Yukihiro Shimura always arrives first. He quietly puts on his baseball uniform. He meditatively rakes a field of dirt. He picks up coconut shells and dog poop. And finally, when the game is over, he takes a bow at Rio de Janeiro's only baseball stadium.
His team of misfits begins to form, including a geologist, a graphic designer, an English teacher, a film student, a voice actor, and a motorcycle deliveryman. Most are in their 20s and 30s, and some are learning the basics of throwing, catching, and swinging a bat.
It wasn't what Shimura had envisioned when he applied for this live performance. “In my opinion, the age range is around 15 to 18,” he says. “I should have asked.”
For the past 20 years, Shimura, 53, has been one of Japan's top high school baseball coaches. He is currently more than 10,000 miles from his home on a two-year mission from the Japanese government to spread the gospel of baseball.
The problem is that Japan sent him to a soccer country.
Despite being the largest country in Latin America, which has fostered baseball's growth in recent decades, Brazil is beleaguered by the sport. Brazilians say that compared to their national pastime, baseball has too many rules, too much equipment and too much standing.
As a result, many Brazilians wear New York Yankees caps, often unaware that the insignia represents the prestigious Bronx baseball team. And while Major League Baseball opens its new season in the United States on Thursday, many Brazilians actually consider baseball to be primarily a Japanese sport.
Most of the people who play baseball here are Japanese immigrants to Brazil, whose economic migration began in the early 20th century, and their descendants, who are estimated to number around 2 million people, according to the Japanese government. Because he's a member. It's also because Shimura is the latest in a long line of Japanese coaches to come to Brazil to teach baseball.
The coaches are employed by a Japanese government program that sends Japanese experts and funds around the world to support infrastructure and environmental projects, as well as teach cultural exports such as Japanese cuisine, Japanese language, and kendo. are doing.
There are nine Brazilian baseball coaches on the current team. As usual, almost all of them are in São Paulo, home to the largest Japanese community outside the country.
“I was actually surprised at how high the level of baseball in Brazil was,” Shimura said, referring to the Brazilian national baseball team's surprising runner-up finish at last year's Pan American Games. “But that's only in São Paulo.”
Mr. Shimura was not assigned there. Instead, he is the program's second Japanese coach in Brazil's samba and soccer mecca, Rio.
Shimura's life has revolved around baseball. He said he became obsessed with the sport as a child to escape the ridicule he endured after sharing his real name with Ken Shimura, one of Japan's most famous slapstick comedians. (He later changed his name.)
Later, it was discovered that he was a very good baseball player, an outfielder who could defend, hit, and run, so he entered a prestigious baseball school to pursue his dream of playing in the Japanese major league.
However, he was unable to make it through the semi-pro circuit. In that league, each team is owned by a large Japanese company, and the players split their time between baseball and work. Mr. Shimura played on Kawai instruments, built a piano in the morning, and practiced in the afternoon.
Seven years later, he moved into coaching, eventually leading his high school team to Japan's prestigious national baseball tournament. But he said he had never experienced challenges like the one he is facing in Rio.
When he decided to leave his wife and adult children behind for two years and go abroad, he wanted to give back while having an adventure. He had a dream of developing talented young players in a baseball hotbed like the Dominican Republic.
Instead, he found himself coaching adults who, in some cases, had started playing baseball for the first time just weeks before. Rio's team regularly plays against five other teams in the Rio suburbs, which are rich in baseball, and Shimura also coaches on the weekends.
“To be honest, I was like, 'Oh,' why would I do this?” he said in a sparse, meticulously organized rental unit in Rio, complete with a hot plate. I remembered it. (He receives stipends from the Japanese government to cover living expenses.) “But then there was a turning point. I said, I'm not going to focus on what's missing here. We’re going to focus on what we can build.”
So Mr. Shimura started from the basics. In his latest practice, he mixed Japanese, basic Portuguese and mime to demonstrate things like handling ground balls and throwing to the bases.
As he ran and jumped up and down the field, it was clear he had more energy than the players. And even though the players didn't understand exactly what he was saying, he was always talking and offering loud, positive encouragement.
“We have to decipher it,” said Aruigio Carvalho, 23, a teacher wearing a Toronto Blue Jays hat. “Even if you don't understand a word he says, if he demonstrates the moves, at least you'll know what to do.”
Players began using some Japanese words – shoto for shortstop, fast for first baseman, for example – and still sometimes bow on the field, following the example of their coaches.
Mr. Shimura has also tried to convey some of the characteristics of Japanese baseball. He spent time diagramming the play and explaining why teamwork is important. He taught his students how to maintain the field and equipment. And he demonstrated how to be respectful to referees and competitors. “I want to teach more than just baseball,” he said.
Brazilians said they were drawn to baseball by American movies and Japanese anime, and some said they were inspired by Woody Woodpecker cartoons, but when they actually played the game, they were impressed by its novelty and speed. He says he became obsessed with the feeling. Luann David, an 18-year-old studying to become a sommelier, says, “You can be thin and have fun, or you can be fat.''
The players said they were inspired by Shimura's constant energy and positivity. “He's more of a motivational coach than a strictly professional coach,” said Rafael Dantas, 29, an information technology worker and pitcher. “More emotional than disciplined. And at the level we're playing, that's much more valuable.”
“He's a real teacher,” he added. “He's a real teacher.”
Dantas, one of the longest-serving players, first encountered baseball eight years ago at a Japanese cultural event in Rio. He and other experienced players make up the core of the team, the Cariocas, who play on a dirt baseball diamond along Rio's picturesque lagoon and overlooking the famous mountains. This place attracts a lot of curiosity from passersby who have never seen baseball live. That's part of the reason why Shimura teaches so many beginners.
Marcio Ramos (44), a motorcycle deliveryman, was practicing for the fifth time. He wandered in a few weeks ago to ask questions, but the only thing he knew about baseball was from watching the Brad Pitt movie “Moneyball” — and now he's learned how to hit from Mr. Shimura. I learned that. “He speaks the universal language of sports,” Ramos said. “Basically, you translate what he wants without understanding what he's saying.”
A few minutes later, Ramos hit his first ball over the fence. Mr. Shimura let out a cry of joy. “Strike!” Shimura said, running over and squeezing Ramos' bicep.
“I try to be satisfied with the little things I can accomplish,” Shimura said. “I feel joy when I see improvements little by little.”