They moved in unison. Thousands of hands clapping, precise and crisp, augmented by the bang of drums and cadence of hollow kung fu bats. Arm motions well-timed, everyone together. Huge flags in the super-fan section, waved in a carefully prescribed motion, each flutter seeming to flap at the same moment. And the chants? Everybody knew them, and when to shout them out—every single word—raising the roof with the sing-song sounds of full-throated passion.
With the “oendan” leading the legions assembled here at the Tokyo Dome, I sipped my Asahi as my tiny seat rumbled.
