his son.
In addition, airline and hotel reservations rose 20 percent, the latter thanks primarily to visitors from Japan who were paying
up to $2,000 for baseball package tours. This caused the subsequent debut of sushi stands at Safeco, selling “Ichirolls” (tuna
rolls for $9), for example. Headbands emblazoned with the
kanji
slogan for “Water Warrior” (a Mariners nickname) also went on sale, and a large Nissan sign in
katakana
was erected inside the park. The Pacific Northwest had never seemed more Japanese.
Analysts predicted that the Ichiro factor—when one included ticket sales, souvenirs and advertising—would move over $100 million
into Seattle’s economy over a five-year span.
NHK, Japan’s quasi-national television network, which had opened up a permanent booth in the Safeco upper deck, was telecasting
live all Seattle games—182 of them including exhibition and playoff games—back to Japan, where Ichiro was suddenly the talk
of the land. Almost overnight, solely because of him, Japan had gone from a country that sporadically watched American baseball
to one that watched Seattle Mariners games with something approaching religious fervor, even though the 16-hour time difference
meant that the games were televised in the morning.
Tokyo taxi drivers plied the streets with their radios tuned to the Mariners’ play-by-play in Japanese, while the numerous
sports dailies—14 in all with circulations of up to several hundred thousand each—carried detailed reports on every move Ichiro
made. His success in the big leagues was the story of the year in Japan, the story of the decade, perhaps. He got more attention
than the Emperor and the Prime Minister combined. Everybody wanted a piece of him, from the mainstream newspapers, with circulations
running well into the millions, to the myriad network TV shows, as well as the weekly and monthly magazines. The
Yukan Fuji,
an evening tabloid, featured the exploits of Ichiro on its back page every single day and saw its sales jump dramatically.
The Yomiuri Giants, a national institution whose games had been televised nationwide nearly every evening since April 1954,
saw their ratings drop.
With homegrown baseball suddenly relegated to second-tier status, “How did Ichiro do today?” became a new way of saying hello
in Japan.
The Mariners had given credentials to 166 reporters dispatched from Japan, many of whom were to take up permanent residence
in the Puget Sound area and follow Ichiro around 24/7 the entire season. This caused not a few headaches for the Mariners’
media relations department, bombarded as they were daily with requests for information.
The Japanese reporters on the scene were on orders from their editors to file something new and interesting about Ichiro every
day, along with photos. This was not easy, because the object of their attentions followed the same unvarying, if lengthy,
pre- and postgame routines with such religiosity that a minor event such as the delivery by Ichiro of a
bent
of pickled
onigiri
packed by Mrs. Suzuki for Bret Boone (or even a gratuitous nose-picking) qualified as news. After one workout, a Japanese
writer approached Seattle coach John McLaren and asked, “Yesterday, Ichiro swung 214 times in batting practice. Today he swung
only 196 times. What is the problem?”
Desperate for something different, reporters staked out the condo in Bellevue where Ichiro and his wife lived. They sifted
through the Suzuki family garbage and badgered the neighbors for information. When a pictorial scandal magazine offered $1
million for a photograph of Ichiro in the nude and photographers took to hiding out in the bushes near his backyard, Ichiro
was forced to move to a house in East Bellevue to protect his privacy, as well as shower in private at the ballpark. (He declined
an offer from an insouciant fellow Mariner to take a snapshot in the altogether and split the money.)
Observing
In addition, airline and hotel reservations rose 20 percent, the latter thanks primarily to visitors from Japan who were paying
up to $2,000 for baseball package tours. This caused the subsequent debut of sushi stands at Safeco, selling “Ichirolls” (tuna
rolls for $9), for example. Headbands emblazoned with the
kanji
slogan for “Water Warrior” (a Mariners nickname) also went on sale, and a large Nissan sign in
katakana
was erected inside the park. The Pacific Northwest had never seemed more Japanese.
Analysts predicted that the Ichiro factor—when one included ticket sales, souvenirs and advertising—would move over $100 million
into Seattle’s economy over a five-year span.
NHK, Japan’s quasi-national television network, which had opened up a permanent booth in the Safeco upper deck, was telecasting
live all Seattle games—182 of them including exhibition and playoff games—back to Japan, where Ichiro was suddenly the talk
of the land. Almost overnight, solely because of him, Japan had gone from a country that sporadically watched American baseball
to one that watched Seattle Mariners games with something approaching religious fervor, even though the 16-hour time difference
meant that the games were televised in the morning.
Tokyo taxi drivers plied the streets with their radios tuned to the Mariners’ play-by-play in Japanese, while the numerous
sports dailies—14 in all with circulations of up to several hundred thousand each—carried detailed reports on every move Ichiro
made. His success in the big leagues was the story of the year in Japan, the story of the decade, perhaps. He got more attention
than the Emperor and the Prime Minister combined. Everybody wanted a piece of him, from the mainstream newspapers, with circulations
running well into the millions, to the myriad network TV shows, as well as the weekly and monthly magazines. The
Yukan Fuji,
an evening tabloid, featured the exploits of Ichiro on its back page every single day and saw its sales jump dramatically.
The Yomiuri Giants, a national institution whose games had been televised nationwide nearly every evening since April 1954,
saw their ratings drop.
With homegrown baseball suddenly relegated to second-tier status, “How did Ichiro do today?” became a new way of saying hello
in Japan.
The Mariners had given credentials to 166 reporters dispatched from Japan, many of whom were to take up permanent residence
in the Puget Sound area and follow Ichiro around 24/7 the entire season. This caused not a few headaches for the Mariners’
media relations department, bombarded as they were daily with requests for information.
The Japanese reporters on the scene were on orders from their editors to file something new and interesting about Ichiro every
day, along with photos. This was not easy, because the object of their attentions followed the same unvarying, if lengthy,
pre- and postgame routines with such religiosity that a minor event such as the delivery by Ichiro of a
bent
of pickled
onigiri
packed by Mrs. Suzuki for Bret Boone (or even a gratuitous nose-picking) qualified as news. After one workout, a Japanese
writer approached Seattle coach John McLaren and asked, “Yesterday, Ichiro swung 214 times in batting practice. Today he swung
only 196 times. What is the problem?”
Desperate for something different, reporters staked out the condo in Bellevue where Ichiro and his wife lived. They sifted
through the Suzuki family garbage and badgered the neighbors for information. When a pictorial scandal magazine offered $1
million for a photograph of Ichiro in the nude and photographers took to hiding out in the bushes near his backyard, Ichiro
was forced to move to a house in East Bellevue to protect his privacy, as well as shower in private at the ballpark. (He declined
an offer from an insouciant fellow Mariner to take a snapshot in the altogether and split the money.)
Observing
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