By Jeff Faraudo
Oakland Tribune
Posted: 02/23/2010 04:11:01 PM PST
Updated: 02/23/2010 05:27:34 PM PST
Sophomore center Max Zhang, the hero of Cal's win at Oregon last Saturday, suffered a collapsed lung after colliding with another player in practice on Monday, and is out for Thursday's home game against Arizona.
Zhang saw a doctor today and his progress will be monitored. His status for Saturday's game against Arizona State is uncertain.
A 7-foot-2 1/4 native of China, Zhang came off the bench to score eight points in just five minutes at Oregon, helping to trigger the Bears' 64-49 victory.
Zhang averages 3.4 points and 2.5 rebounds for the Bears (18-9, 10-5), who are in first place in the Pac-10 Conference
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Cal Bears pluck Oregon Ducks 64-49
California's Max Zhang shoots as Oregon's Jamil Wilson defends in the second half Saturday in Eugene, Ore.
Photo: Rick Bowmer / AP
Vittorio Tafur, Chronicle Staff Writer
Sunday, February 21, 2010
(02-21) 04:00 PST Eugene, Ore. --
Bouncing back after a loss can be hard, but it's something Cal is very good at - the Bears are now 7-2 after Saturday's 64-49 win over Oregon.
Bothered by tendinitis in his knee, Cal's Patrick Christopher had, by his own admission, "a rough game." "But we won, so I don't care," he added, smiling.
Christopher was 3-for-14 but made three plays that proved pivotal in the win at Mac Court. The senior made two drives to start the game-deciding 9-0 run that opened the second half, and then later passed the ball to 7-foot-3 center Max Zhang as soon as he entered the game.
Zhang had only played seven minutes in the past five games, and when he entered the game with Cal up 46-41 with 10:32 left, there was a buzz among the 8,099 fans on hand. Coach Mike Montgomery brought Zhang in for defense but Christopher fed him immediately and he was fouled. Zhang - easy to spot behind Oregon's zone defense - would score eight points with an assist and a block in five minutes, helping the Bears pad their lead by five.
"It's always funny to hear the crowd react when he walks over to the scorer's table to come in," Christopher said. "He gave them what they wanted. He gave them a show."
Jerome Randle and Theo Robertson each scored 16 points as Cal (18-9, 10-5) extended its lead in the Pac-10 to one game over Arizona State. Randle moved past Lamond Murray (1992-94) for second all-time on the school's scoring list, with 1,702 points.
The Bears were much better defensively than they were in their loss at Oregon State on Thursday, but then again the last-place Ducks (12-14, 4-10) are really struggling. Oregon, which lost its fifth straight game, had one assist for the entire game against 13 turnovers. It shot just 1-for-11 (34.1 percent) from three-point range, and didn't make a field goal in the final 10:33.
Cal somehow was up by one, 24-23, at halftime despite shooting 25.8 percent (Christopher was 1-for-9 and Jamal Boykin was 1-for-6) with nine turnovers.
"If we hadn't played good defense," Montgomery said. "We might have been out of it in the first half."
Christopher got the Bears started in the second half when he decided to "get to the rim." He drove, was fouled and hit two free throws, and then attacked again, pulling up and swishing a tough jumper in traffic. Randle hit a three, Robertson had a fast-break layup and the 9-0 run put Cal up 33-23 two minutes in.
The Bears made nine of their first 12 shots in the half, and the closest the Ducks got was 46-41. That's when Montgomery brought in Zhang to stop Oregon forward Jeremy Jacob (14 points).
"The offense was a surprise," Montgomery said.
Zhang hit three of four free throws, then scored a three-point play and capped off his day with a dunk, leaving with Cal up 57-47 with 5:42 left.
"It is a great feeling to help the team win," Zhang said. "I am glad I stayed ready to play. Getting fouled and making the first free throw helped me get in the flow of the game."
Oregon's Jeremy Jacob and teammate Matthew Humphrey defend against California's Max Zhang in the second half Saturday in Eugene, Ore.
Photo: Rick Bowmer / AP
Briefly: Cal got a big break when 6-10 Oregon center Michael Dunigan didn't play because of a sore hip. ... Randle needs 75 points to pass Sean Lampley (1998-2001) for the Cal career scoring record. ... Darrall Imhoff, who led the Bears to the 1959 NCAA championship, was an honorary team captain for the game to help the Ducks celebrate the final season at their 83-year-old basketball home.
Friday, February 12, 2010
SF Giants Japanese Heritage Night II
Tuesday 8/24 vs. CIN 7:15pm
Purchase Tickets Buy tickets now »
Back by popular demand, the Giants are hosting not one, but TWO Japanese Heritage Nights this season. Our second event is in honor of the 20th annual Japan-America Grassroots Summit, being held August 25th-29th in San Francisco. The summit aims to strengthen the peaceful relationship between Japan and America is held alternately between Japan and America every year, arriving in San Francisco for 2010! Special event ticket packages to Japanese Heritage Night include a seat in the heritage section at the game, as well as a limited-edition Masanori Murakami Jersey-T. Murakami was the first Japanese player to play in the major leagues, and he happened to be a member of the Giants. We have decided to honor that history with this retro-style jersey-T, only available through this special ticket offer. Ticket proceeds will once again benefit local Japanese charities, making it possible to celebrate Japanese Heritage and help a worthy cause. Get your tickets today!
Cal bears vr UW
Went to the Cal game, unfortunately max zhang only played the last 20 secs of the game
Three American ice dancing siblings won't be skating for Team USA
Three American ice dancing siblings won't be skating for Team USA
By Trey Kerby
A few weeks back we told you about the curious trend of ice skaters finding partners in foreign countries. That was unusual, but not too surprising. Skaters need partners, and if they can find them in other places, why not? But the story of the Reed siblings? Well, that's weird.
Born to an American father and a Japanese mother in Kalamazoo, Michigan, all three Reed siblings – Cathy, Chris, and Allison – will skate in the Vancouver Olympics. None of them are members of Team USA.
Huh?
Because of their mother's Japanese citizenship, Chris and Cathy hold dual citizenship in the United States and Japan. They'll be skating for Japan.
Allison, meanwhile, is taking advantage of the new rules to skate for Georgia's national team, home of her partner, Otar Japaridze.
Growing up, the Reeds lived in Kalamazoo, Hong Kong, Cincinnati, Australia, and, finally, New Jersey, where Cathy and Chris met up with coaches Nikolai Morozov and Shae-Lynn Bourne. As the duo trained with their new coaches, they quickly flew up the ice dancing ranks. However, due to the depth of the American team, the Reeds began skating for Japan. In a country where ice dancing is not terribly popular, they almost immediately became the team to beat.
Little sister Allison's story is even more fortuitous. She began the sport because of her siblings' success but could not find a partner due to her small stature. Then she found Japaridze in – where else? – New Jersey. In their first competition together (Allison's first international competition ever), the duo nabbed the very last Olympic spot.
Just your typical three-siblings-from-the-United-States-finding-international-success-for-other-countries story that's pretty amazing. No biggie.
Popular Olympic stories on Yahoo! Sports:
NJ siblings represent Japan, Georgia in Vancouver
WARREN, N.J. (AFP)(AP) -- If the ice dancing teams from Japan and Georgia wind up sharing the rink during warmups at the Olympics, watch out. Some fierce trash-talking is bound to break out.
The three Reed siblings of Warren, N.J., burst into laughter at that image. Joking aside, they'll feel only pride when a journey spanning four continents finally brings them together -- on their sport's biggest stage, and in the first time they've competed against each other.
Cathy, 22, and Chris, 20, will represent Japan in Vancouver; their mother is Japanese, and they have dual citizenship. Allison, 15, will skate for the former Soviet republic of Georgia, the home country of partner Otar Japaridze.
"It's amazing how it all worked out," Cathy said.
Nine years ago, she and Chris certainly didn't seem destined for the Olympics. Both competed in singles figure skating, but never advanced beyond local events.
"My jumps, my spins were just not working," Cathy said.
Then a coach suggested ice dancing. Cathy had done ballet growing up, but Chris had no background in dance; soccer and karate were his activities of choice.
"When I first saw it, it's two people just skating," he said.
"What is this?" he thought. "This is so easy."
Not really. Chris was much shorter than his older sister at the time, so their lifts were more like him briefly throwing her in the air.
But the sport certainly proved more natural to the Reeds than those jumps and spins, and before they knew it they were finishing 10th at junior nationals.
Still, they were a long way from the sport's highest level.
Related to this article
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* Vancouver 2010: Pairs to Watch
Vancouver 2010: Pairs to Watch
Photos of the top contenders in pairs figure skating
Stories
* Skating pairs have complicated relationships
* Davis and White determined to defend
* Speaking with Tanith Belbin and Ben Agosto
* Davis-White win dance title, beat Belbin-Agosto
In 2004, the pair just missed qualifying for nationals, and their family had a decision to make. Should they go all in on this skating dream?
The chance to work with coaches Nikolai Morozov and Shae-Lynn Bourne meant the kids would have to be home-schooled. That was actually an appealing prospect to Cathy and Chris, who had moved around a lot as kids because of their father's job at a pharmaceutical firm before the family settled in Warren in 1998. The Reeds had lived everywhere from Kalamazoo, Mich., to Hong Kong, from Cincinnati to Australia.
Their improvement was quick and dramatic under their new coaches: The Reeds won their division at nationals in 2006. They had the right personalities for the sport, Morozov said.
"You have to work really, really hard and be really, really patient," he said.
Still, the Reeds had little chance of competing internationally for the United States anytime soon because of the country's depth in ice dancing. Enter the Japan option: The Reeds found themselves good enough to almost immediately be the top team in Japan, yet not good enough that U.S. officials would try to block the move.
They hope to increase the popularity of ice dancing in Japan, where they are often asked in interviews which elements fans should pay attention to. They try to explain that there isn't really the equivalent of a jump or spin, that what's important is the overall impact of the performance.
Their original dance may help make that point: It's a Japanese folk dance complete with authentic kimonos and fans.
Unlike Cathy and Chris, sister Allison got an early start in ice dancing simply by following them into it. By age 11 or so she was already an elite ice dancer, but there was one problem. She didn't have a partner.
Her height -- or lack thereof -- had a lot to do with that. In a sport where the partners must look right together, she was just too short at 4-foot-10. For a while, she didn't skate much.
"It wasn't as motivational for me to keep doing ice dance because I had nowhere to go at that moment," she said.
Then Allison found out that Japaridze, who also trained in New Jersey, was seeking a new partner. It's not unusual in ice dancing for a skater to team up with a partner from another country and compete for that nation.
In September, they went to an Olympic qualifying event in Germany that would determine the final five teams in Vancouver. It was Allison's first international competition -- and first competition with a partner. They nabbed the fifth and final spot.
In less than a year, Allison went from not having a partner to going to the Olympics along with her brother and sister.
"It just came out perfect," said their mother, Noriko Reed. "It's amazing how things can change in your life."
Sunday, February 7, 2010
" Hello, I'm-Japanese."
" Hello, I'm-Japanese."
Scott Fujita is helping to bring the Saints back to life. And
that's the least surprising thing about him
by David Fleming
It's odd at first.
When you push open the massive mahogany door of Scott Fujita's
warehouse-style loft in New Orleans, there's a Mardi Gras-style
balcony up front and an exposed wall of burned-black bricks
near the back. Yet despite how much Fujita says his Japanese
heritage means to him, there's no Asian-influenced decor
anywhere to be seen. Then he leads you around a corner to his
den. And there, sitting on a white metal computer desk (next to
Barack Obama's new book) is a stunning blue ceramic recreation
of The Great Wave Off Kanagawa.
Admiring the piece as he moves, Fujita seems too tall and fluid
to be a linebacker. Then he sits down, and his desk—now in the
visual frame with his massive shoulders, back and
forearms—suddenly looks like a TV tray. Fujita begins opening
files on his computer, and with each click he reveals the most
cherished artifacts of his remarkable journey, from adopted
child to college walk-on to discarded draft pick to centerpiece
of the resurgent Saints defense.
He opens a picture of his parents, reaches out to touch their
faces on the screen. Given up by his birth mother when he was 6
weeks old, Scott was adopted by Helen and Rod Fujita and raised
in Camarillo, Calif. Helen, a retired secretary, is white. Rod,
a retired high school teacher and coach, is a third generation
Japanese-American. He was born inside an Arizona internment
camp during World War II.
Fujita opens more photos. There's one of him holding hands with
his wife and college sweetheart, Jaclyn, on Senior Day at Cal;
this was a few months before the Chiefs took him in the fifth
round of the 2002 draft. There's another one of him playing Pee
Wee football, the chubby-cheeked, blond-haired, green-eyed kid
with the Japanese name on his jersey. There's another of his
paternal grandmother, Lillie, who once overheard him
introducing himself like this: "Hi! I'm Scott. I'm 4. And I'm
Japanese."
"I swear I'm not delusional," Fujita says, chuckling at the
memory. "I know I don't have a drop of Japanese blood in me.
But what is race? It's just a label. The way you're raised,
your family, the people you love—that means more than
everything else."
Many adopted kids grapple to come to terms with who they are
and where they came from, especially those raised by parents
who don't look like them. But Fujita says he doesn't struggle
with his identity, never has. First as a child and now as a
football player, his path to success has always been about the
same thing: defining for himself who he is. "That's the
connection point for Scott," Lillie says. "You choose to be
what you are. It's not your location, your obstacles or your
skin. You. You choose. He learned that from his family."
Not that he wasn't tested. When his parents took him and older
brother, Jason, who was also adopted, to stores, they got the
occasional odd looks. Sometimes Scott had to show his ID to
substitute teachers who didn't believe that his last name
belonged to him. And he ate so much rice with chopsticks that
he was 8 before he knew what to do with a baked potato. But he
shrugged off most of it, confident in thinking of himself as
half Japanese at heart. To his dad, it was even simpler:
"American, Japanese. To me he's always just been my son."
Every Jan. 1, the Fujitas celebrated Shogatsu, Japanese New
Year's. Every May 5, Rod would raise a koi flag on a bamboo
pole in the backyard in honor of the Japanese national holiday
of Kodomo-no-hi (Children's Day). But because Rod had become,
as he says, "Americanized," most of Scott's knowledge of
Japanese culture came from Lillie and Nagao, Scott's
grandfather.
The two were extremely strict with Rod when he was a kid, but
they spoiled their grandchildren. Nagao often showed up
unannounced at school to take Scott and Jason out for ice cream
and to go toy shopping. During these field trips, Scott would
sit in the backseat of Nagao's car, gazing at the California
coast while listening to tales of great samurai warriors,
Japanese art and history, and majestic places like Mount Fuji.
"When you've never met a single blood relative in your life,"
Scott says, "the idea of ethnicity and blood relations takes on
a different meaning. I found a very beautiful and interesting
culture filled with dignity, respect and honor, and it became
mine."
He also connected to his ancestors through his anger about, and
empathy for, Japanese-American residents who were interned
during World War II. His grandparents had a wrenching story to
tell. In 1941, Lillie and Nagao were students at Cal, planning
to get married. A few days after the Japanese attack on Pearl
Harbor, Lillie was crossing the street in Berkeley when another
female student ran up to her, screaming in her face, "You
little Jap, why don't you go back home!?" Lillie is a tiny,
demure woman. At his wedding reception, Scott got down on his
knees to dance with his grandma, only to discover he was still
too tall. But that day in 1941, she roared back: "I'm an
American too. And a better one than you are!"
Two months later, Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Executive Order
9066: the forcible evacuation of 120,000 American residents of
Japanese descent to 10 internment camps. To avoid being
separated, Nagao and Lillie married before the order was
carried out. Shortly after, they were forced, along with their
families, to relocate to an Army barracks in Gila River, Ariz.
Unable to pay their mortgage, Nagao's parents lost their
farmland in Ventura County.
The government did allow Nagao to leave camp and return to
college, but only at a school it approved: BYU. Lillie had to
stay behind. Amazingly, after Nagao graduated, he enlisted to
fight for the very country that was imprisoning his family.
Deployed to Italy, he fought with the all-Japanese 442nd
Regimental Combat Team, one of the most decorated battalions of
the war. While Nagao was overseas in 1943, Lillie gave birth to
Rod at the camp.
On Jan. 2, 1945, FDR revoked his executive order; the last camp
closed in early 1946. Nagao attended law school at Cal on the
GI Bill, then moved with Lillie and Rod back to Oxnard, where
he became one of the first bilingual attorneys in Southern
California. He died in 1988. A year later, Lillie received a
reparations check for $20,000 and a written apology from
then-president George Bush. The letter, which Scott keeps on
the computer in his den, says in part: "Your fellow Americans
have, in a very real sense, renewed their traditional
commitment to the ideals of freedom, equality and justice."
Even now, Scott gets angry when he mentions how Japanese
internment was never brought up in school. His desktop is full
of research on the topic, including photos of the camps and
government documents.
Given the depth of his feelings, it makes sense that Fujita has
adopted the ideals of perseverance that sustained his
grandparents. As a high school freshman in 1994, he was his
father's height: 5'6". Over the next three years, he shot up to
6'4" and became a star safety for Rio Mesa High. But lacking
mass, he drew meager attention from major D1 schools, and Cal
offered him a shot to walk on only a few months before his
graduation.
Fujita redshirted his freshman year, but not before blowing
away coaches in his first camp by helping out the
injury-plagued Bears at safety even though both of his hands
were clubbed up with tape—one because it was broken, the other
because of a nasty gash. The Bears gave him a scholarship the
next spring, and he added 20 pounds to his 6'5" frame while
switching from safety to linebacker. But as a sophomore in
1999, he was plagued by nerve stingers in his neck. Following
the season, he had career-threatening surgery that put him in
the ICU for three days and a neck halo for a week. That was
March. By August, he was cracking skulls again in live practice
drills. Two seasons later, he was among Cal's leading tacklers.
"I call it Pat Tillman syndrome," says former Cal defensive
coordinator Lyle Setencich, now at Texas Tech. "There are a few
players you come across who give their heart and soul to the
game. That's Pat Tillman, and that's Scott Fujita."
In Kansas City, Fujita's relentless play led his teammates to
name him the Chiefs' best rookie of 2002, and he topped the
team in tackles in 2003 and 2004. At times, though, he suffered
from "walk-on disease." Fearing the next bad play might be his
last, he stressed and pressed, not realizing that often the
only difference between good and great linebackers is just a
stutter step—the split-second difference between thinking
through a play and reacting on instinct. "I used to be the guy
running around, banging his head on the walls before a game,"
Fujita says. "Not anymore. Sometimes success is more about
relaxing and getting comfortable."
And finding the right fit. After making over their linebacker
corps, the Chiefs traded Fujita to Dallas five days before the
2005 season. He started the final eight games for the Cowboys
and made enough plays to draw interest, as an unrestricted free
agent, from Dallas, Jacksonville, Philadelphia and Oakland. His
first trip, though, was to New Orleans, where former Cowboys
assistant Sean Payton had just been hired as head coach.
The first time Fujita met with Payton in his office at the
team's practice facility (which had been used as a national
command center during Katrina), he was struck by how Payton had
embraced the Saints' role as sports savior of New Orleans.
Sappy or not, Fujita wanted to buy in, if only because he
thought that embodying something bigger than the game would
bring out his best as a player. "The hurricane, my family's
internment, issues of race—I feel like all that is a part of me
when I play."
Shortly after his sit-down with Payton, Fujita and Jaclyn were
enjoying dinner at Emeril's when Saints GM Mickey Loomis called
to thank him for visiting. "I'm ready to sign," Fujita blurted.
Ten minutes later, Loomis raced in with a contract in his
hands. Fujita got a four-year, $12 million deal for dessert,
and the Saints got a key piece for their rebuilt defense
without breaking the bank.
On Sept. 25, during the grand reopening of the Superdome on
Monday Night Football, Saints defensive back Mike McKenzie
introduced Fujita to a national TV audience by calling him "the
Asian Assassin." On the very next play, Fujita erupted through
a crack in the Falcons line and sacked a thoroughly shocked
Mike Vick, forcing a fumble and a fourth down. Fujita
celebrated with a fist-in palm samurai bow (a move now being
mimicked on high school football fields in New Orleans). The
Saints then blocked the Falcons' punt and recovered it in the
end zone to begin the 23-3 romp.
By the time the Saints reached their Week 7 bye, coming off
gritty wins over Tampa and Philly, they had morphed from
Katrina recovery mascots to contenders. Most of the hype has
centered around the backfield of Drew Brees, Deuce McAllister
and Reggie Bush, but the real credit belongs to the
Fujita-fueled defense that ranked fourth in the NFC through
Week 8. Playing behind a dominant, attacking front four, Fujita
is often left unblocked, free to shoot run gaps, roam the deep
middle and wreak havoc 80 feet in either direction. He has
prototypical size, strength and speed, but it's his
lightning-fast presnap recognition that keeps him one step
ahead of opponents and all over the stat sheet—a team-high 55
tackles and two picks, plus 2.5 sacks, a forced fumble and five
passes defensed. "In the huddle," McKenzie says, "he looks like
a missile ready to launch. He's everywhere out there."
Lest anyone want to dismiss Fujita as an overblown do-gooder,
note his $7,500 bill for a low hit away from the action on
Carolina's Steve Smith in Week 4. Or the red, swollen cleat
scars up and down his shins, courtesy of illegal leg whips by
blockers—the ultimate sign of respect in the trenches.
Halfway through the Saints' bye week, in fact, Fujita's shins
are still so swollen and discolored that he has to gimp the
last few blocks home from his favorite sushi joint, Rock-n-Sake
(home of the Mt. Fujita Roll). When he gets home, there are
half a dozen UPS boxes full of Pottery Barn picture frames
waiting for him. One of the candidates for the new frames is a
photo of the banner that Fujita's neighbors made for him after
the Eagles game. Spread out across his parking space, the sign
reads: McNabb Got FUJITA'ED.
It was a nice gesture, and it's a decent enough photo, but the
universal truth behind the message is what makes Fujita eager
to frame it: the idea that no matter where you're from or how
you were raised, no matter what you look like or who you play
for, when fans turn your name into a verb, well, you've arrived.
Scott Fujita is helping to bring the Saints back to life. And
that's the least surprising thing about him
by David Fleming
It's odd at first.
When you push open the massive mahogany door of Scott Fujita's
warehouse-style loft in New Orleans, there's a Mardi Gras-style
balcony up front and an exposed wall of burned-black bricks
near the back. Yet despite how much Fujita says his Japanese
heritage means to him, there's no Asian-influenced decor
anywhere to be seen. Then he leads you around a corner to his
den. And there, sitting on a white metal computer desk (next to
Barack Obama's new book) is a stunning blue ceramic recreation
of The Great Wave Off Kanagawa.
Admiring the piece as he moves, Fujita seems too tall and fluid
to be a linebacker. Then he sits down, and his desk—now in the
visual frame with his massive shoulders, back and
forearms—suddenly looks like a TV tray. Fujita begins opening
files on his computer, and with each click he reveals the most
cherished artifacts of his remarkable journey, from adopted
child to college walk-on to discarded draft pick to centerpiece
of the resurgent Saints defense.
He opens a picture of his parents, reaches out to touch their
faces on the screen. Given up by his birth mother when he was 6
weeks old, Scott was adopted by Helen and Rod Fujita and raised
in Camarillo, Calif. Helen, a retired secretary, is white. Rod,
a retired high school teacher and coach, is a third generation
Japanese-American. He was born inside an Arizona internment
camp during World War II.
Fujita opens more photos. There's one of him holding hands with
his wife and college sweetheart, Jaclyn, on Senior Day at Cal;
this was a few months before the Chiefs took him in the fifth
round of the 2002 draft. There's another one of him playing Pee
Wee football, the chubby-cheeked, blond-haired, green-eyed kid
with the Japanese name on his jersey. There's another of his
paternal grandmother, Lillie, who once overheard him
introducing himself like this: "Hi! I'm Scott. I'm 4. And I'm
Japanese."
"I swear I'm not delusional," Fujita says, chuckling at the
memory. "I know I don't have a drop of Japanese blood in me.
But what is race? It's just a label. The way you're raised,
your family, the people you love—that means more than
everything else."
Many adopted kids grapple to come to terms with who they are
and where they came from, especially those raised by parents
who don't look like them. But Fujita says he doesn't struggle
with his identity, never has. First as a child and now as a
football player, his path to success has always been about the
same thing: defining for himself who he is. "That's the
connection point for Scott," Lillie says. "You choose to be
what you are. It's not your location, your obstacles or your
skin. You. You choose. He learned that from his family."
Not that he wasn't tested. When his parents took him and older
brother, Jason, who was also adopted, to stores, they got the
occasional odd looks. Sometimes Scott had to show his ID to
substitute teachers who didn't believe that his last name
belonged to him. And he ate so much rice with chopsticks that
he was 8 before he knew what to do with a baked potato. But he
shrugged off most of it, confident in thinking of himself as
half Japanese at heart. To his dad, it was even simpler:
"American, Japanese. To me he's always just been my son."
Every Jan. 1, the Fujitas celebrated Shogatsu, Japanese New
Year's. Every May 5, Rod would raise a koi flag on a bamboo
pole in the backyard in honor of the Japanese national holiday
of Kodomo-no-hi (Children's Day). But because Rod had become,
as he says, "Americanized," most of Scott's knowledge of
Japanese culture came from Lillie and Nagao, Scott's
grandfather.
The two were extremely strict with Rod when he was a kid, but
they spoiled their grandchildren. Nagao often showed up
unannounced at school to take Scott and Jason out for ice cream
and to go toy shopping. During these field trips, Scott would
sit in the backseat of Nagao's car, gazing at the California
coast while listening to tales of great samurai warriors,
Japanese art and history, and majestic places like Mount Fuji.
"When you've never met a single blood relative in your life,"
Scott says, "the idea of ethnicity and blood relations takes on
a different meaning. I found a very beautiful and interesting
culture filled with dignity, respect and honor, and it became
mine."
He also connected to his ancestors through his anger about, and
empathy for, Japanese-American residents who were interned
during World War II. His grandparents had a wrenching story to
tell. In 1941, Lillie and Nagao were students at Cal, planning
to get married. A few days after the Japanese attack on Pearl
Harbor, Lillie was crossing the street in Berkeley when another
female student ran up to her, screaming in her face, "You
little Jap, why don't you go back home!?" Lillie is a tiny,
demure woman. At his wedding reception, Scott got down on his
knees to dance with his grandma, only to discover he was still
too tall. But that day in 1941, she roared back: "I'm an
American too. And a better one than you are!"
Two months later, Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Executive Order
9066: the forcible evacuation of 120,000 American residents of
Japanese descent to 10 internment camps. To avoid being
separated, Nagao and Lillie married before the order was
carried out. Shortly after, they were forced, along with their
families, to relocate to an Army barracks in Gila River, Ariz.
Unable to pay their mortgage, Nagao's parents lost their
farmland in Ventura County.
The government did allow Nagao to leave camp and return to
college, but only at a school it approved: BYU. Lillie had to
stay behind. Amazingly, after Nagao graduated, he enlisted to
fight for the very country that was imprisoning his family.
Deployed to Italy, he fought with the all-Japanese 442nd
Regimental Combat Team, one of the most decorated battalions of
the war. While Nagao was overseas in 1943, Lillie gave birth to
Rod at the camp.
On Jan. 2, 1945, FDR revoked his executive order; the last camp
closed in early 1946. Nagao attended law school at Cal on the
GI Bill, then moved with Lillie and Rod back to Oxnard, where
he became one of the first bilingual attorneys in Southern
California. He died in 1988. A year later, Lillie received a
reparations check for $20,000 and a written apology from
then-president George Bush. The letter, which Scott keeps on
the computer in his den, says in part: "Your fellow Americans
have, in a very real sense, renewed their traditional
commitment to the ideals of freedom, equality and justice."
Even now, Scott gets angry when he mentions how Japanese
internment was never brought up in school. His desktop is full
of research on the topic, including photos of the camps and
government documents.
Given the depth of his feelings, it makes sense that Fujita has
adopted the ideals of perseverance that sustained his
grandparents. As a high school freshman in 1994, he was his
father's height: 5'6". Over the next three years, he shot up to
6'4" and became a star safety for Rio Mesa High. But lacking
mass, he drew meager attention from major D1 schools, and Cal
offered him a shot to walk on only a few months before his
graduation.
Fujita redshirted his freshman year, but not before blowing
away coaches in his first camp by helping out the
injury-plagued Bears at safety even though both of his hands
were clubbed up with tape—one because it was broken, the other
because of a nasty gash. The Bears gave him a scholarship the
next spring, and he added 20 pounds to his 6'5" frame while
switching from safety to linebacker. But as a sophomore in
1999, he was plagued by nerve stingers in his neck. Following
the season, he had career-threatening surgery that put him in
the ICU for three days and a neck halo for a week. That was
March. By August, he was cracking skulls again in live practice
drills. Two seasons later, he was among Cal's leading tacklers.
"I call it Pat Tillman syndrome," says former Cal defensive
coordinator Lyle Setencich, now at Texas Tech. "There are a few
players you come across who give their heart and soul to the
game. That's Pat Tillman, and that's Scott Fujita."
In Kansas City, Fujita's relentless play led his teammates to
name him the Chiefs' best rookie of 2002, and he topped the
team in tackles in 2003 and 2004. At times, though, he suffered
from "walk-on disease." Fearing the next bad play might be his
last, he stressed and pressed, not realizing that often the
only difference between good and great linebackers is just a
stutter step—the split-second difference between thinking
through a play and reacting on instinct. "I used to be the guy
running around, banging his head on the walls before a game,"
Fujita says. "Not anymore. Sometimes success is more about
relaxing and getting comfortable."
And finding the right fit. After making over their linebacker
corps, the Chiefs traded Fujita to Dallas five days before the
2005 season. He started the final eight games for the Cowboys
and made enough plays to draw interest, as an unrestricted free
agent, from Dallas, Jacksonville, Philadelphia and Oakland. His
first trip, though, was to New Orleans, where former Cowboys
assistant Sean Payton had just been hired as head coach.
The first time Fujita met with Payton in his office at the
team's practice facility (which had been used as a national
command center during Katrina), he was struck by how Payton had
embraced the Saints' role as sports savior of New Orleans.
Sappy or not, Fujita wanted to buy in, if only because he
thought that embodying something bigger than the game would
bring out his best as a player. "The hurricane, my family's
internment, issues of race—I feel like all that is a part of me
when I play."
Shortly after his sit-down with Payton, Fujita and Jaclyn were
enjoying dinner at Emeril's when Saints GM Mickey Loomis called
to thank him for visiting. "I'm ready to sign," Fujita blurted.
Ten minutes later, Loomis raced in with a contract in his
hands. Fujita got a four-year, $12 million deal for dessert,
and the Saints got a key piece for their rebuilt defense
without breaking the bank.
On Sept. 25, during the grand reopening of the Superdome on
Monday Night Football, Saints defensive back Mike McKenzie
introduced Fujita to a national TV audience by calling him "the
Asian Assassin." On the very next play, Fujita erupted through
a crack in the Falcons line and sacked a thoroughly shocked
Mike Vick, forcing a fumble and a fourth down. Fujita
celebrated with a fist-in palm samurai bow (a move now being
mimicked on high school football fields in New Orleans). The
Saints then blocked the Falcons' punt and recovered it in the
end zone to begin the 23-3 romp.
By the time the Saints reached their Week 7 bye, coming off
gritty wins over Tampa and Philly, they had morphed from
Katrina recovery mascots to contenders. Most of the hype has
centered around the backfield of Drew Brees, Deuce McAllister
and Reggie Bush, but the real credit belongs to the
Fujita-fueled defense that ranked fourth in the NFC through
Week 8. Playing behind a dominant, attacking front four, Fujita
is often left unblocked, free to shoot run gaps, roam the deep
middle and wreak havoc 80 feet in either direction. He has
prototypical size, strength and speed, but it's his
lightning-fast presnap recognition that keeps him one step
ahead of opponents and all over the stat sheet—a team-high 55
tackles and two picks, plus 2.5 sacks, a forced fumble and five
passes defensed. "In the huddle," McKenzie says, "he looks like
a missile ready to launch. He's everywhere out there."
Lest anyone want to dismiss Fujita as an overblown do-gooder,
note his $7,500 bill for a low hit away from the action on
Carolina's Steve Smith in Week 4. Or the red, swollen cleat
scars up and down his shins, courtesy of illegal leg whips by
blockers—the ultimate sign of respect in the trenches.
Halfway through the Saints' bye week, in fact, Fujita's shins
are still so swollen and discolored that he has to gimp the
last few blocks home from his favorite sushi joint, Rock-n-Sake
(home of the Mt. Fujita Roll). When he gets home, there are
half a dozen UPS boxes full of Pottery Barn picture frames
waiting for him. One of the candidates for the new frames is a
photo of the banner that Fujita's neighbors made for him after
the Eagles game. Spread out across his parking space, the sign
reads: McNabb Got FUJITA'ED.
It was a nice gesture, and it's a decent enough photo, but the
universal truth behind the message is what makes Fujita eager
to frame it: the idea that no matter where you're from or how
you were raised, no matter what you look like or who you play
for, when fans turn your name into a verb, well, you've arrived.
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