As a former speechwriter, I’ve written and listened to more than my share of stemwinders. But Ichiro Suzuki’s speech at his induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, on July 27 was a singular experience.
I was there and sat riveted in the stormy heat of Upstate New York with my adult son, a college ballplayer who grew up watching Ichiro in Seattle.
I’ve long believed there should be an anthology of the greatest Baseball Hall of Fame speeches. The induction speech is the one time when your favorite baseball hero, a sphinx-like figure on the field, appears human and vulnerable and summons the courage and the words to express who he is and how he got here.
Ichiro’s speech was that, but it was so much more. It had the artistry of a Ted Sorensen speech for John F. Kennedy or a Peggy Noonan speech for Ronald Reagan. Only more fun, and delivered in the speaker’s second language.
Ichiro subtly introduces the story of a 6th grade essay he’d written about his dream to be a professional baseball player. Everyone in the audience has dreamed of becoming something. In fact, just down the road from the Hall of Fame is Dreams Park, a giant Little League constellation of cute ballfields that attracts more than 500,000 visitors for its weeklong youth tournaments.
Ichiro tells us then that if he could go back in time to re-write his childhood essay, he would change a single word. He would substitute “goal” for “dream.”
Dreams are not always realistic, he said. But goals can be achieved with effort. Sure, dream and dream big. Dreams are fun. But goals are to be achieved.
From there, he tells us about his own approach to achieving goals. That approach began with taking personal responsibility, always respecting the game, and preparation. If Ichiro is an icon, and he is, he is an icon for dedicated preparation.
Ichiro has told us exactly who he is, and he has advised anyone who is listening to do the same, no matter what your goal (or dream) is.
In speechwriting, he’s given us the spinach he wants us to eat, and then there is time for dessert — the humor, the stories, the gratitude. His hilarious impersonation of Mariners broadcaster Rick Rizzs; his termination of the dinner invitation to the one baseball writer who chose not to vote for him; his recollection of a Bob Costas interview; his heartfelt recognition of Hideo Nomo; his emotional (and beautiful) gratitude to his wife for bolstering his doubts even when she herself shared them. He made Seattle, New York, and Miami fans feel special.
And he did something that was incredible to see and to experience – he brought American, Latin American and Japanese baseball together as equally great and equally deserving of the highest honors. Nothing made me happier than to catch a Japanese fan smile when she saw a kid wearing a t-shirt with Japanese writing, or a Nippon League jersey.
But Ichiro was not finished. Remember that 6th grade essay?
The crowd fell silent as he began his conclusion. The chant of “Ichiro! Ichiro! Ichiro!” still rang in our ears when he told us that the American Baseball Hall of Fame was never his goal. Until 2001, he didn’t even know there was one.
It seemed he would end with a chuckle. Instead, as we sat there waiting to explode with applause, he delivered this final line.
“But being here today sure feels like a fantastic dream. Thank you.”
The enigmatic Ichiro had engaged us in another of his riddles. Wait, are goals more important than dreams or vice versa? What about preparation, responsibility, and respect?
The five-tool player had a sixth tool up his batting sleeve, his right arm elevated in the air and pointing somewhere off in the distance.
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