When Football Bridged Two Countries: My Unplanned Japan Memories

Rohan Chowdhury, Nagoya

Japan has had its own ups and downs. On a personal note, however, the country has perhaps fallen short of expectations. After all, Japan is a country that many Indians, especially those from my generation, have wanted to visit at least once in their lifetime. Perhaps it was because of the anime we watched growing up, Japanese cartoons, or simply the many things that have made Japan so fascinating to us.

The Asian Games management committee may not have lived up to those expectations. We have heard multiple complaints from athletes and encountered several issues, be it long commutes or other logistical challenges. But the Games have also had plenty of positives and memorable moments.

For me, Japan will be memorable not only because of the sporting performances produced by Indian athletes, but also because of a few small, unique experiences along the way, memories I will take back with me and probably cherish for a long time.

Those who know me will be aware of my fondness for collectibles. Be it coins and banknotes – yes, I am a numismatist – or football jerseys, collecting has always been something I enjoy. And when it comes to multi-sport events, it is the pins.

After covering several Games, I have built a fairly good collection by now, perhaps around 70 or 80 pins after what I have collected here in Japan. But collecting coins or pins is usually a planned effort. There are two other memories, however, that I would love to share, memories that were completely unplanned and so unexpected that they will probably stay in my heart and mind rent-free.

One day, I was returning to my hotel in Akaike, about a 30-minute ride from Fushimi Station. I got off the platform and, just as I stepped out on to the road, I heard a loud, “Vamos!”

I looked to my right. Two boys, about my age, showed me one of their phones and said, “Zion has saved!”

I remembered that Japan were playing Ecuador in a friendly that day and immediately realised they were watching the match. Quite surprisingly and unexpectedly, I was wearing Japan’s white FIFA World Cup 2016 jersey that day.

I immediately joined the two boys to watch the final few shots of the penalty shootout. Japan eventually won, and we celebrated together. We took a selfie, one on my phone and one on theirs, and then went our separate ways.

It was a brief exchange of cultures that football had brought together: three boys from two different countries, with no prior connection, sharing a moment. Football was the common language.

Another day, it was the men’s hockey final in Gifu. I was travelling from the archery venue and had reached Higashi-Okazaki Station. The train took me to Gifu Station, from where I was walking towards the bus stop.

I have always had a fondness for collecting football jerseys, and anyone who shares that passion will know how popular J.League jerseys are among collectors. Being in Nagoya, I had wanted to visit Nagoya Grampus, the city’s J.League club, and its club shop, perhaps pick up a jersey or some merchandise for my collection.

But I never got the time.

That day, as I walked towards the bus stop in a city square, I saw several people enjoying a pint of beer and some food, with music playing. Among them were several people wearing FC Gifu jerseys, representing the club based in Gifu that plays in the J3 League, the third tier of Japanese football.

Imagine that: people wearing a third-tier club jersey with such pride.

I went up to a gentleman and asked where I could find an FC Gifu jersey. Language was an issue, but he somehow managed to make me understand that if I wanted one, I would have to visit the stadium on a match day.

I continued walking and, a few metres ahead, saw two boys, about my age, wearing another jersey, orange this time, with the ‘J’ logo on the sleeves.

I went up to them and asked which jersey they were wearing.

It was a Yamaguchi FC jersey.

I asked them if they played in the J.League. The boys said no, they played in J3. That caught my attention even more. As someone who lives and breathes football, I was fascinated.

I asked if I could buy the jersey at a nearby store. I was ready to pay for a third-division Japanese football shirt that looked fantastic.

They somehow made me understand, in their broken English, that Yamaguchi FC did not have a club shop nearby and that the only way I could get the jersey was at the stadium. The same was true for Gifu.

I started to move on when one of them exchanged a few words with the other in their own language. He then took out a package.

It was a green T-shirt.

He handed it to me.

I was taken aback.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is the FC Gifu jersey,” he said.

I was shocked.

“Is it for me?”

He nodded.

And I had nothing to give him in return.

It was their gift to me because I was looking for a Japanese football jersey. It was the FC Gifu baseball jersey, and it looked absolutely stunning. From a collector’s perspective, though, it will hold far greater value because of what it represents: a meaningful gift from a stranger in a different country.

I had a Team India pin with me, which I handed to him. He suddenly looked thrilled to receive it.

We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. But in that brief exchange, we had given each other something that will stay with me for a long time.

My only regret from both incidents is that I forgot to ask their names, perhaps because I was too caught up in the excitement of the moment.

The photographs will remain.

Perhaps the memories will, too.

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