KENJI'S GIFT
4月
18日
Drawn my granddaughter
It was the first of October 2013, the end of that Seattle Mariner Baseball season. My husband, Sam, and I were given front row Mariner tickets in right field behind Ichiro— still the heart throb baseball hero for those of Japanese heritage. While we waited for the start of the game, I chose to stand and dance around to keep warm because there was no one in front of us to shield us from the cold breeze. I began to introduce myself to the fans around me. There was a family of three behind our seats—a mother and her two sons. It looked as though they were from Japan and had made a special trip to Seattle to watch Ichiro, and they were carrying an Ichiro sign.
Since I speak Japanese, I struck up a conversation. Kenji exhibited “Down Syndrome” symptoms and the mother explained, “Kenji worked seven years to save money for this trip as a bus boy and a dishwasher in a restaurant. He insisted we include his older brother, Yosuke, on this trip.”
I decided to make it a party with a few more of the fans around us and Sam ran to get refreshments to share. We hollered to get Ichiro’s attention and he did acknowledge us once.
One of the fans with season tickets explained, “ Balls often come our way. I will give it to the boy if I catch one.”
Later, one ball did come our way. The people behind the Japanese guests caught it and gave it to Kenji.
I have no memory of who the opponents were or who won the game.
As Sam and I climbed the stairs to leave, the mother stopped us and handed me the ring she was wearing. It was a fad in Japan at that time to make beaded jewelry. This one had a cross hanging. The mother said it was a memento for me to keep.
The ring in still in my jewelry box and keeps reminding me of the ripple effects of Kenji’s heritage values and the gift of his story we can pass on.
