homework" problem,
he had been seeing to the Enatsu problem. Then one day, as I was
flipping through a copy of Baseball Players Illustrated that he'd
brought home from the library, I was stunned to find a picture of
Enatsu, and see on his uniform the number 28. When he'd graduated
from Osaka Gakuin and joined the Tigers, he'd been offered
the three available numbers: 1, 13, and 28. He'd chosen 28. Enatsu
had played his whole career with a perfect number on his back!
That evening, after dinner, we presented our solution. We stood
before the Professor, pen and paper in hand, and bowed.
"This is the problem you gave us," said Root. "Find the sum of
the numbers from 1 to 10 without adding them." He cleared his
throat and then, just as we'd arranged the night before, I held the
notebook while he wrote the numbers 1 to 9 in a line, adding 10
farther down on the page. "We already know the answer. It's 55. I
added them up and that's what I got. But you didn't care about
the answer."
The Professor folded his arms and listened intently, as if hanging
on to Root's every word.
"So we decided to think about 1 to 9 first, and forget about 10
for right now. The number 5 is in the middle, so it's the ...
uh ..."
"Average," I whispered in his ear.
"Right, the average. We haven't learned averages yet, so Momma
helped me with that part. If you add up 1 through 9 and divide by
9 you get 5 ... so 5 × 9 = 45, that's the sum of the numbers 1 to 9.
And now it's time to bring back the 10."
5 × 9 + 10 = 55
Root took the pen and wrote the equation on the pad.
The Professor sat studying what he had written, and I was sure
then that my moment of inspiration must look laughably crude to
him. I'd known from the start that I
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