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T oday could be the end of Nomomania, this wild and inspirational and maddening 13-year ride that’s done nothing short of change the global view of baseball forever.
Luke Hochevar will make his second big-league start today for the Royals, which means someone’s got to go, and Hideo Nomo, 39 years old and scuffling, is as likely a candidate as anyone. So this could be it for Nomo, who might not ever give a direct telling of his impossible career because of the burns he’s suffered along the way.
His native Japan once treated him like a national hero, then a traitor, then a hero again. By then it was too late for him to care, and when he appeared finished as a major-league pitcher three years ago, he had been replaced on the front pages back home by a new crop of stars he helped make rich.
Nomo once symbolized the new, rebellious generation of Japanese youth, the first to sign his own shoe deal, the first to exploit a loophole that brought him to the fame and wealth of Major League Baseball.
The Japanese hated him for that. He didn’t understand, but he also didn’t care much. So when Japan suddenly turned and tried to embrace him, he didn’t care much for that, either. Nomomania has never been his thing.
“I’m glad to be back,” he says through an interpreter, some 20 Japanese reporters hanging on every rare syllable they get. “I want to throw well.”
That hasn’t happened. He has surrendered nine runs and three homers in 4 1/3 innings, which is why he could be the casualty today. That’s OK. He’s a middle-aged man, almost three years and an elbow surgery removed from his last big-league game before this season. He was never supposed to make it back this far, so now that he has, maybe he’ll do it again.
Or maybe he’ll retire. Nobody seems certain, which is fitting, since the fact we’re even discussing Nomo in the major leagues is one of the all-time shockers.
One American League general manager called Nomo “done” when he signed with the Royals, and that was before he showed up to camp noticeably overweight, the only player gassed after basic warm-up exercises. Some of his teammates assumed he was there merely to help fellow Japanese pitcher Yasuhiko Yabuta adjust.
The tornado windup — which he developed to get his father’s attention — is gone, along with the magic. The 95 mph fastball is down to the mid-80s. Traffic in Tokyo used to literally stop when he pitched, so motorists could watch the giant video boards that showed his starts.
Yes, they cheered him wildly, but only after they cursed him passionately. The hate grew so common that Nomo merely shrugged when told of another death threat.
Then there was the incredibly rapid decline. A 16-game winner with a 3.09 ERA one year, 4-11 with an 8.25 the next year. The Devil Rays cut him, then the Yankees, and finally the White Sox before he stopped getting chances. He landed in the Venezuelan winter league, fat and nearly 40, and opponents hit .310 off him.
But a funny thing happened on his way to baseball oblivion. Halfway through what some figured was a courtesy spring training tryout, big-league batters started missing his pitches. The forkball that once turned baseball on its side came back to life.
“Guys,” Royals manager Trey Hillman told his coaches during one game, “are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?”
Thankfully, the outline of Nomo and his remarkable career can be told with the help of those who’ve lived around it.
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