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Krukow to the rescue!

Mike Krukow

On the occasion of the San Francisco Giants’ first Japanese American Day at Candlestick Park, both the Rokushige Fujima Dance Troupe and the San Francisco Taiko Dojo were asked to provide the pre-game entertainment.  As I was a member of the Rokushige Fujima Dance Troupe, my friends and I were asked to participate at this particular event.

The lot of us, a group of rabid San Francisco Giants fans, were only too happy to attend.  We spent a scant week or so practicing, our focus solely on brushing feet against the astroturf of Mays, McCovey and Chris Speier, until we finally arrived at Candlestick Park.  We were led to the secondary bullpen area underneath the deep shadows of the football bleachers where the wind sent our teeth chattering as we huddled together, dressed in Japanese summer kimonos meant for much warmer temperatures.

There was a few others with us, members of the Chicago Cubs, including a very tall, handsome dark haired pitcher warming up on the bullpen mound.  He was a young guy, still a rookie, a little green behind the ears as he would flash smiles and curious looks at us in between pitches.  Of course, we knew who he was.  In fact, my sister had already been a fan of this pitcher.  She had been following him during his rookie year, having already made an impression with the pinpoint accuracy of his pitches.

Once he was done with his warmups, my sister walked up to him and asked, “Aren’t you Mike Krukow?”

Krukow, who had slung a jacket around his shoulders, was so astounded by that question that he stopped, gave us the largest grin and simply asked, “How do you know that?,” as if we just solved a most complex mathematical puzzle.

His delight at being recognized by the most unlikely group of females whispering in Japanese was so palpable and genuine. Krukow lit up this tiny area of the bullpen, smiling at us as asked a multitude of questions about our kimonos, baseball and why would know a pitcher from the Cubs.

Our chat session ended as we were summoned onto the field.  Somewhere in a space of time on a Candlestick afternoon that drew another sparse crowd, we had lived out our dreams.  We sat in the dugout with the players, we formed a circle around the pitching mound to dance and let our everloving baseball souls soar.  For all those years since the age of five, when I felt the weekly torture of being forced to attend Japanese dance classes, this was some kind of just reward.

There was also something else to that moment.  The Mike Krukow of the Cubs that we got to meet eventually became a San Francisco Giant, and is now part of the necessary lifeline that keeps my heart back in the city.  When I hear him call a game on the air, I sometimes remember that endearing pitcher from beneath the Candlestick bleachers.  I hope he understands how he is now that rich, necessary soul food for the Giants fan now stuck in Dodger territory.

(c) 2014 Slow Suburban Death.  All rights reserved.

Published inBaseballCandlestick ParkChildhoodJapanese AmericanSan Francisco GiantsShort Stories

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