Our man in Tokyo

“Do you... understand?” a man at the next table was asking in halting English. “Its the baseball. Habana won. This place...” He waved his arm in the air. “It is a place for the fan.” This made sense. Above the counter were several items of baseball memorabilia: a signed shirt, a faded baseball cap, photos of players posing. Although I hadn't really noticed when I came in, I'd stumbled across one of those places which, were it not for a regular influx of sports fans, would most likely have faded away long ago. I congratulated my neighbor and reluctantly finished off my drink. It was late, and probably time I went back to my hotel.
No sooner had I walked outside than I heard what sounded like drumming and cheering a street or two away. Despite the late hour, I could see people draining out of the surrounding apartment buildings and moving toward the commotion. Now my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what was going on. I followed the others toward the increasingly loud noise.
Rounding a corner, the full violence of the sound finally hit me. BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!
My jaw dropped. There must have been hundreds of people, mostly young men, jumping up and down and banging drums made of everything from water bottles to plastic piping. In a scene worthy of Kurtz and his jungle followers, it appeared more religious ritual than mere post-match celebration. Outstretched arms swayed in unison. Bodies shook. Nobody seemed to be leading the crowd, yet they moved as if following some prearranged choreography. Only children moved freely amongst the throng as their parents joined the other marchers.
I tried to get closer to the action. This was incredible. The crowd began a new chant. "Pa-la-tee-no! Pa-la-tee-no!" On the sidelines, people to old to join in with the dancers looked on silently. I half expected to see a mud-caked Martin Sheen appear from the shadows with a 7-inch Bowie knife.
My next thought was for my camera. I dug into my bag and quickly jettisoned the lens cap. Power? Check. Flash? Check.
The crowd began to surge forward, jumping, stamping and jostling toward a more narrow street in front of us. I reached up with the camera and snapped a photo. A brilliant flash lit it up the dark street ahead. In front of me, some of the young men span around to see where the light had come from. Smiling broadly, they paused momentarily before resuming their noisy march.
I took a quick look at the LCD on the back of the camera. It was a good shot. The crowd were frozen, fists pounding the air. In the foreground, a boy was staring back into the camera lens. I checked the camera settings, reached into the air and took another shot. This time the camera's flash really caught the crowd's attention. Maybe throwing myself into the thick of things wasn't such a hot idea after all. I began looking for a way off the street.
Just then a young man in his early twenties turned and smiled. He calmly placed his hand on the lens of my camera. A moment seemed to slip by. Then he pulled at it while lunging at me. All of this took place as if choreographed to the drumming and the movement of the crowd.
I tried to keep hold of my camera. The man, who had moved behind me, was trying to pull the strap from over my head. I raised my hands to keep hold of the camera strap which was threatning to slip from around my neck. In an effort to lift the camera from around my head, he jammed it against my face and worked on getting a a good grip of the strap.
Suddenly, another man moved out of the crowd. Roughly the same age as the guy who by now had his hands around my neck, this second man lunged at the lens and pulled in the opposite direction, so that I was in the middle of a tug-of-war between the two. Somebody hit me in the ribs. I bit down on my lip. The crowd continued chanting, drums still beating.
I could feel the weight of the first guy's body against me, and his breath on my neck. Something had to give, and it turned out to be my camera. I'm not exactly sure if the second guy managed to find the lens release button, or if the lens sheared off mount and all, but in the event my camera broke apart and the lens flew into the air and over the head of the second man. The man quickly scooped it up and scurried off into the crowd, slipping on the street litter as he went.
Perhaps I lessened my grip on the camera in surprise at seeing the lens fly off - in an instant, the guy who had been behind me managed to finally get the camera strap over my head and run past me.
He was jumping up and down in time with the drumming, the camera held hight above his head like a trophy.
Was it over?
I was at the back of the parade and only a few stragglers remained. I stood dumbfounded. What the hell had just happened to me?
Inside my mouth, I could taste blood.
I stumbled in the direction of the crowd, which was by now far ahead of me and moving quickly down the street. I looked hopelessly for my assailants, but they were nowhere to be found. Instead, I spotted a police van only meters from where I had been relived of my camera.
Smarting at this (rather bitter) irony, I made my way up to the crossroads where they were stationed. I motioned to the closest officer.
“Habla Ingles?”
He paid me no attention. He was watching a suspect being frisked against the side of the police vehicle. The man seemed familiar with the routine, submitting to the officer's will without ever being spoken to.
“Perdon. Habla Ingles?”
The officer turned and paused before speaking.
"Go home senor."

Next week: Someone must have been telling lies about Ourmanintokyo