Taking Swings in Kiba Park

There aren’t too many places at 35°41' North latitude where you can play outdoor tennis in January. Tokyo is one of them. Ironically, in order to avoid the sun’s tanning rays, Japanese women wear more clothing to play tennis in July than in January. In summer’s 137% humidity, I perspire walking to the subway in a t-shirt, but that doesn’t stop women from wearing full sweat suits with long sleeves, mittens and visors inspired by Darth Vader.

In cooler conditions and under cloudy skies, I joined the Yamakuma family at well-maintained grass courts in Kiba Park, a half hour walk from my apartment. Kiba means “tree place,” and alludes to the lumber stockyards of the Edo period.

Nowadays, an unsightly concrete bridge accents the park, which attracts a crowd of retired shutterbugs who assemble tripods to document the local wildlife – pampered pooches and plump pigeons. Winter doesn’t enhance this drab park’s appeal, but when in Tokyo one learns to relish open spaces of any kind, even “parks” nestled under overpasses.

I tutor Jiro, the Yamakuma’s 7th grade daughter, for an hour on Saturday mornings. She showed up with a racquet, as did adult 6 family friends. We rented two courts, one for the husbands and the other for the wives. I was assigned to the wives’ court.

For two hours we played matches of four games each, rotating partners. While I hadn’t held a racket since an embarrassing defeat at the hands of an American 7th grader while vacationing in Oman a year ago, at least I was able to follow Japanese tennis jargon as we volleyed balls and apologies for hitting them. A typical point consisted of the following dialogue, gasped in staccato female whimpers:

Oh, I’m sorry! Are you ready?
Ahh, excuse me. I’m sorry.
It’s short, excuse me.
It’s okay. Sorry.
Oh, nice serve!
It’s short, so short. I’m sorry.
Almost!
Okay, next. Your turn, please.
Excuse me, please have a ball. Thank you.
Oh, thank you so much. I’m sorry.
Okay, it’s no trouble. Thank you.

My underhand serve needs work before next week’s qualifying match for Tokyo’s Toray Pan Pacific Open, but I’m set to practice with Nubata’s tennis club after school (also outdoors).

Walking through Kiba Park triggered memories of an earlier visit. I’ve had many bizarre encounters in Tokyo, but this perhaps outranks them all. Back in July, a salaryman at Daruma restaurant took me drinking around the neighborhood. Our last stop was a street cart named yatai. These are portable food vendors, but with fixed sidewalk locations.

I pulled up a stool, and the salaryman ordered me a can of Asahi and a bowl of oden, a hodepodge stew of strange root vegetables. Four other locals yammering in Japanese ringed the wooden cart, but became intrigued with the foreign diner.

A woman had a son my age, but after 45 minutes the salaryman left me on my own for translations. A man of about 50 with a shaved head and athletic build bought me another can and then a round of sake, which unfortunately were not elixirs to clarify his speech. Even the salaryman had trouble comprehending his thick Japanese with a heavy accent of intoxication.

The yatai chef was calling it a night, and my new friend – missing a bottom front tooth – smiled at me to follow him to the corner. Before the light changed to cross, he hailed us a cab. Climbing in sent shockwaves of uncertainty in this order: (1) cabs are an unaffordable luxury, (2) how was I going to get home from where we were going, (3) where were we going and (4) who the hell was this guy?

I began noting landmarks to help me retrace the route for the long walk home. Two right turns and a trapezoidal bridge later, the cab stopped. There was a convenience store and park. We went into the conbini first.

“Hanabi!” I pointed at the fireworks hanging from a rack by the door. I thought I had seen it all, the young clerk was thinking to himself as he eyed the drunken odd couple buying fireworks at half past midnight on a weekday.

The man, who paid for the cab and fireworks, hadn’t stopped talking through either. I was absolutely clueless as to what he was saying as we walked to a grassy field illuminated by street lamps.

I gazed up at the night sky. The next thing I knew, I was seeing stars. I had been knocked off my feet with some martial arts maneuver. And now I was angry. I charged back to return the favor, but bounced off; he was built like an ox.

I can’t remember how long this midnight melee lasted, but it ended as abruptly as it began. He started walking home. I ran after him to hand him the fireworks we’d abandoned. A banzai scream broke the silence as he punted the package into a stand of trees.

I woke up at noon wondering if it was all but a dream. Grass stains on my track pants told otherwise.