Gooo , gooo ! Sakamoto ! ” screeches the crew . Jon , my husband as of a fortnight prior , is singlemindedly bitch along with the scrummage and assay to mimic the intricate cheers of the away team — Tokyo ’s Yomiuri Giants — which admit a complex episode of hand movement . First a one - armed tomahawk , then the wave , another hatchet , and a half - twelve other outstretched gesticulations that I ca n’t quite follow .

Jon is about a beat behind , but that scarce weigh since the arena ’s thousand - some other roaring voices overwhelm out everything but the booming speaker system , which savage rock music walk - up tunes . If this were America , I ’d be panicked — the pulsing sea of fans , drunk on tall rump of Asahi beer , has the grave look of a lip - effervesce rally one errant punch away from complete lawlessness . But this is Japan , where even the bedlam is orderly . Soon I ’m swept up myself , and together Jon and I tipsily yell a mangled mixture of Japanese and English between chugs of watery beer . “ GOOO , GOOO ! ! ! SAKAMOTO ! ! ! ! ” we whoop as 27 - year - one-time short Hayato Sakamoto direct the scale .

It ’s the last night of our honeymoon in Japan , which over the previous two week has enchanted and bewildered us in equal measure . Tonight ’s secret plan is no exclusion . Baseball is massively pop in Japan with a history that dates back to the late 19th C , when an American named Horace Wilson introduced it to a Tokyo university , where he teach English . It ’s essentially the same mutant as American baseball game — but make no error : This is n’t the game of Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson . It ’s more like a bizarro doppelgänger , with its own traditions and mythos . Even as we cheer in sync with our incision , all uniformed in Giants orangish and white , Jon and I feel at a distance . As two of only a smattering of Westerners ( or gaijin , as the Japanese say ) in the whole stadium , we ’re spectators in every sense of the word . It ’s as though we ’ve stumbled into a stage act mid - performance and are strain , unconvincingly , to blend into the chorus line .

Drinking in Tokyo

Jon , for his part , is valiantly trying to pick up the game ’s complicated stage dancing . An avowed baseball game obsessive , Jon can tick off critical entropy about maybe two - thirds of all Major League Baseball player in the States . That ’s why we ’ve elected to sit in the bleacher , where only the most fanatical fans plant themselves . By matter of chance , we ’re seated with fan of the Yomiuri Giants , today battling it out against fellow Tokyoites , the Yakult Swallows ( a Subway Series game ! ) . I ’ve seen Jon this exuberant only a handful of times before , and one of those was our marriage daytime earlier this calendar month . Here , he ’s howl and flop around like a gaijin go mad , which , I ’m certain , is what ultimately grabs the attention of the group seat behind us .

There are about eight of them , all plastered on a potent variety of 7 - Up , greenish tea and meretricious soju . The clobber has the intoxicate aroma of paint thinner . The ringleader outcry a slurred creation in broken English : “ Tomo Takahashi . ” A Yomiuri Giants superfan , Tomo has a nearly perfect attendance track record going back years . He and his comrade meet in the stand a decade and a half ago , and have religiously see games together ever since . ( Two of them even got hitched last hebdomad , he says , to each other ! ) Tomo thrusts red solo cups of gullible tea and soju into our hands , and just like that , we ’re in .

It quickly becomes clear that I ’ve underestimate Tomo ’s status within our cheering section . Imagine being espouse by the godfather of Red Sox Nation or the New York Yankees ’ Bleacher Creatures : it ’s like that . Tomo snaps his finger and two orangish Giants scarfs come drift down from the higher stands — gifts , he says . Tomo snap again . ruddy bean plant - filled confections come along , gifts from a Giants fan a few seats aside . Tomo aloud introduces us to everyone : Come converge the American newlywed who love baseball game , he shouts .

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By now , we ’ve gotten the chant down . Mostly . roll in Giants orange , we bop up and down with Tomo ’s baseball game syndicate , erupting into elated shrieks when our human rounds home . The green tea and soju are flowing like gatorade in the bullpen , with more Asahi tallboys just for good measure . I ’m so featherbrained watch the rippling , synchronized crowd that I do n’t even realize that we ’re drop off . At the top of the ninth , Tomo calls it .

“ You will come out with us , ” he says . It ’s more of a statement than a question . Jon and I have an other flight of steps to Yangon tomorrow , but we waste little clock time deliberating . The resolution seems obvious . The grouping cross out of the sports stadium in a drunken huff and squeezes into waiting taxis outdoors . Ours takes off before I even have a chance to ask where we ’re go .

We overstretch up in front of a two - story construction and scurry up a unconscionable flight of darken step , where we ’re greeted by the heady scent of charred meat . It ’s a yakiniku restaurant , specializing in the Nipponese rendering of classic Korean barbeque . I quickly proffer to pay for the taxi , but Tomo gain a face as though I ’ve just proclaimed allegiance to the Swallows . We ’re ushered into a private way , where everyone cram around a sturdy wooden table inset with glow charcoal grills . Jon and I are induct in the center .

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At first we politely refuse the drink , which are treacly , galvanic green concoction that , I later discover , belie their considerable inebriant content . But ultimately it is easier just to have them . I suckle one down abstractedly and another appears in its home . I shrug and drink that one too . oral communication barrier , I mean to myself like a drunken philosopher , are unmistakably less roadblock - wye when booze is involve . I laugh at some jape of Tomo ’s and slosh light-green deglutition on my shoes .

Everyone has a million questions for us : Do we watch baseball at home ? ( Yes . ) What team do we root for ? ( The Baltimore Orioles . ) What do we opine of Japan ? ( It ’s rattling . ) Will we recite our friend to visit ? ( Certainly . ) Do we know the Nipponese baseballers illustrious in America , like the Miami Marlins ’ Ichiro Suzuki or batten caption Hideki Matsui ? ( Who does n’t ? )

Waiters arrive with gleaming plates slicked with fragile slicing of marbled Wagyu beef , thick strips of fatty pork barrel belly and scads of little bowls brim with fermented vegetables flecked with venous sinus - clearing chili paste . I have no approximation what all of this will cost , but I choose not to recall about it . All I require is yakiniku , and another fleeceable drunkenness , please . Then , without warning , we are presented with an enormous dessert home base stack with cake and yield . “ Happy Wedding , Rachel and Jon ” is etch in chocolate . Everyone shouts “ Choo ! Choo ! Choo ! ” which , Tomo explains , mean “ Kiss ! snog ! osculate ! ” We oblige , and the room break loose in applause .

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At 2 a.m. , the political party is still going . It takes about a half - hour to extricate ourselves , and Jon pulls out his billfold . “ Unnecessary ! ” Tomo shrieks , not unkindly . Tomo catch Jon ’s phone and add himself on Facebook . “ Next time , in New York City ! ” he enounce .

We stumble out from the private elbow room and down the corridor , where our waiter tolerate at the top of the stairs . “ Gifts , ” he says , hand us two telling charge card - sealed packages each about the size of a baseball . It ’s unclear if they ’re from the eating house or Tomo . In the cab on the way home , we see them : Whole boil moo-cow ’s ’ tongue . After a beatnik we turn to each other and break down laughing , a bedazzle mixture of befuddlement and joy .

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Drinking in Tokyo

Drinking in Tokyo

Drinking in Tokyo