Let’s Play Two: Baseball at Manzanar

Teams standing for the National Anthem before the second game of the doubleheader played on October 26, 2024, at Manzanar’s newly restored baseball diamond. (Courtesy of Dan Kwong, photograph by Aaron Rapoport)

 

On Saturday, October 26, 2024, a doubleheader was played on Manzanar’s newly restored diamond. It opened with a morning contest between the Li’l Tokio Giants and the Lodi JACL Templars, followed by an all-star game with Japanese American players wearing custom 1940s-style uniforms and using vintage baseball gear. Witnessed by an intimate crowd of family, friends, and a handful of journalists,1 it was the first time baseball had been played in Manzanar in almost 80 years.

These two paths—baseball and camp2—had been leading me to this moment for decades. It just wasn’t a very straight line. Join me, dear reader, on this meandering journey to that day and I will do my best to make it worth your while.

IT’S A FLY BALL DEEP IN TIME—BACK, BACK, A-WAAAAAY BACK …

In 1951, a Nisei woman from Los Angeles and an immigrant man from Hong Kong eloped in Las Vegas. Back then, Chinese and Japanese people weren’t exactly thrilled with each other, and Mom and Dad threw the book out the window the day they said “I do.” My three sisters and I are the offspring of that defiant, deviant union, and little about our lives would be normal. Welcome to the Kwongs.

From early childhood, my sisters and I were a captive audience for Mom’s endless stories about being incarcerated in Manzanar. They were disturbing, infuriating, frightening, puzzling, funny, delightful, even inspiring. My mother was a storyteller, keeper of family history, and she firmly planted her experience at Manzanar in our minds from early on.

I can only imagine what was going through Aiji’s head on these stops. He would silently stand by while my cousin and I eagerly tromped through shattered crockery, rusty nails, and strands of barbed wire like teenage archeologists. It was fascinating, but I found it hard to reconcile these mute artifacts with the vivid stories of my mother.

I grew up in a time when school history books might contain a single brief paragraph about camp. It was shocking that the defining event of Japanese American history was practically invisible. During my senior year at Marshall High I stumbled upon Carey McWilliams’s 1944 book, Prejudice.4 It was the first time I’d ever come across an account of camp from the perspective of a non-Japanese person. It blew my mind, not only for its Caucasian source but also for its historical perspective, details of systemic anti-Asian racism on the West Coast, and its surprising compassion for Japanese Americans. In those days no one seemed to know or give a shit about what happened to us. That book started an amateur scholarly pursuit that continues to this day, resulting in shelves in my studio filled with history and literature on the subject of camp.

Since then I’ve made many grown-up trips to Manzanar National Historic Site: attending the annual Pilgrimage every April; helping to excavate the Japanese garden; taking Mom on visits. Before she passed away in 2010, my mother participated in various Manzanar activities. She was interviewed for its oral history archive, volunteered to correspond with high school students, and donated one of her finest weavings.

Momo Nagano’s passion for weaving began in Manzanar, when a camouflage net weaving factory was created in the summer of 1942. US citizens 16 years of age and older were qualified to work there, and Momo signed up. She fell in love with weaving colored burlap strips into the large panels of netting hanging vertically in huge open-air sheds. The experience planted a seed of creativity deep in her subconscious.

Decades later Momo would find her artistic calling in “off-loom weaving,” a painstakingly slow and tedious art form. She worked on large free-hanging pieces in our living room similar to how she worked on camo nets in Manzanar. Mom was a model of patience, persistence, and attention to detail. Sometimes she would discover a mistake she had made many rows below her current position. Without hesitation (but with an anguished groan or two) she would undo days of work in order to correct the flaw. She liked to brag that there was no knot she could not untie. Her stubborn determination and meticulousness were characteristic of her generation, and in my case the Sansei apple did not fall far from the Nisei tree.

She felt strongly about Manzanar’s history, not just because it was hers but because of what it said about the need to safeguard our constitutional democracy against corruption and subversion. Or as she would put it, “What stupid people will try to do.” Mom always had a way with words.

Dad didn’t. But he sure had a way with a tennis racket, ping pong paddle, and any sport with a ball. Thanks to him, I was a baseball nut from age 6 but got a late start actually playing organized ball. After graduating from junior high, I played one season of Japanese American (JA) youth ball with the Hollywood Dodgers. Our team was not very good. In high school I joined the Li’l Tokio Giants in the Nisei Athletic Union (NAU) league of Southern California. The Giants were very good. NAU was a postwar creation that resumed the Japanese American community’s passion for baseball, which stretched back to the turn of the century. The Li’l Tokio Giants, originally called the Nisei All-Stars, were one of the original NAU teams.

In 1954, team founder/manager/catcher Sam Adachi gave the Nisei All-Stars their new moniker, an homage to the heart of the local JA community, with a “Tokio” spelling tweak to insert linguistic distance from our wartime enemy. I made my debut playing center field for the Giants in 1971 and went 0-for-17. Just like Willie Mays (not). Actually, the Willie who inspired me most was Mr. Davis, who patrolled center field for the Dodgers like a gazelle with a glove.

After high school, I entered USC as an art major. The Trojans had no need for a center fielder, seeing as they already had a fella named Fred Lynn. Around this time, I faced the fact that my dreams of outfield glory in Dodger Stadium were not to be. Instead, my baseball journey would be with the Li’l Tokio Giants, and it’s lasted 54 years and counting. My occupational future would be found elsewhere.

 

 

ART FOLLOWS (BASEBALL) LIFE

In 1989, I began my career as a solo autobiographical performance artist. My first show was Secrets of the Samurai Centerfielder, a story about my love of baseball, my struggles with internalized racism,5 and how the two phenomena tangoed in my brain from childhood. It included my first attempt as an artist to tell the story of camp.

For audiences in places like Los Angeles that have established Asian American communities, it could be a bit eye-rolling: “Here we go again—another camp story …” On the other hand, I had non-Asian audience members approach me in tears after a performance, saying things like, “I lived in California my entire life. I never knew about this.” I learned you should never make assumptions about your audience.

Over the last three-and-a-half decades, I’ve performed in most of the United States and in 12 countries. I’ve created shows about many subjects and grown into the roles of playwright, director, producer, and documentary video maker. I’m following in my mother’s footsteps as a storyteller, and I keep coming back to telling the story of camp.

DOUBLEHEADER AS PERFORMANCE ART

Baseball is theatrical. When you step up to the plate, you are totally “onstage.” The movements of players adjusting uniforms, equipment, and stances are choreographed little “dances.” There are dramatic moments of anticipation that explode in sudden releases of energy. I’ve borrowed this theatricality, using baseball onstage to address other issues: pitching wet clay balls at a painting of an Asian face, gradually obliterating it while revealing a teenage story of racial self-hate;6 batting hardballs into a net as a video describes the 1982 murder of Vincent Chin, beaten with a baseball bat;7 playing pepper as a metaphor for cooperative conversation;8 lying onstage and repeatedly tossing a ball up in the air while a woman sings a melancholy version of “Nature Boy,” a poetic expression of isolation.9

IT TAKES A VILLAGE

I envisioned the Manzanar doubleheader as historically based, culturally rooted performance art. Fortunately I had key partners who understood that concept and were eager to help. First and foremost was Great Leap, the multicultural performing arts organization I work with in LA. Founded by groundbreaking artist Nobuko Miyamoto, Great Leap is now led by Alison De La Cruz. As I shared what I was dreaming up with Alison, she decided to put Great Leap’s resources behind it. Great Leap became our fiscal receiver, and Alison began looking for funding opportunities. She also agreed to the role of producer, taking the load off of me. The community of people associated with Great Leap would provide both moral and practical support for me in many ways.

On the baseball side, the first person I talked to about my Manzanar doubleheader idea was Bobby Umemoto, manager of the Li’l Tokio Giants and president of the SoCal NAU Baseball Leagues. Bobby and I go back to my mid-teens, when he was my coach with the Hollywood Dodgers. Remarkably, he’s still my coach today. Bobby is familiar with my outside-the-box ideas as an artist, but at first, he found this one a bit too farfetched. I think the word he used was “nuts.” But Bobby listened, saw how serious I was, and quickly came on board to help connect me with team managers and other baseball resources.

To generate interest, I talked up the idea of staging a doubleheader at Manzanar to ballplayers at the annual JA state championship tournament. I reached out to local TV sportscasters and news anchors.10 I invited Los Angeles Dodgers manager Dave Roberts to come throw out the first pitch and Dodger announcer Stephen Nelson to call the game.11

Fundraising for the doubleheader was separate from field restoration, so I launched an online fundraiser. Individual donations began pouring in. Great Leap applied for grants. We asked for funding support from local foundations and organizations such as the Japanese American National Museum, the California Wellness Foundation, and the Venice Japanese American Memorial Monument Committee. Those three organizations responded wonderfully, and more followed.

For fabrication of our 1940s-style all-star uniforms, I found K&P Weaver, a mom-and-pop operation based in Connecticut that specializes in creating vintage uniforms. I liked the feel of the poly-cotton blend fabric they offered and their prices were reasonable, so I ordered 46 complete uniforms—23 for the SoCal NAU All-Stars and 23 for the NorCal All-Stars. Paula Weaver then went into overdrive to crank them out in time.

Then a bit of daisy-chain magic happened. Jeff Burton, Manzanar’s cultural resources program manager and archeologist, suggested I contact Elizabeth Lara, who had volunteered to help restore Manzanar’s gardens and who leads botanical garden tours of Dodger Stadium. Elizabeth suggested I contact her friend Lauren Stewart, who worked for History For Hire, which specializes in providing vintage props for film and TV. They provided baseball equipment for iconic baseball films like Field of Dreams and A League of Their Own.

Lauren was in charge of their baseball collection and connected me to owner Pam Elyea. When I told Pam what we were attempting, she fell in love with our project: “Whatever you need, let me know!” Pam lent us two dozen 1940s gloves, vintage catcher and umpire gear, an old-style line chalker, temporary pitcher’s rubber, and World Series flag bunting—at no charge. History For Hire continues to be a precious partner to this day.

ALL IN THE EXTENDED FAMILY

My home tribe was a constant source of support throughout. My sisters Maria, Diana, and Barbara generously contributed to fundraising. Brother-in-law Gary van der Steur put his graphic design skills to work designing the Manzanar Baseball Project postcard and preparing graphics for the team names to be sewn onto the all-star jerseys. My godson Max Good is an excellent documentary filmmaker who became part of my camera crew. His mother Ingrid is an expert seamstress who was able to cleverly fabricate new covers for our tattered old NAU canvas bases. My niece Hana van der Steur and her partner Tristan Duke (yet another artist) volunteered to facilitate a special art installation at the field—one that would bring my mother into the picture.

The late afternoon sun at Manzanar can be brutal, and I had been mulling over how to provide some kind of shade for folks who would be sitting on the bleachers. We couldn’t do an overhead canopy thing, but if the bleacher top rows had some type of backing then people could be spared from becoming solar-cooked hot dogs. That’s when the memory of my mother provided inspiration—camouflage netting! Or an artistic interpretation of it, to be precise. I wanted to drape the back of each bleacher with batting cage netting, then invite people to weave cloth strips into it, creating a participatory art installation in tribute to Mom’s work in Manzanar, AND a functional shade provider. Hana and Tristan bought colored bedsheets and tore them into dozens of three-inch-wide strips in preparation for guiding folks in the experience. Mom would have loved it.

The strong presence of family was reflected in the team rosters, with three sets of brothers, two father-son duos, one set of cousins, and an uncle-nephew combo on the diamond.

A small army of volunteers was mobilized for the doubleheader, more names than can be listed here. Some notable mentions: associate producer Kim Lu Lawe provided crucial production supplies, her husband Loren fed our core production team, and her son Connor volunteered to shag foul balls. Alvin Yano relentlessly dragged the ENTIRE field for hours, transforming the pockmarked surface into something playable. Gino McKiernan led the sculpting of our beautiful new mound and home plate circle. Mike Furutani, manager of the Monterey ballclub (and one of our original tumbleweed volunteers), helped me coordinate with NorCal managers and chalked the field with great care. Christine Wada, award-winning costume designer for film and TV, coordinated all-star players with their custom uniforms.

 

FOR THE ONES WHO GET IT DONE

I must acknowledge the small but mighty staff who work at Manzanar National Historic Site. Some names have been mentioned before, but their crucial contributions bear repeating. From the very beginning, Jeff Burton was my number one cheerleader, encouraging me to hang in there when the going got tough and repeatedly thanking me for what I was doing. Or as he humorously put it, “letting him trick me into restoring the field.” Facilities manager Jon Harris was a constant support with his positivity, patience, and South Carolinian graciousness. Superintendent Jeremy Scheier does something that is one of the most telling signs of good leadership—he listens.

I have special appreciation for the ones who get their hands dirty. Dave Goto does just about everything at Manzanar that requires technical know-how. His experience was invaluable as he took on some of the most challenging, complex, and even dangerous aspects of our construction. Relatives on his paternal grandfather’s side were in Manzanar, so Dave has a direct connection to this place, and it shows in his dedicated commitment. Guys like Gil Larimore, Roger Myoraku, Daron Hayes, Jesse Valdez, and others kept us going with everything from providing power tools, to gassing up our generator, to replenishing our precious ice water jug. Workers rock.

And of course, none of this would have been possible without our uber-dedicated volunteer construction supervisor Chris Siddens. I’m forever grateful for his mentorship during construction, and through working together we developed a great respect for each other. My friendship with Chris is one of the unexpected blessings of this project. The Japanese American community owes a huge debt of gratitude to him for his generosity.

Okay, back to baseball …

TRUE CONFESSIONS

The main reason for including a morning game between the Li’l Tokio Giants and the Lodi JACL Templars was simple and selfish: Old Man Kwong would get to play. If I was going to put all this work into building the field, I sure as hell wanted to play on it and I sure as hell didn’t qualify as an all-star. The matchup also had some logic to it—the Giants and Lodi are the two longest continuously playing teams in SoCal and NorCal respectively.12 So, we were honoring longevity in more ways than one.

The all-star game would be the marquee matchup and required special attention. I wanted to encourage, not require, players to use vintage baseball gear. There were safety issues, especially for catchers. I suggested they use their modern gloves, but they did choose to wear the old-style chest protector and shin guards. As for other defensive positions, I had designated the third inning as when I wanted them—dared them—to use an old glove. Players agreed, with smiles and eyebrows raised.

After months of working on that field, usually just two or three of us alone in the heat, it was surreal to suddenly have people with us. It reminded me of the strange shift that occurs between lonely rehearsals in an empty theater and a full house on opening night. My feeling is always, “Welcome. We’ve been preparing something for you.”

For pre-game ceremonies, we had a Great Leap double-bill as the multi-talented Alison sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” (and would also serve as PA announcer), and Nobuko sang “We Are the Children,” her 1973 song that I nominate for the Asian American national anthem. Cameras were clicking like mad as Cory Mitsui, grandson of Manzanar star pitcher Pete Mitsui, walked his young daughter Emily to the mound where she threw out our first pitch.

SHOW TIME

Once players took the field, we played the same game we always play, the way we always play it. But now and then something would remind you this was not a typical scenario: a batter runs to first, his footsteps leaving puffs of white desert dust behind him; a ball hit through the gap rolls into the tumbleweed, stopping play; you look over your shoulder and see a wooden guard tower looming beyond right field. That’s when it sank in: I’m playing in a place where our people were imprisoned. A place that exists because of hatred, fear, and ignorance … Then your attention shifts to taking your lead off the bag, listening to the base coach, checking the second baseman’s position … Kind of mind-bending.

One player privately shared his confusion: “Should I be having fun here? Is that okay?” I gave him an emphatic “yes.” This was indeed one of the ironies of camp life—yeah, people had fun while incarcerated. In fact, they made a point of it: We’re here and we’re going to live life as fully as we can. Joy, in the context of sadness. Triumph, in the context of oppression. Healing, in the context of trauma. Our fun was absolutely appropriate and true to the spirit of those who endured this place.

The old-fashioned mitts made for some amusing, awkward plays. Thankfully nobody got hurt. Most players switched back to their regular gloves after the designated inning, but a few persisted in using an old-time mitt their entire time on the field, which pleased me.

In terms of final line scores, neither game was much of a contest. We pasted Lodi pretty good, and the all-star game was even more lopsided. But everyone knew this wasn’t about the score. It was about our presence.

The sun was setting by the time the all-star game came to an end, with handshakes and hugs all around. As we began packing up our mountain of supplies, journalists pounced on me wanting to know what it was like, how I felt, etc. I did my best to give coherent answers, but honestly, I was in a daze. Imagine you’ve just finished building an ocean liner and you’re trying to see what you made standing three feet from the side of the ship. I really couldn’t. So, I went to work directing the load-out. There’s always more work to do when you can’t find the poetry inside you. With time and space, I trust I’ll be able to grasp it more fully.

I had different goals for the doubleheader. All were met and then some: Manzanar received more national and international attention than ever, and the Japanese American story was shared far beyond the West Coast. Our identity as Americans (a seemingly baffling concept for some) was reinforced yet again, and maybe for a few more folks it will stick. Players came away with a new relationship to their history. Some spoke of it: “I felt a connection I never felt before.” Some could not find the words, but you could see it in their eyes. Some healing tears were shed, including mine. A baseball field now stood where only a memory had been before.

On October 26, 2024, we were actors on a dusty stage, performing history. Manzanar’s ballfield magically transported us back in time and suddenly we were with ancestors. They were us. We were them. Could they speak through this game? What wisdom might they pass on? What understanding might we receive? And what difference would any of this make?

The answers live in the hearts and minds of those touched by this story, and those who visit our baseball diamond in the desert.

DAN KWONG is an award-winning performance artist, playwright, director, and documentary video producer who has presented his work nationally and internationally for nearly four decades. His debut solo performance in 1989 was the critically acclaimed Secrets of the Samurai Centerfielder. Recipient of major fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Rockefeller Foundation, and more, he serves as associate artistic director of multicultural performing arts organization Great Leap, is Mentor Resident Artist at 18th Street Arts Center in Santa Monica, and is a graduate of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Since 2023 he has led restoration of the ballfield at Manzanar National Historic Site and is founder/director of the Manzanar Baseball Project commemorative doubleheader. He has played for the Li’l Tokio Giants in the Southern California Nisei Athletic Union Baseball Leagues since 1971 and claims to be the longest-tenured player in NAU history.

 

NOTES

1 The general public could not be invited due to Manzanar staffing limitations.

2 “Camp” — the shorthand colloquial term used within families and the JA community to refer to WWII incarceration. It will be used similarly here.

3 In the late 2000s the highway was widened and moved 200 feet east of Manzanar’s entrance.

4 Carey McWilliams, Prejudice (Boston: Little, Brown, 1944).

5 A sub-category of internalized oppression: internalized racism consists of all the ways that a person of color’s life is influenced by painful reaction to having been impacted by racism. This can have any number of different manifestations including self-denial, over-compensation, victim mentality, etc.

6 Secrets of the Samurai Centerfielder, Dan Kwong, Highways Performance Space, Santa Monica, California, 1989.

7 Monkhood in 3 Easy Lessons, Dan Kwong, Highways Performance Space, Santa Monica, California, 1992.

8 Samurai Centerfielder Meets The Mad Kabuki Woman, Dan Kwong and Denise Uyehara, Highways Performance Space, Santa Monica, California, 1997.

9 Once We Wanted, Dan Kwong and Iu-Hui Chua, Highways Performance Space, Santa Monica, California, 2011.

10 Susan Hirasuna of Fox 11 News has been our stalwart supporter in local media.

11 Roberts is of Japanese and Okinawan-heritage, and Nelson is the first Japanese-heritage announcer in MLB. Both wanted to do it but wound up being a little busy that October …

12 The San Fernando Aces used to have seniority in SoCal NAU but went extinct a few decades back.