A 45-Year Gap | Kenji Kumasaka (Dean, Faculty of Environment and Information Studies)
December 24, 2004
As always, my memory is hazy, but during the Tokyo Olympics, the United States faced the Soviet Union in what I think was the basketball final. The Soviet team had a super-sized center and exuded an aura of immense strength. But once the game started, America's strength was overwhelming. In particular, when the point guard—number 10, I believe?—exploited a momentary gap in the Soviet defense to fire a lightning-fast pass under the basket, which a forward received and scored with ease, I saw the essence of basketball. I became convinced that basketball was "cooler" than any other sport. It was also the moment I realized that my enthusiastic decision to "play basketball" as a first-year junior high school student six years earlier had been the right one. However, my basketball history ended after just that one year. In 1959, I gave up.
December 4, 2004. The semifinal of the Intercollegiate Championship against Nihon University. At first, Keio was doing well, building up a lead that suggested an easy victory. But in the fourth quarter, our opponent quickly caught up, and the momentum shifted in a way that made me worry we might lose. It was a dreadful turn of events. However, from that point on, the team showed incredible tenacity and ultimately won with a score of 82-79. But a game like that is incredibly exhausting. My mind, already worried about the next day, leaped ahead to the final match. My feelings are so fickle.
Then, on the 5th, the final. The opponent was Senshu University. They looked formidable. We were clearly outmatched in terms of physique. Seeing their center's sturdy build, I felt that even at 203 cm, our still-slender Takeuchi couldn't win on height alone; there was something more to it. The start of the game confirmed my fears. The first ten minutes revealed an overwhelming difference in skill. The game progressed with a stark contrast: Senshu, for whom everything was going right, and Keio, for whom all the gears seemed to be out of sync. Seeing the 12-point deficit at halftime, I looked at Mr. Kojima next to me and, even though I knew I shouldn't say it, I blurted out, "I guess this is it, huh?"
In the second half, however, whether due to Head Coach Sasaki's strategic instructions or his anger in the locker room at halftime, Keio's true strength began to shine through in the intelligent play of five players who had awakened to a sharp physicality. This physical intelligence created a stir among the spectators, who rose from their seats and raised their voices in a crescendo of support. In the fourth quarter, after finally catching up, Keio had a chance to pull ahead, but Shimura's layup seemed to be rejected by the rim. Everyone screamed silently and prayed. The ball, as if to tease everyone, circled the rim before finally dropping into the net. In that moment, Shimura's sheepish grin seemed to hold a certainty of victory, and it naturally caused the muscles in his powerful arms to tense. Luck was clearly, almost unfairly, on Keio's side.
And then, with two seconds left, just before center Takeuchi took his free throw, the faint smile that flickered across his face seemed to hold a sense of peace that transcended the game—a reward, perhaps, for a year of relentless effort. He made the shot, sealing Keio's victory. The final score was 77-72. At that moment, Keio's ecstatic celebration reached its peak, shaking the entire Yoyogi National Gymnasium. Through the combined efforts of all its members, including Takaki Ishida, Shinya Tsujiuchi, Takehiko Shimura, Kosuke Takeuchi, and Taiji Sakai, Keio became the student champion of Japan for the first time in 45 years. It had been a truly long time since I had been so moved. At the same time, I deeply felt that I, who couldn't believe in victory and was so quick to think "I guess this is it," had learned nothing from my setback 45 years ago, and that I really have no right to talk about sports. But I quickly forgot such reflections. As I left the Yoyogi Gymnasium, parted ways with Mr. Kojima, and walked slowly alone toward Shibuya Station, my heart was racing—dribble, pass, shoot, score. I felt like a basketball player.
As I write this diary entry, the news broke that Tabuse had been released by the Suns. Keep fighting, Tabuse. Keep fighting, all you basketball players. The mission of a player on the court is to live up to the various hopes that spectators place in them, and this brings the player something that transcends simply winning the game. So, keep fighting. There I go again, sounding a bit preachy.
(Posted: 2004/12/24)