(Previously on “Making of a Stalker….)
I was seeking an encounter with my hero, legendary Japanese baseball player/philanthropist/kung fu master/b-boy world champion/really just a baseball player, Munenori Kawasaki, or “Mune-kun” as I endearingly refer to him. To facilitate this meeting, I took a road trip with Whitelord (an equally avid Mune fan) to Des Moines, Iowa, where Mune-kun currently plays on the Iowa Cubs, the Chicago Cubs’ little bro-team.
So did it happen? Did I meet the ledge himself? I know you are all frothing at the mouth waiting to hear. So let me wipe that proverbial dribble from your mouths now.
…Right after I talk about Des Moines.
First off, apologies to Iowa, which I referred to as the “worst state ever.” It’s not the worst. In fact, Des Moines feels like one of the last great American cities. This is what America is supposed to feel like. Extraordinarily friendly locals, cheap parking, scenic views, no black people, bridges, gay friendly—it was a pleasant time to had. I may even go back sometime and go kayaking with some locals. Can’t say I’ll be planning a kayak trip anytime soon to Detroit.
Okay, let’s get back to the real story.
…
Hold up. One last thing I need to talk about.
Rental cars. Have you heard of these fucking things? I’d like to give a special shoutout to Enterprise Rental Cars, who can go SUCK A STRAW THROUGH A BABY’S BUTTHOLE.
Of course they asked us for a credit card. But I don’t believe in the ethics of these things, and Whitelord lives in Vietnam. So we asked if we could use a debit card.
Enterprise says, “You certainly may. Just provide us with a copy of your utility bill along with the card.”
A what!? A fucking utility bill?? For what purpose? To show that I own a stove? To prove that I am a human being?? To insinuate that I am not paying my bills on time because I carry them around in my pocket so I can pull them out to present to shoddy-ass car rental companies? The fuck outta here with that shit!
After Enterprise sharted all over us (and nearly cost us our trip) we went Hertz and some fat black chick was like, “Bitch, you can have yo damn car. Just don’t be gettin no cookie crumbs in dem car seats, ya huuuurd.” I fucks with Hertz.
AND NOW TIME FOR THE REAL STORY (*coyote howls at the moon*)
We made the 6 hour road trip and arrived at the baseball stadium (Pilgrim/Pride/generic “P” word Park) two hours early. This would probably be the ideal time to catch Mune-kun. Before the game. Sure enough, all the players were out there on the field, playing catch.
And they all belonged to the other team.
It looked like our chance to meet the icon before the game would not take place. No sweat. We knew there would be more opportunities.
When we saw him storming the field, we lost our shit. Mune-kun plays on the infield at shortstop, and Whitelord had purchased our tickets strategically close where he plays. Since the park was smaller than a major league team’s, we were in super close proximity. Within earshot.
We began screaming in Japanese at the top of our lungs. Of course he would acknowledge us.
Yet, Mune-kun was focused on the game, as I guess any good baseball player would be. We didn’t forsee this. For some reason we expected him to be out there, picking his nose, and having a conversation with us mid-game. Which I realize is retarded to expect that, in retrospect.
After the first inning ended, he faced in our direction and ran towards the team’s bench, immediately in front of us. We told him how awesome he was in his native language. His eyes locked onto us, he gave a faint smile, and in a low, almost hushed voice, he responded,
“Arigatou.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD MUNE-KUN ACKNOWLEDGED US! HE KNOWS WE EXIST!! HE KNOWS THAT–OH GOD I’M CHOKING WHITELORD I NEED TO CHILL OUT.
That was step one. And now we just needed him to play well so he’d be all giddy and happy after the game and then come out and drink sake with us.
That…did not happen. Mune-kun went 0-3 that game. Every time he stepped up to the plate, it ended terribly. And to make things worse, the Cubs lost as well. Mune-kun was not happy.
When the game ended, we posted up at the wall next to the dugout and waited for him to emerge. We were right in the middle of a sea of Japanese fans, which was surprising to see in a small city like this. Some of these fans had traveled from strange lands like “Toronto”, just to see Mune-kun play. Also there were four Japanese guys who had come to Iowa on business selling eggs. Is that weird to anybody else? Like, who the fuck sells eggs?
When Mune-kun emerged from the dugout, he was walking slowly, downtrodden. We summoned him over…
…but he walked on, seemingly ignoring us. And just when I had accepted the fact that he wouldn’t acknowledge any of his fans that day,
He did a total fakeout, and abruptly threw all his heavy bats and equipment to the ground, then walked over to the crowd of Japanese fans and start signing shit. Me nor Whitelord had nothing for him to sign, but I DID have the personal business card of his best friend from back home in Japan.
This would be my ace in the hole. This would open up so many doors. Blowies, palm-jobs…maybe some non-sexual shit too? I presented it to him confidently.
He looked at it briefly, and then expressed mild surprise. He spoke in Japanese:
“Oh. That’s my good friend.”
And that was it. He walked off into other direction to hit the showers and do whatever gay shit baseball players do when they get naked around each other. We were left wanting so much more. Sadly, due to his team’s and his personal performance that day, he was in no mood to fraternize with us.
But not all hope was lost. For this was the end of the first game. We still had one more game to attend the next day.
But we did come to a realization. In order for us to make any real progress with Mune-kun, he would have to A. put on a good personal performance (get at least a couple of hits), and B. his team would have to win.
What were the chances of that happening? It was probably gonna take a bit of luck. Well, more than a bit.
The next game started right at noon. It was blisteringly hot.
Sitting out there, sweating, we started to re-evaluate our goals. The goal of getting drunk with Mune-kun might have been a little too lofty to accomplish; at least, during this trip. So we got a little more realistic. Our new mission became for us to get a selfie with Mune-kun.
And our secondary mission was: to get high with some townies. A lesser, yet still noble goal.
Right before the game, the ballpark caught me dancing drunkenly in the seats, and they put a video of me on the big screen in right field, doing my dance, looking like some sort of a serial rapist. I do sport a mustache these days, which I wear ironically, but if you didn’t know me, you wouldn’t want to leave your kids with me for more that two and a half minutes. Even if you did know me, you still wouldn’t dare to leave them with me at all, so I guess it’s a moot point.
And no that part has no implications on this story whatsoever but I feel like it had to be mentioned.
By the time the game started, we were sweaty and under extreme duress from the heat, but man were we zoned the fuck in. Nothing would stop us from meeting Mune-kun today. Actually, there was plenty that could have stopped us from meeting him. We were just doing a good job trying to ignore it.
We upped our chant-game. Everytime Mune-kun ran back to the bench, we stood up and screamed whatever random Japanese words we had in our head. It was less about making sense and more about him saying “there are some white people yelling at me in Japanese right now.” Maybe he would have thought he was hallucinating? Either way, we wanted to be recognized.
We learned his theme song from Japan and serenaded him to the song. But the theme song is pretty long so we had to chop it up and sing each line individually. One line from his theme song is “He’s a maaan, Kawasaki!” so at one point we were just yelling “HE’S A MAN!” in Japanese, which seems like something that doesn’t really need to be pointed out.
Thanks to our unyielding support, Mune-kun KILLED it that day. He got on base three times. He was the undisputed titty master.
And the game was a real nail biter… back and forth the whole game. But in the end, the Cubs prevailed.
So the stipulations for meeting him had been met. We went back to the wall where we had our brief encounter with him last night. It was just me and Whitelord. The Japanese egg salesmen had gone home. We were ready, and we had a plan.
“We gotta get this fresh selfie, lord. You take it because you have long monkey arms.”
“As long as he’s in it, I don’t care who takes it. What’s that toy bat for, Whitelord?”
“I’m gonna have Mune sign this.”
“Bro, don’t ask him to do too much shit. The selfie is the key. We’ll be lucky to get even that.”
And then I remembered “the gift” we brought him. AKA the sticker we bought at a truckstop during the road trip. It’s a sticker that has a picture of Uncle Sam, pointing menacingly. The sticker reads “Welcome to America. Now speak English!” On the back of the sticker, me and Whitelord wrote a gushing love letter to our hero, in both English and Japanese.
So not only did we have to present this to him, Whitelord needed his toy bat signed. And then there was the selfie.
Would we be able to get even one of those accomplished?
I’ll just leave this right here.
Yup! We did it it. We got everything we asked for. PLUS we made some small talk. Mune complimented us on our Japanese. We told him that we would meet again in Chicago, when he gets promoted to the Chicago team. We mentioned Murasaki, the only authentic Japanese sake bar in Chicago, and made plans for all of us to go out drinking. He was amazed we knew about Murasaki and agreed to join us.
And he loved our gift. Look at the picture above again, and look what he is holding. Crazy, right?
Mission accomplished. We are on his map. We will meet again. And Mune-kun even contacted his best friend, the guy whose business card I gave him, and he wanted to inquire “who the fuck were those white dudes spitting that Japanese fire”
Mune-kun, thank you for this experience. You are the man. See you in September.
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Oh, and if that wasn’t enough, after the game, we fulfilled our secondary mission got high in a pickup truck with some locals. I guess what they say is true. Dreams really do come true. Some of them, at least. Still waiting on Nick Cage and Steven Seagull to get back to me on my “Pillow Olympics” proposal.
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