World Cup commentary a whole new ball game

BILINGUAL

By KAORI SHOJI

It's the season of the Warudo Kappu (World Cup, duh!), the season that screams: Sakka fuan ni arazuba hito ni arazu (Those who aren't soccer fans aren't even people). At least until July 11 (the day after the World Cup final) that is, or until the sakka netsu (soccer fever) abates -- whichever comes first.




So why not cave in and join the matsuri (festival), which, after all, only comes around once every four years. This time the Jyapan Irebun (Japan Eleven) is helmed by none other than Kamisama Zico (Zico the God) who, after all, is one of the leading forces that put J.League soccer on the map during his stint as a player and then technical director at Kashima Antlers.

As one of the supotsushi (sports tabloids) put it, when one looks back on the long, arduous road that Japan took from having no organized professional soccer league at all to becoming a contender in the international field, "namida nakushitewa katarenai (We can't talk about it without getting all teary)."

Besides, sorry to be a girl about this, but really, the Nihon Daihyo (Japan national team) is full of ikemen (good-looking guys), making the whole soccer viewing experience that much more delightful. There's something incredibly macho about the Jyapan Irebun sprinting and sweating all over the field, giving off steely cool and tossing their manes. And while we're at it, does anyone know what kind of hair product goalkeeper Yoshikatsu Kawaguchi uses? His hair is always suspiciously sarasara (silky and sleek) even when the rest of him is drenched in sweat. (OK, I'll stop.)

The other realization, apparent to anyone listening closely to the television commentary is that, like most other things imported from the West that Japan has embraced as its own, sakka has spawned a language and glossary unique to Japan. The phrases and words are now bandied about by sportscasters and journalists as if they had been spewing them from the cradle, and by 2010 I'm betting there will be enough new sakka bokya (soccer vocabulary) to fill an entire dictionary. For now, here are a few phrases that may fill you in on broadcast soccer lingo. Who knows, by the end of the month you too, may be joining the nation in that Jyapan Irebun battle cry: "Ike Ike Nippon! (Go Japan!)"

1. Boranchi (free player, more commonly known by the Italian term, libero): The foreign press has pointed out that Japan doesn't have a bona fide libero. We like to think that in the last four years certain players on the team, namely Hidetoshi Nakata and Takashi Fukunishi, have been groomed for the role, though Nakata (a veteran with over 70 caps) is better known as a shireito, the command or control tower. Interestingly, in Japan, bo-ranchi often has the nuance of a defensive midfield position while libero is usually translated as a sweeper in the Franz Beckenbauer mold.

2. Suta-men (starting members): The 11 players selected to start a match. Being chosen to be a suta-men is an honor, proof that a player has won Zico's absolute trust.

3. Sensei goru (the first goal of a match): Japan's football commentators put great stock in which team scores first. Here, sensei loosely translates as the first controlling move of the match and that first goal is believed to set the tone and mood for the rest of the game.

4. Feinto (dummy kick): Some players are better at it than others, but Shunsuke Nakamura can be quite devilish with this move.

5. Norukku pasu (dummy pass): It's generally believed that the Japan team isn't really comfortable with trick plays like this and, on the whole, prefers to fight like gentlemen. Those who remember the South Korea-Japan World Cup four years ago will recall that this trait frustrated the former Japan coach Philippe Troussier no end, who once denounced the Jyapan Irebun for having no battle spirit and behaving like naive little boys.

Speaking of coaches, Kamisama Zico is a totally different type from the handsomely groomed Troussier, who always showed up for practices in immaculate suits and taught the Jyapan Irebun to value strategy over individual flair. Zico, on the other hand, has come to resemble a rumpled Nippon no Otosan (Japanese Dad) in terms of his wardrobe choices. He favors jyaji (sweat pants and a sweat shirt) and has no qualms about jumping out of the dugout to make a point to his players. Sections of the vernacular press have berated him for lacking as a sakushi (strategist), but the Irebun revere him in a way that always eluded Troussier.

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Osim is next to continue 'sports bully' tradition

BILINGUAL


By KAORI SHOJI

In the wake of Japan's disastrous World Cup campaign, the mood in the country has swung quickly from darkly pessimistic to remarkably upbeat. Much of it has to do with the appointment of the new national team coach, Ivica Osim.




Unlike his predecessor, Zico, Osim is reputedly a coach that understands the way to the Japanese heart, not by being polite or likable, but by both being an oni (ogre) and being taiikukai-kei (loosely translated as from the school of athletic aesthetics) to his very core. Most pundits are now saying that Zico was too lenient on his players, and that consequently they became deluded as to their real capabilities on the pitch.

Osim, on the other hand, shows no mercy on his stooges. An absolute disciplinarian and the type to tataite nobasu (crush the players' esteem in order to help them grow), Osim was picked for his steely determination. After all, he pulled the wimpy J. League team Jeff United Chiba up from obscurity to making it into a genuine contender.

Interestingly, there is a long-standing tradition in Japan of trusting and admiring bullies, especially sporty ones like Osim.

This has much to do with our school system. Starting from chugakko (junior high school) when extra-curricular sports activities begin in earnest, the no-pain, no-gain, fight-till-you-drop sports attitude is drummed into teenagers in a way that can mold and shape their entire adult life.

Naturally, some kids take to the taiikukai-kei value system with gusto, while others learn to fervently hate the whole sports and taiiku (physical education classes) package.

I liked sports, but I still entertained fantasies of fixing my school tennis coach's feet in clay and pinging sweetly struck forehand drives at him with the hundreds of Dunlop balls he busted during practice just to prove a point, which invariably amounted to: "Omaera zenin kuzuda! Bakayaro, yamechimae! (You're all trash! You idiots, why don't you just quit!)"

Back then, concepts like "verbal abuse" didn't exist, especially not during bukatsu (extra-curricular school activities). You either learned to stay on the, um, ball, or you learned to drop out. And when you happened to be at a shingakuko (an upper-crust school where students are adept at both sports and study), dropping out often put a permanent dent on your hyoban (reputation) and your life as a teenager: You were a loser. You were weak. You were too uncoordinated.

But you forged on, despite the fact that fewer things in life are as grueling as bukatsu no renshu (practicing extra-curricular activities), and fewer things can be so meaningless as the traditional practice methods favored by Japanese sports bullies for decades.

These include doing usagitobi on a long, steep staircase (literally "rabbit jumping," or squat-jumping with one's hands clasped behind the back), kuki-isu (literally, "invisible chair," bending the knees and supporting yourself in a sitting position with your back touching, but not leaning, against the wall) and every bully's favorite, endless marathon laps around the kotei (schoolyard) under a scorching midafternoon sun. Never mind that these activities took up much more time than, say, shooting drills on the soccer pitch or swinging the shinai (bamboo sword) used in kendo.

The first rule of thumb seemed to be that everyone had to weep, pass out, vomit or all of the above from sheer exhaustion -- before we were allowed to actually play the sport of our choice. And let's not even mention the trials and tribulations suffered during gasshuku (intensive training camp), which amounted to doing all that and then some, from dusk till dawn.

This is the rub, however: taiikukai memories last a long, long time. It can bond people like nothing else.

They say love brings people together. Well, in Japan it's the knowledge that the other person went through the same muscle strains and liberal pouring of sweat that builds trust and inspires camaraderie.

Coach Osim probably knows all about it. Famed for piling the work-outs onto an already-crammed training menu and making his players run and run and run, he has tossed off remarks like: "They throw up, so what? That's what soccer is all about, no?"

Truly, the man seems to have been fashioned by some taiikukai-kei god up in sports heaven. Or hell.

http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/ek20060808ks.html

Manga frenzy proves that we're all kids at heart

By KAORI SHOJI

That whole deal about growing up and behaving like an adult? Scrap it, you don't have to — at least not in the Japan of recent years. Adult responsibilities, adult worries, adult concerns — while we all know such things exist, it's become possible to dodge them well into your 30s and 40s, in a kind of sedated state of child-nirvana.




Japanese culture — especially after the nation's surrender in World War II, has nurtured a child-fixation that deems childhood as the ideal state of being. Perhaps the hardships of war, the humiliation of defeat and subsequent dramatic collapse of prewar values — sacrificing your life for the common good and prosperity of the family and nation — prompted people to seek a psychological escape hatch.

In any event, while prewar Japanese media paid hardly any attention to children, the postwar media came to be overrn by okosama bunka (kiddie culture), manga and anime being the prime examples.

In the 1970s, the otona (grownups) of the nation still frowned on television anime and considered reading too much manga as harmful for the brain (no wo kusaraseru, meaning "rotted brains," was the popular phrase of the era when it came to kids and their cartoon-strip obsession). They also claimed that children could not differentiate between idoru (idols) on the box in every home from Hokkaido to Okinawa.

Now, the generation that grew up watching anime and immersed themselves in manga has come of age and, far from scowling, will sit down in front of the TV with their kids and watch hours of anime or fight over who gets to play the Nintendo DS or Sony PlayStation.

This is a generation that has been trained to know their idoru, name each and every one of the "Momosu" (short for the all-girl pop group Morning Musume), sing J-pop star Kumi Koda at karaoke if the occasion calls for it, and download pictures of boy-band Kat-tun to use as screen savers. Who these celebrities are is far less important than the fact that ii otona (fully grown people who should know better, as adults used to chime way back when) will actually spend a chunk of their waking hours doing this stuff.

Indeed, the whole concept of "otona" has shifted over time under our fidgety feet. At the beginning of the 20th century, many Japanese went to work straight out of elementary school, married at 19 or 20, were drafted into the army and often died on the battlefield or during childbirth. Survival meant returning to nonstop giri (obligations) and otonano shigoto (adult duties). They most often died between the ages of 45 and 50.

Reaching kanreki (one's 60th birthday) was cause for major celebration, whereby the family hosted oiwai (festivities) for the noble elder, as he sat in the obligatory akai chanchanko (a flaming-red vest, reserved for kanreki festivities). The age of 70 was called koki (turning 70)and living to that age put one on par with a minor deity.

Now of course, the Japanese are among the longest-living people in the world. Getting to 60 years old is nothing, and rare is the person who celebrates the occasion with a red vest. Mada wakai (still young) is now the remark afforded to those in their 60s and, as for people in their 30s and 40s, well they're just babies. The popular belief now is that in terms of knowledge, wisdom and joshiki (common sense), today's 35-year-old is the equivalent of a 20-year-old of 50 years ago. Little wonder that our most popular J-pop band consisting of guys approaching 40 is called Mr. Children.

Fortunately — or not — it's now possible to live in a semipermanent state of extended childhood, which is probably the reason why less and less Japanese are willing to get married or have kids of their own. Jibun hitorinokotode seiippai (I have my hands full just looking after myself) has become a common and perfectly acceptable reply to the question, Naze kekkon shinaino (why don't you get married)?

In the meantime, we must rely on best-selling books like "Otona Yoseikoza (A Crash Course in Adulthood)" to get in touch with what otona really are, or were. Whatever. It's the real kids one feels sorry for. Speaking from personal experience, reading manga and filling your head with idoru tidbits was far more gratifying when the adults scolded and yelled and thrust hardcover editions of Meiji Era (1868-1912) literature into your reluctant hands. What's the fun in being a kid when the adults are going to act in the exact same way?

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Boot-camp bukatsu no place for the fainthearted

BILINGUAL

By KAORI SHOJI

Coming out of the Japanese education system, one is thankful for one thing: No more bukatsu (after-school activities)! No more running 50 laps around the school grounds until your lungs are almost bursting out from your throat, no more kowtowing to the senpai (seniors) or having to spend most of one's waking hours sweating and panting, then trying to recover during classes.




Afterward, one would inevitably fall asleep, head pressed down onto the pages of an open algebra textbook. Looking back, one marvels at how anyone graduated from junior high and high school, or made it to college for that matter.

Later, one is acutely aware of huge gaps in educational knowledge. Geometry? Natural science? Forget it. Strangely though, as the years go by the nostalgia one feels for bukatsu increases.

There's just nothing in the life of a Japanese adult that comes close to the strenuousness, the physical stress and severe jyoge kankei (top-down relationships) that define the bukatsu. It was as if adrenaline gushed to peak levels and stayed there every single day. Imagine being a permanent member of Billy's Boot Camp, without the fun, without Billy and clad in school-mandated jyaji (nylon sweats) and you'll get the picture. Not all Japanese kids are made to join bukatsu of course; there are many who go the bunka-kei (cultural) route and join dokusho (literature appreciation) clubs and sado (tea ceremony) clubs.

Believe me, I wished with every fiber of my being that I had been one of those kids. But having enrolled in the tennis-bu (tennis club) — a particularly strict club in our school — there was literally no escape. To say you were quitting brought on the same feelings and connotations as a prison-break. It just wasn't done; so you just didn't do it.

Even today when Japanese society and schools have become so much more jiyu (liberal) than 20 years ago, the bukatsu experience remains pretty much the same. The ichinensei (freshmen) are expected to fetch and carry, clean the bushitsu (club locker room) and, during gasshuku (concentrated camp training that's done away from school in some rural area), wash the senpai's uniforms, keep the mugicha (barley tea) cold, and many other chores that come on top of all the training and practicing. The ninensei (second-year students) are expected to supervise the ichinensei and make sure everything is carried out without a hitch. They also deal with injuries, provide mental counseling and intervene in any fights. The sanensei (the seniors) are often the regula school team members and so are expected to do honor to the school by winning tournaments.

The pressure is enormous, not to mention the pressure of juken (university entrance exams) looming over the existence like a dark and foreboding cloud. It's no wonder many Japanese profess to putting on weight drastically once they graduate and are liberated from bukatsu — there's rarely any other time in the life of a Japanese person that requires so much concentrated physical and mental activity, and the related emotional drama that comes with it.

A lot of people, reminiscing about their bukatsu-centric school days, will get all teary and surprisingly eloquent. The most oft-repeated phrase, "ano korowa kagayaieteita!" (literally, those days shined brilliantly) says a lot about adolescence in Japan, how the no-pain-no-gain aesthetics and quasi-military emphasis on obedience and discipline can draw out some real happiness during that chaotic period. Or perhaps it's just that all the physical strain and having to study obliterates most other concerns and ennui.

The bukatsu experience stays with you for life, which is a big part of why many of the bestselling books are all about bukatsu. The enormously popular "Battery" by Atsuko Asano is about 12-year-old boys locked in baseball bukatsu, the friendships and animosities and the incredible amount of practice they go through. The wholesomeness and pure single-mindedness of the characters are a bit over the top but the sentiments about team spirit and joy of physical achievement are things any bukatasu alumni can identify with.

Seishun (blue spring) is a phrase used to describe youth, but many Japanese will often equate their seishun with bukatsu, how hard it was, and the youthful glories reaped from it all.

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