So long, and arigatou for all the kicks


5th July 2010


We know now how the story ended.

But we didn’t know it on Tuesday, just as Yuichi Komano didn’t know he would enter Japanese football lore as The Man Who Missed.

It’s still Tuesday, Tuesday evening and a river of supporters in Japan’s blue uniform flows through central Kyoto.

I follow a few of them to a sports bar in Sanjo-Kiyamachi, a warren of narrow streets, neon signs, drinking places and other adult establishments. Over a hundred years ago, samurai plotted revolution here. But tonight, it is the Blue Samurai who will fight: They go to war on a battlefield with goalposts at both ends.

They face Paraguay; both sides are vying for their first-ever place in the World Cup quarter-finals.

Outside the bar, a long line of Japan supporters is already celebrating. Their national team has, against all expectations, fought its way out of the group stage, the first time it has done so overseas.

The fans wave flags, blow whistles, wear electric earrings that flash blue. And sing opera. The chorus of choice is from Verdi’s Aida – the bit where the Egyptian army returns in triumph after thrashing the Ethiopians 7-0.

I don’t know the words but that’s okay because no one seems to. ‘Oh, ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, oh, ohhh, oh, ohhh, oh, o-o-oh, ohhh,’ they bellow.

A few drops fall from the sky – we’re in the middle of Japan’s rainy season – but no one leaves the queue. For the chance to watch history made, what’s a little rain?

A lot of rain. It slashes down, silencing the singing. We are saved by a staff member who dashes out with umbrellas. He is dressed as Japan’s goalkeeper Eiji Kawashima, complete with the big gloves.

‘Kawashima, let me in!’ calls a girl.

I’m one of the last customers allowed inside. The bar’s sardine-full – blue uniforms, flags, flashing earrings and people screaming ‘Nippon!’

This is not a good place to be Paraguayan.

It’s 9.30pm – one and a half hours to go before the match starts. Time for more Verdi! ‘Oh, ohhh, oh, oh…’

The crowd works its way through the line-up, chanting the players’ names in turn. After a couple of false starts, I get the hang of it: Yell player’s name, clap three times, stretch arms out to TV.

‘Nakazawa!’ Clap, clap, clap, hands out, in supplication, in support.

Nakazawa, Nagatomo, Nakamura, Matsui, Kawashima, Honda –

The TV flashes a clip of coach Takeshi Okada crossing the pitch with a cup and his usual impassivity. He makes cliff faces look emotional.

‘Oka-chan!’ calls a fan, putting an affectionate spin on the name. The crowd picks it up. ‘Oka-chan!’ Clap, clap, clap, stick hands out. ‘Oka-chan!’

Derided for a string of losses in the build-up to the tournament, Okada has seen a whiplash reversal in his popularity. Fans once bayed for his blood or, at the very least, his resignation. But now, in Japan’s ancient capital, they chant his name like a god’s.

On hindsight, we should have called on other gods as well.

The two sides spend the entire 90 minutes locked in inconclusive struggle. The closest Japan gets to scoring is a shot in the 22nd minute that ricochets off the crossbar.

About 10 minutes later, another drive towards goal fizzles out. ‘No need to hold back!’ yells the man next to me.

The match will later be described as dull. But in that dark bar, with every near-miss greeted with groans, screams and stepped-up chanting, those 90 minutes are full of cardiac arrest potential.

The tension eases at one point, when the camera cuts to a shot of Okada’s stone-set face. The crowd has a suggestion for the coach: ‘Egao!’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Egao!’

Smile, they roar.

There isn’t much to smile about. The game goes into extra time but the only thing it settles is that the match will have to be settled by penalty shootout.

Everyone in the team – players, substitutes, coaches – huddles, holding one another in a tight circle.

In the bar, there is no room to form a circle but strangers’ arms are draped over my shoulders and mine, over theirs.

Yasuhito Endo scores first for Japan, followed by captain Makoto Hasebe. Yuichi Komano leaves his team-mates, waiting in a line with their arms around one another.

He stands in front of the Paraguayan goalkeeper: just one man facing another with a ball and the hopes of two nations between them.

He moves, the ball flies – and hits the crossbar. Is that the sound a heart makes when it breaks? Whatever it is, he will hear it for the rest of his life.

Keisuke Honda scores but so do the Paraguayans and they finish it 5-3.

Yuichi Komano, The Man Who Missed, is in tears. There are other ways to blight a man’s life. But this – this has to be the cruellest.

The others are crying too. Okada, in the way of someone not used to offering comfort, gives Komano a quick hug.

Marcus Tulio Tanaka, stalwart in defence and one of the team giants at 1.85m, sits slumped in the dugout. His Japanese-Brazilian father is seriously ill; after the game, he will fly to Brazil to see him. But for now, he can only stare into space, a man with nothing more to pull out of himself.

Okada accepts full responsibility for the loss, indicating that this will be his last World Cup.

But when he and his men fly back to Japan, they do not return to reproach. About 4,200 supporters gather at Kansai International Airport on Thursday to welcome them home.

The players, led by their coach, appear. A forest of hands holding phones and cameras flies up; women scream. Which is probably as good a measure of sporting success as any.

Okada cracks at last – he smiles.

It was raining when we filed out of the bar after the match into the dark of Wednesday morning. But before we left, we did one last chant.

‘Arigatou.’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Arigatou.’