JUPITER, Fla. — First is always most difficult. Because failure will have tentacles beyond the person failing. When first fails, all that comes after is so much trickier. Will there even be a second? When? At what level of scrutiny?
Ichiro Suzuki was the first Japanese position player signed by a major league team. But he was not just any player. Not even just any great player. At home he was Elvis and Babe Ruth and Bill Gates. Rolled into one. He was icon, idol and myth. As I have learned through the years, baseball is held at an exalted level in Japan, no one was held higher than Ichiro and, thus, the concern of a whole country if he could make it in the best league in the world was palpable and paramount.
Ichiro made it here — note that he is referred to by just his first name as a sign of the success, like LeBron or Serena.
Ichiro hit .353 in nine seasons with the Orix BlueWave, his batting wizardry making him a legend in Japan in his early 20s. As a 27-year-old MLB rookie, Ichiro hit .350 for the 2001 Mariners. He won the AL Rookie of the Year and the AL MVP, and the Mariners won a record 116 games. He was off and running. Literally. No one moved liked him, as if carried by wind. Blink, he was on second.
He was first and he was brilliant, and he made it easier for every Japanese position player afterward to come and, thus, now that he has played his last game — on what was Thursday morning in the United States — a tip of the cap and a bow.
Ichiro was put on the Mariners’ roster for the two MLB regular-season opening games in the Tokyo Dome. He was removed after taking right field for the bottom of the eighth of the second game. His last hug from a lineup of Mariners near the dugout was from Yusei Kikuchi, the Japanese lefty who had made his first major league start earlier in this same game. Kikuchi, hugging his idol, broke down in tears. So did just about anybody who had a heart or an appreciation for baseball or for distinct greatness.
It was generally understood Ichiro was put on Seattle’s roster for just these two games, to blend his past and his present — Japan and the Mariners — as a fitting send-off. Then during the game, word leaked that he would officially announce his retirement. He is 45 now. The gray sideburns peek from outside his cap. It has been a while since he was a regular impact player.
That does not dim his meaning. He is among the most important players in the history of the game. Because he was first. And because he handled it brilliantly. He created a Hall of Fame career independently as a major leaguer.
He was, for me, the David Bowie of baseball, overflowing with talents, an original, unable to take your eyes off of. Ichiro played through the Steroid Era, when homers were never more valued. You would pay to watch him smack singles to left field. Throw. Run the bases. I really loved watching him run the bases early with the Mariners. It was like an illusion. He hit the ball and somehow he was standing at second or third. How did that happen?
By the time he came to the Yankees, he was a faded version of his peak. Yet, I loved covering him. His discipline and dedication to the craft was so consuming. I have written previously of watching Ichiro — in an empty Steinbrenner Field with the Yankees on the road for a spring training game — pantomime hitting singles, doubles, triples and inside the park homers for 45 minutes. All out. And then explaining afterward that if you don’t practice your skills, your skills go away. This was 2014. Ichiro already was 40 — already a Hall of Famer on two continents. It is indelible for me.
But it is an indelible career. He had no hits in five at-bats in 2019. He really didn’t need any more to make his point. He finished with 3,089 here, 1,278 for Orix. That is 4,367 in all generated from passion and dedication and repetition and skill.
He took his last career standing ovation for it in the Tokyo Dome. But his great achievement was not about last. It was about first. When failure would have had long-term ramifications, Ichiro succeeded, thrived, soared, played in a way that we had never seen before, never seen since, may never see again.
