George Hayano enjoys a day watching baseball with his dad, Hiro, and our dsm contributor Matt Nelson.
Writer and Photographer: Matt Nelson
“I’ve been looking forward to this game for weeks,” Hiro Hayano says. He grins like a schoolboy.
The sun is unusually strong for late October in Japan, and Hiro’s 4-year-old son, George, has a white hand towel draped over his head, like a little ghost. As a chorus of sharp pops ring out from the pregame warmups, Hiro is nothing short of entranced. But George is more interested in me and my potential as a living playground.
A high school game draws huge crowds to Hodogaya Stadium in Kanagawa, Japan.
Young George and Hiro Hayano
It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday here at Hodogaya Stadium, and baseball fans are already walking around the stands with cups of foamy beer. I’m a long way from home in Des Moines, but I can easily recall nights watching the Iowa Cubs at Principal Park (back when it was called Sec Taylor Stadium). The stands here in Kanagawa, south of Tokyo, are packed — not for a professional or even college game, but for a high school rivalry.
Hiro and hundreds of other fans arrived early this morning to get tickets and catch some of the pregame practice. He can tell me where each player is from, how old he is and how he excels on the field. We sit in the sun, behind the third base dugout, and the mood is light as the Yamanashi boys take an early lead.
“Do you ever recognize any of the players when you’re around town in Kofu?” I ask Hiro while George tries to slip a plastic cockroach down the back of my shirt.
“Yes, sometimes at the supermarket,” Hiro replies. “But I pretend not to notice and never say anything. It’s kind of embarrassing.” He grins.
Hiro grew up in a different prefecture, but he and his family live in Yamanashi, where his wife, Akimi, grew up. So he adopted the local team and follows them religiously. “Some of these players will go into professional baseball,” he tells me.
As we munch on ballpark fare — I bought hot dogs and churros outside the stadium — I notice a man nearby eating rice and meat with chopsticks out of Tupperware. Farther away, I see two two lively student sections, each with a band and cheerleading squad, and fans focused on the field. In Japan, high school baseball is as big as high school football in the United States.
I walk around the stadium to stretch my legs and take some pictures, and little George tags along. He’s attached to my hip or, to be more precise, he’s karate-chopping my hips and trying to kick but mercifully missing regions more vulnerable.
I first met Hiro in Des Moines in 2022, when he was visiting with a delegation from Yamanashi prefecture. Two years later he and Akimi, who’d studied in Des Moines for a semester, hosted a friend and me for a night at their home in Kofu.
After paying a visit to the student sections, I return to find George strapped comfortably back into his stroller. Yamanashi is still ahead but has been making errors left and right, which is highly uncommon, Hiro assures me. (The team hadn’t made a single error in the 17 preceding games). They rotate through their remaining pitchers as Kanagawa comes back and ties the game in the ninth inning. Hiro’s stomach is in knots.
As the game stretches to extra innings, each team starts with two base runners, on first and second, to speed the game along. Yamanashi takes the field and brings in their sixth and final pitcher. Kanagawa uses a sacrifice bunt to advance the runners before Yamanashi walks the next batter (Kanagawa’s finest) to load the bases with only one out.
He keeps repeating himself: “I’m so nervous, man.” For him, a baseball field is almost a sacred space where time stops and everything else fades. A few weeks earlier, with his family in the mountains, I watched him take a practice swing with an invisible bat. With that look on his face, he could have been on another planet.
Yamanashi somehow squeaks through the inning while allowing just one run. The guys line up to bat with a vengeance. Still up against Kanagawa’s clearly fatigued starting pitcher — “their only good one,” Hiro tells me — Yamanashi’s batters send one line drive after another into the gaps to win the game. The crowd applauds, and Hiro gives me a big hug and a high five as the winning run crosses the plate. The team will advance to the next round of the national tournament.
After the game, Hiro takes us to a restaurant called Jonathan’s, which is essentially a Denny’s, except there are only about two visible staffers. We place our orders via a digital tablet at our table, a few minutes before a robot delivers our meal. I can’t decide if this has more to do with Japanese ingenuity or introversion, or maybe both.
The place is full with other fans from the game. The host gives us a token for the capsule-toy vending machine in the lobby, so George can get a free toy. The floors are sticky, but the food is great, like most places in Japan, including the big chains.
Hiro asks me about my work and travels, and I ask him about his life in Yamanashi. I think we’re both fascinated by each other’s life. He had traveled widely in his youth, met his wife while he was living in Australia and still travels with his family. They’re planning a trip to Korea next year and regularly visit Iowa to see friends.
He asks about my upcoming trip to India. I don’t know how long I’ll be there, but I tell him I hope to be in Japan for part of the spring. He seems interested in my nomadic life for the same reason I envy his stability. We’re at opposite ends of the spectrum. The grass seems greener …
Hiro grabs the bill, and we get ready to part ways.
“You should stay with us in Kofu when you’re back,” he offers. I hug him and George goodbye. I keep waving at George as he walks away backward, waving and smiling, holding his dad’s hand, and getting smaller with every step.
Read more about Des Moines’ ties to Japan and Yamanashi Prefecture in the story “Sister States” from our May/June 2025 publication.
