The Gaijin Juan Quezada
The Gaijin Juan Quezada
Michael Barbato-Dunn
2/5/2026
I do not want to go to Winter Ball with the gaijin Juan Quezada. I know him to be a carouser, a malcontent, a fornicator. Worst of all, he is not serious about baseball. Neither focused nor dedicated. He gets by only on talent.
I learned of the assignment this morning, when Shelton summoned us to say we’ve been chosen to represent the Grizzlies at the camp next week. “Plenty of scouts there. Make the most of it, boys.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
Quezada smirked and picked at his teeth. Oh, the arrogance.
Shelton said the budget is tight so we must rent a car and drive to Tempe. The trip from Duluth will take three days with two overnight stops. Three days in a car with him!
No–I do not want to go to Winter Ball with the gaijin Juan Quezada!
2/12/2026
10 a.m. I had reserved a Honda, but when I arrive at the rental agency this morning I find that gaijin Juan Quezada has upgraded to a Mustang convertible. “Don’t need a roof down south, right, padre?” he laughs. “Give me your credit card.”
Oh, this is the worst thing to ever happen to me.
11 a.m.: Quezada insists on driving, yet often doesn’t watch the road as he fiddles with Spotify. I close my eyes, until he notices me doing so and laughs. “Carsick, H.H.?”
I seethe! I am Hirano Hiroyasu. Not “H.H.” But to object would only make it worse. “I’ll slow down,” he promises, then adds, “when we get there!” He chuckles, pleased with his humor.
I try imagining myself walking through the gates of the training complex with head held high. But no–I will have the gaijin by my side! Scouts will associate me with him. I dread the moment.
2 p.m. The gaijin Juan Quezada asks what I am writing in this journal. I explain it contains my reflections on the day. I tell him I’ve been keeping a journal for years. He gives me a quizzical look. “Here, write this down,” he says, then farts. Such nuanced humor.
5 p.m. We buy burgers at a drive-through, then return to the highway. Quezada is immersed in his own thoughts. His quiet is unsettling, for it is reminiscent of my father as we drove through Hokkaido to countless weekend baseball tournaments, brooding, unwilling to feign enthusiasm, to hide his resentment.
I break the silence. “What is the matter?”
Quezada cocks his head. “What?”
“Is something wrong?”
“Shelton wants me to learn a four-seamer. I only throw a two-seamer.”
I use a four-seamer, taught to me by Coach Ogawa in senior year at Asahikawa Technical. I consider telling him this but abruptly he raises the volume of the music.
10:30 p.m. In Des Moines, Quezada spies a nightclub with a crowded parking lot. “Thirsty?” he asks. I shake my head, but he has already pulled off the road. “Bring your credit card, H.H.,” he grins. “We’ll expense this.” He puts on his Grizzlies cap and checks his teeth in the rearview mirror.
Inside, grime is evident in the crevices of the barstools and booth seats. American honky-tonk blares. The tables are filled with college students.
Like a divining rod, the gaijin turns toward two young women in a back booth, beer cans strewn across their table. He walks directly to them and starts talking. How does he do this? How does he speak with them so easily? In minutes, they are laughing and looking my way, and he waves me over.
2/13/2026
Midnight The women, Julia and Marie, are taking a semester off from the University of Michigan to travel. Quezada orders more drinks and tells them we are both going to be superstars in a few years. I begin to correct him, but he interrupts and pushes a beer toward me. I do not like the taste of beer, but now I drink to avoid ridicule. Just as I did back home when dragged to an izakaya by teammates who were equally unserious. The ones who are now salarymen.
1 a.m. The woman Julia has gone to the parking lot with Quezada. I hope the rental car is not being damaged. Marie waves a ring in my face. “You’re cute, but I’m engaged,” she laughs. “Buy me another shot.” The bartender is holding my credit card and I worry what the total will be.
2 a.m. The club closes. The gaijin Juan Quezada insists on driving through the night, and it seems Julia is coming along. I am not sure how this happened.
The other woman kisses my cheek and departs. Julia sits in the back of the Mustang and giggles while Quezada sings along to Kendrick Lamar. He butchers the rapping and it is, I must admit, quite humorous.
7 a.m. The sun has risen, and I wake. Somehow Quezada is still driving. I wonder if pharmaceuticals are involved. Julia is stretched out on the backseat. He keeps the music loud; between that and the wind rushing through the car’s open top, it is impossible to have a conversation.
We stop at a diner for breakfast. “H.H. here keeps a journal,” he tells Julia. Then, to me, he says, “If you write about her, make sure you say how beautiful she is.” Julia blushes.
I have never known how to talk with women with such ease. My high school batterymate Kuchido often offered advice, but my words would always become mangled.
As we eat, Julia is fixated on her social media. Quezada fidgets, taps his fingers. He’s bored with her already. “Here.” He slides two 20-dollar bills to her. “Grab an Uber. Get yourself home. We have to leave.”
4 p.m. I take over the driving, finally. Lowering the music, I focus on my breathing. Quezada stares ahead, then surprises me by saying, “I don’t even know where you’re from, H.H.”
My fists tighten on the steering wheel. “I am Hirano Hiroyasu. Hiro is sufficient.”
Quezada smiles. “Oh. Okay. Hiro. Cool name.”
“Thank you. I’m from Japan.”
“I know that. I mean, what island?”
That he understands my country is made up of islands is a surprise, for few gaijins do. “I’m from Hokkaido, the northern island. My city is Asahikawa.”
“Hirano Hiroyasu from Hokkaido.”
“Yes.” Now I am uncomfortable and tempted to turn the music up.
“I’m from Zacualpan,” he volunteers. “Have you heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not. Who has? It’s an old mining town in the south. Everyone is a miner. My father, brothers, cousins, friends. They all work in the mines. Except those who don’t work. And me. Me, I throw a baseball.”
There is awkward silence. I realize I must reciprocate. “My parents are university professors. Both in engineering. Divorced five years ago. My father thinks I am foolish to pursue baseball. Not a worthy vocation, he says. Not academia. He hasn’t seen me play in years. That’s why I signed in the States, even though it’s just an independent team.”
I glance at Quezada. He is focused on the road ahead, nodding, considering my words.
8 p.m. After stopping for take-out, Juan resumes driving, one hand on the wheel, the other devouring potato chips. “They want to make me a starter, did you know that?” Quezada has always been a closer. “They say if I learn a four-seamer, I can be a starter.”
He is wary of the change. I consider offering encouragement, but before I can, he turns the music up: more Lamar. Without asking, I grab his phone and select my favorite. “Try this.”
I expect an argument, but he only asks, “Who is it?”
“Nujabes. Hip hop from my homeland. Lo-fi hip hop.”
He grins, moving his head to the beat. “I like this, Hiro!”
“He died in a car wreck. Just 36. A supernova. Shining brilliantly, then gone.”
Juan scowls, then raises the volume, and we drive on, out of Kansas, across a strip of Oklahoma, the northern tip of Texas, and into New Mexico. Four states in four hours. It strikes me that his own nation lies mere kilometers beyond this place, with no ocean between, and that I am the gaijin in this land.
2/14/2026
1 a.m. Juan veers off the highway. We are in Santa Rosa, New Mexico. “I have an old friend from single-A who lives here. We can crash with him.”
“But we must report to Winter Ball in 12 hours! We’re not even in Arizona!”
“I’m wiped out.”
The friend lives in an apartment north of town. No one answers the door. Juan ponders this. “Be right back.”
He skirts around to the back of the building, up the fire escape, pries open a window and lets me in the front door.
Inside, I stretch out on the friend’s futon while Juan raids the fridge. “Sammy is his name. Sammy Higuera. American. Second base. We played one summer in Mexico City. Good enough to get drafted late by the Cubs. But he couldn’t hit lefties and got released.”
Juan shakes his head. “And that was it! Just like that, he’s done.” He stares into the distance. “Done. Finished.”
4 a.m. We wake to a large woman screaming at us. Juan is confused but I understand immediately: we are in her apartment, not Sammy’s. “Burglars! Get out!” She starts smacking us with a broom as we run. “Hiro, you idiot!” Juan bellows as we exit. “You picked the wrong apartment!”
We leap into the front seats through the Mustang’s open roof. I am at the wheel. “Go!” Juan yells, and we are speeding down the roadway, amazed at the mistake, giddy at our escape.
“Juan,” I shout, “you are the idiot! An absolute baka!” Smiling still, Juan does not argue.
The wind rushes against our faces. It is exhilarating.
10 a.m. We arrive at the complex three hours before we are due, exhausted. Beyond the gate: ballfields, clubhouses, batting cages, a track. Crews readying for the arrival of players. There is nothing to do now, so we lean our seats back to nap.
I close my eyes and inhale. Today is the day we begin Winter Ball.
I picture myself on the pitcher’s mound. The only place that feels like home. The batter eyes me. I stare back. We are both scared.
12:30 p.m. I wake to raindrops: the top is down and a fine drizzle has arrived. More players are here, gathering in the parking lot in clusters of nervous chatter. Juan has left the car and is nowhere in sight.
I find him in a public park, hanging his head over a railing at the perimeter of woods. As I approach, I realize he is vomiting.
When he is done, I lead him to a park bench. He sits, wipes his mouth with his shirt, then slumps. “Did I tell you about my father?” he asks.
“You said he’s a miner.”
“Yes. And he’s counting the days until I become a star. Until I sign a big contract and buy him a big house. Several houses. He has no fucking doubt I will succeed. None of them do. They expect me to get rich. Then, they can stop mining.” Juan turns to me, and I see tears. “And you know what? I will buy them homes if I make it. I’ll be happy to. But what if I fail? What do I tell them?”
He leans against me and shudders. When he speaks again, his voice breaks. “How do I go home?”
I have no good answer, so I move closer and hold him. Eventually Juan’s crying subsides.
“Grip across the seams,” I whisper.
“What?”
“The four-seamer. Your fingers wrap across the seams, not between them, for spin. Come. I’ll show you.”
We return to the car and gather our gear. Then I walk through the gates of the training complex, stepping both with uncertainty and ease into Winter Ball, alongside my teammate, my friend, the pitcher Juan Quezada.
Michael Barbato-Dunn has appeared in Literally Stories, the Greyhound Journal, Elegant Literature, and other publications. He is the author of the 2016 baseball steampunk novel, Lord Bart and the Leagues of SIP and ALE. He lives in Philadelphia and has rooted for the Phillies for decades (he even once snagged a Mike Schmidt home run ball in the left field stands of Veterans Stadium). Find Michael at michaelbarbatodunn.com.
Dominick Porto is an up-and-coming creative out of Rochester, NY. Combining his studies in Communication at the University of Mount Saint Vincent and his love for the creative process, he works as the Marketing Coordinator of Elevate, a fitness club in Rochester’s Neighborhood of the Arts District. In his spare time, he refines his design, illustration, and photography skills with personal projects. One common theme of these projects is baseball, a sport that Dominick played through college. He looks forward to future work and collaborations that share his appreciation for art with the public.
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