It was March. The power-hitting first-baseman being interviewed stood five feet, eight inches tall. Based on today’s player size, he could go eye to eye with Marcus Stroman or Jose Altuve, who are among baseball’s shortest specimens. On that day, he was eye to eye with me. He weighed 174 pounds, nary an ounce of it fat. I weighed about the same… and, well, forget about the rest.
Before there was Shohei Ohtani, there was Sadaharu Oh. He was my first encounter with Japanese baseball royalty. He was the Shohei Ohtani of his time, except he never played in the big leagues. When the current season began, Oh had hit 595 more home runs than Ohtani, who is already 30 years old. He was the Babe Ruth of Japan, and he hit more home runs than Ruth. More than Hank Aaron. More than Barry Bonds, who on paper is the greatest home-run hitter of all, at 762.
Polite and approachable, Oh spoke that March afternoon through an interpreter, a precedent that continues to this day for Japanese player interviews with a working knowledge of English. He went 1-for-4 (a single) in an exhibition game against the Montreal Expos, who were on their way to early-franchise oblivion. At the time, Oh was 99 global home runs behind Aaron, who the previous season had passed Ruth’s magic number of 714.
“It’s not so important,” he said, “because Aaron and I are playing in completely different circumstances as home-run hitters, Also, he is still an active player.”
So was Sadaharu Oh. Aaron added another 22 home runs, retiring at age 42. Then 34, Oh said “I would like to play until the age of 40.” And he did, adding another 234 home runs to his resume. Aaron played 22 of 23 seasons with one team, the Braves of Atlanta (nee Milwaukee). Oh played his entire career with the Yomiuri Giants (Tokyo). They were always linked, particularly in Japan, by the connection to and in shadow of The Babe. Later that year in Tokyo, 50,000 fans showed up to watch them battle in a home-run contest, won 9-8 by Aaron, who told Sports Illustrated: “I don’t think there’s any comparison with the home runs he hits here and the ones I hit in the States.”
Outside of Japan, there never was. Playing shorter seasons in ballparks with shorter fences than Aaron, against pitchers less proven, Oh hit one every 10 at-bats. Aaron every 16. It’s like comparing candies and cucumbers, like they played a different game on different planets.
After meeting him, I wrote:
“To the non-Japanese, his name sounds incomplete. Like you got halfway through it, then paused to watch one of his prodigious home runs.”
There was occasional talk that Oh would be lured to play in the majors, a question I asked of Yomiuri’s General Manager, Roy Saiki.
“I presume those who are interested,” he said, “know that we wouldn’t let him go, for all the money in the world.”
Oh was so dominant and loved by Japanese fans and marketers that Saiki was moved to add: “I don’t think there’ll be another Oh.”
And now, adding four letters to his name — “tani” — there is.
Oh-tani.
