The Baseball Champion from the Republic of Nothing
I.
Ming-Shun had prepared himself for the second visit to Ren-Kang. Mentally, he hesitated and couldn't decide if it was necessary. Was it for his research? Was it for his personal concern? Ming-Shun had no answer.
A couple of days before flying back to the US, Ming-Shun rented a car and drove to southern Yi-Lan. His plan was to turn around and drive back if he regretted it, no matter how far he had gone. Ming-Shun never made it clear to Ren-Kang when he was going again, and Ren-Kang probably did not expect him at all. There wasn't a clear reason why they should meet again.
But he arrived. Ming-Shun booked the same Airbnb he had stayed at last time and stopped by the garage first to let Ren-Kang know he had come back, without caring if Ren-Kang might have arranged something else for the night. Ren-Kang nodded to him, greeting him with a smile that reminded him of their childhood before everything went wrong. Ren-Kang didn’t seem surprised by Ming-Shun’s visit, and if he was, he didn’t show it.
After work, Ren-Kang took Ming-Shun to a stir-fry eatery, where they sat at a low table and stools by the sidewalk. It was noisy, with loud conversations from customers at the next tables and traffic only several yards away. Working in an auto shop, Ren-Kang was unfazed by the noise. Ming-Shun, too, felt at ease, knowing the constant hum might serve as their best cover if conversation ran dry.
“You know, I went to the prison.” Ming-Shun surprised himself by bringing up the sensitive topic so soon.
“I suppose so, that’s why you are here now.”
“They said beside the five executed men, there was the sixth.” He hoped the alcohol in the beer would make him more eloquent with this topic.
“A sixth man?”
“Yeah, there were six chief conspirators, but they only caught five. So they arrested a bunch of men and accused them all of being the sixth man. “
“Typical style of the Nationalist Party.”
They both laughed, bitterly.
It seemed that Ren-Kang felt more comfortable talking about his past then Ming-Shun. He told Ming-Shun his mother had remarried a baseball coach, so for several years, he was playing baseball and participated in competitions with his stepfather.
“That’s fun,” Ming-Shun said, recalling how, as kids, they would wake up early and gather in a neighbor’s living room—one of the few homes with a TV—to watch the games held in the U.S. Back then, the distant cities of Williamsport and Fort Lauderdale were their first glimpse of America, long before they knew of the towering metropolises of New York or Los Angeles.
It was a time when they proudly identified themselves as citizens of the Republic of China—known in the West as “Free China,” distinct from Communist China. But as decades of martial law passed, the public gradually came to see themselves as Taiwanese rather than Chinese.
Back then, their baseball team’s championships served as proof that the free camp was superior to the communist camp. Yet few knew that people like Ming-Shun and Ren-Kang were victims of the Republic of China’s ruling party, and under its dictatorship, “Free China” was a lie.
“Did you play in the international games?” Ming-Shun asked.
“Yeah, in 1977. We went to the US and defeated four American teams to grab the championship.”
“That’s amazing! You went to the US ten years before I made it and won the game!”
“I wasn’t the most outstanding player, my performance was just ok.” Ren-Kang smiled shyly.
“Did you play afterwards?”
“I continued playing baseball for a couple of years longer, but not playing in the US anymore.”
“How about your stepfather? Was he the coach of your team?”
“Yeah, he coached us for years, then he became an umpire and worked for Taiwan’s newly established professional league.”
“How did your mother know a baseball coach?”
“My stepfather was my father’s cellmate, but my stepfather was released two years earlier than the uprising.”
“He was also a political prisoner?”
“Yeah. He knew my father during their service in the military. They were only one year apart. They were put in jail for the same case - inciting the establishment for the Republic of Taiwan.”
Ming-Shun asked the name of Ren-Kang’s stepfather and searched for him on his smartphone.
“Oh!” The name, Chu Hwa-Hsiu, showed up with the keyword “White Terror” immediately.
A silent moment fell between them, then Ming-Shun held up his glass to toast.
“What team name did you wear on your chest when you were playing in America?”
“R.O. C., Republic of China.”
They both laughed.
“You were the last generation representing the Republic of China. Nowadays we are Chinese Taipei.”
They laughed again and toasted, to the disappeared Republic of China and the fabricated Chinese Taipei.
“Tell me about your imprisonment.” Ming-Shun asked, assuming this topic was less sensitive than their fathers.
“I was invited by my friends to sing karaoke, but I couldn’t afford it. I also didn’t want to turn my friends off, you know, peer pressure, so I went to a miscellaneous store and robbed an old lady. I pushed her to the desk and forced her to give me the money in her drawer. But I was caught only a block away from the store. The grandma called the police right away. She knew me; I walked past her store every day, so she was able to identify me immediately. And I was already over 18 years old, so I had to be tried as an adult.”
“At that time, there was a law…” Ming-Shun recalled.
“Robbery and Banditry Punishment Act.” Ren-Kang replied. “It ordained the conditions of death penalty or lifetime in advance.”
“The Republic of China liked to label people. If you are not an obedient citizen, you are either a bandit, or a separatist, or a communist, or a communist bandit.” Ming-Shun said sarcastically.
“Or contradictorily a separatist communist.” Ren-Kang added. They laughed to their tears.
“I was forcing the grandma to the desk to open the drawer, it constituted abduction. Additionally, the prosecutor insisted that I was armed because, after arresting me, they found a utility knife in my hip pocket, which I did not use against the grandma.”
A young girl with a very tight and short dress approached them with a bottle of Heineken, “Bro, more beer?”
“You call me Bro? You are no older than my daughter.” Ren-Kang said.
The beer promotion girl smiled, “OK, Uncle, want more beer?”
“I only drink Taiwanese beer. Heineken is too foreign to me.”
THe girl pursed her lips, complaining, “But I won’t get paid by selling Taiwanese beer, it is not my business.”
“What else do you promote?”
“Tiger.”
“OK, two bottles of Tiger. At least it is Asian.”
The girl happily went to fetch the beers, and when she came back, Ren-Kang asked her, “Are you a student?”
“Yes, Tung Hwa University.”
“What is your major?”
“Ethnic Relations and Cultures.”
“Excellent. And you need to make money for tuition?”
The girl opened the beer bottle and handed it to Ren-Kang. “Yeah, this is my scholarship.”
Ren-Kang held up the beer and toasted her, so Ming-Shun also raised his glass to her.
“The knife,” Ming-Shun reminded Ren-Kang after the girl took off.
“Right, I have a very good public defender, he tried hard to convince the judge that I carried the utility knife for my work, it had been in my pocket when I committed the crime, which was true.”
“How did you use a utility knife at work?” Ming-Shun assumed it was a question the judge must ask.
“To cut the electric wires.”
“Was the judge convinced?”
Ren-Kang touched his heart to signal, “Yes, It is why you are still drinking with me.” They laughed and toasted.
“The public defender’s other argument was, the mandatory death penalty of the Robbery and Banditry Punishment Act was unconstitutional.” Ren-Kang added.
“I remember it was a law before the civil war in the continent. The Nationalist Party wished to pin down gangs.”
“The party itself was a gang.” They laughed again.
“The judge sentenced me to fifteen years, and he told me his sentence was lenient, because he saw the effort my lawyer has put in for me. ‘He cherishes your life more than you do. Be a better person to thank him for his hard work.’”
Ren-Kang’s imprisonment was reduced to nine years. When the son and successor of the paranoid murderous national leader also died, a nationwide commutation was implemented, and Ren-Kang was released.
“The public defender probably knew who I was. He was one of the pioneers in Taiwan who publicly criticized the government’s violation of human rights. After I started doing time and was allowed to communicate with people other than my family, I wrote a short note to thank him, and he replied to me about his frustrating life-saving jobs.
Ren-Kang remembered the letter word by word, because it made him realize that there were people who tried to save his father’s life, and his, very likely because of the connection between his father and these legal practitioners. In his nine years of imprisonment, whenever he felt hopeless, he took the letter out and read it. When the letter became so fragile and faded, he copied it word by word.
Dear Ren-Kang:
I hope this letter finds you in good health and in a state of reflection. As your legal representative, I feel compelled to share a few thoughts with you, not just as your lawyer but also as someone who has traversed the harsh corridors of our justice system for many years.
Throughout my career, I have had the honor—and the burden—of defending numerous political prisoners. These individuals, often unjustly persecuted, faced insurmountable odds, and despite my best efforts, the relentless machinery of our legal system seldom allowed for successful outcomes. My involvement in these cases has not been without personal risk; being blacklisted and scrutinized was a constant shadow over my work. Yet, I persevered, driven by the belief that everyone deserves a fair chance.
In the midst of these battles, your case is one of the few who have survived this relentless system. Your second chance is not just a legal outcome but a rare opportunity to redefine your path. It is a testament to resilience, and I urge you to cherish it deeply.
Life has presented you with another opportunity—one that many never receive. Use this time to reflect on your past actions and the circumstances that led you here. Transform this second chance into a meaningful journey of personal growth, learning, and positive change. You have the potential to rebuild your life and contribute positively to society.
Remember, Reng-Kang, this chance is a precious gift. Make the most of it, honor it, honor your family - your father particularly - and let it guide you towards a better future. Your journey ahead will not be easy, but with determination and the right choices, you can turn this new chapter into a story of redemption and hope.
Yours sincerely,
Chow Yu-Ron
When they called it a night and walked out of the eatery, a girl standing by her scooter waved them goodbye.
“I can’t recognize you when you wear so much.” Ren-Kang joked, “You wrap yourself like a bamboo dumpling.”
The girl laughed, and they bade each other a safe trip home.
II.
Chu Hwa-Hsiu was devastated upon learning about the gambling scandal and how baseball league players threw games in order to be paid by gangsters who controlled the gambling. Some of the involved players had been trained by him, and he wondered what he had missed during their training. Should I have added ethical lessons for these young men? But honesty is the fundamental discipline of an athlete. Why did they not follow?
Chu Hwa-Hsiu was a nation-certified umpire, and baseball was his lifelong love. When he was in grammar school, his hyperactivity made him impatient to sit in the classroom. He was punished by teachers all the time, until he was recruited by the school’s newly formed baseball team, and team members didn’t have to attend classes as frequently. In fact, playing baseball helped Chu Hwa-Hsiu concentrate, and his academic performance improved significantly. In high school, he was selected for the county team to compete in the island-wide competition, which was the highest level of games in Taiwan at that time.
But some incidents changed the course of his life as a professional baseball player. In 1959, when Chu Hwa-Hsiu turned twenty and was eligible to vote for the first time, he was excited to vote his mentor Su Dong-Chi for county councilor. However, Chu Hwa-Hsiu was shocked to see Su's obvious victory manipulated by the Nationalist government into a loss. The voting venues would suddenly experience power outages, and entire boxes of ballots would disappear in the darkness, conveniently altering the election outcome.
The incident drove Chu Hwa-Hsiu to join Su Dong-Chi’s anti-government activism, which was strictly banned at that time. They exchanged information about the progress of their preparation for an armed insurgency under the guise of playing baseball on the empty site by the river. The information they exchanged included how and where to produce weapons, where to connect with like-minded individuals, and where to gather the resources needed for their revolution. Unfortunately, not long after their secret opposition to the Nationalist Party began, their actions were discovered, perhaps due to the government’s ubiquitous surveillance and agents everywhere. Additionally, some people close to them had been bought off by the authorities and became informants. Su Dong-Chi was arrested on charges of “Treason by campaigning for the independence of Taiwan,” and Chu Hwa-Hsiu was arrested several days later on charges of “Advocating separatism and disruption of social order.”
After days in the sweatbox, Chu Hwa-Hsiu was tried without due process and sentenced to eight years of imprisonment. Later, he learned that forty-seven people had been arrested, and Su Dong-Chi, the chief conspirator, was sentenced to death.
Chu Hwa-Hsiu was not even twenty-two years old. He had no idea that his involvement could bring such serious consequences, and whenever he thought of his mentor who was to be killed, he was filled with agony.
In Alapawan Prison, most of his cellmates were separatists advocating for Taiwan’s independence from the Republic of China and the establishment of the Republic of Taiwan. They were able to leave their cells to do odd jobs, like cleaning restrooms, laundering clothes sent to the prison, or growing vegetables on the empty field next to the prison. They could interact with one another, and despite the brainwashing “correctional programs” or “patriotic enhancement,” their contempt for the regime never waned.
Not long after Chu Hwa-Hsiu’s release, a prison uprising occurred. Five of his cellmates were executed. Chu Hwa-Hsiu often thought that if he still had been imprisoned during the uprising, regardless of whether he had participated in their plan or not, he would have been held as one of their accomplices and either imprisoned for much longer or executed.
But would I join them? He asked himself. Would I choose to die for my beliefs or idealism?
After his release, Chu Hwa-Hsiu had problems finding any job. No business dared to hire a national traitor, even though he had been punished and “corrected”. The only job he finally got was to organize herbal medicine for a herbal therapist in the backyard of his store, where nobody saw him.
Herbal healing isn’t a formally recognized practice, herbalists do not go to medical schools, instead, their training comes from knowledge passed down from generation to generation. And because herb picking relies on the environment where the practice is conducted, it is usually community-based. Herbalists sometimes push their herbs in a trolley to markets to promote their profession, but it is a declining business. Also, without official certification, the public trusts it less and less. People who try herbal healing often do so out of curiosity, so they take herbs only for minor health problems, like colds, digestive issues, or skin conditions that are commonly understood as the temporary disruptions of Qi flows.
For two years, Chu Hwa-Hsiu's job of trimming herbs barely supported him to make ends meet. Every day, he absent-mindedly cleaned and packed aloe, peppermint, boat lily, and creeping saxifrage, among other herbs, until he was given an opportunity to coach the newly formed baseball team at an elementary school.
“Did the school administration know my past record?” Chu Hwa-Hsiu knew he had to clarify this. He had been hired and de-hired after employers learned he was a former political prisoner.
“I told the principal, and he said it was okay as long as you don’t talk about politics openly.” The friend who recommended Chu Hwa-Hsiu told him. Chu Hwa-Hsiu knew this meant the principal’s political stance was closer to theirs, or at least, he was a sympathizer.
It was the best time of Chu Hwa-Hsiu’s career; he had almost forgotten how good it felt to be on the baseball field. Chu Hwa-Hsiu found joy in coaching an enthusiastic group of elementary school kids. His mission was not just to teach them the game but to instill values that would serve them well beyond the baseball field.
“Being part of a team means being responsible,” he told them, “You must respect your teammates, listen to your coach, and always give your best effort.”
In the first month of coaching, Chu Hwa-Hsiu gathered the kids in a circle. With their eager faces looking up at him, he began explaining the basic rules of baseball. He demonstrated how to hold a bat, swing, and throw a ball. The kids tried to mimic his movements, laughing and cheering each other on. He introduced drills to build their skills, like throwing and catching the ball with partners, and running between bases to learn the importance of speed and accuracy.
In the next month, Chu Hwa-Hsiu introduced more advanced training. He taught the kids how to field ground balls and catch fly balls, reminding them to keep their eyes on the ball and use both hands. The children took turns hitting the ball off a tee, with Chu Hwa-Hsiu showing them the proper stance and swing.
Understanding strategy was key to playing well, so in the third month, Chu Hwa-Hsiu organized a mock game. He explained the different positions on the field and their roles. The pitcher throws the ball to the catcher, aiming to get the batter out, while the catcher receives the pitches and watches for runners trying to steal bases. Infielders and outfielders cover the bases and outfield, ready to catch or field the ball. He taught them simple strategies, such as identifying the pitcher’s tricks in throwing balls with different speeds, heights, and directions. He also explained when it would be a good opportunity to steal a base and how to shift positions based on the batter.
Every day they practiced until sunset, with second-hand gears donated to them. A semester passed, Chu Hwa-Hsiu was surprised how much progress these young players have made, and how good they became after proper instructions.
That was when Chu Hwa-Hsiu met Ren-Kang and Ching-Hua, whose father/husband Jiang Bin-Hsin was one of the five chief conspirators of the Alapawan prison insurrection. Ren-Kang was very quiet; he wasn’t particularly good at baseball, but he wasn’t unfit either. Later, after they formed a new family, Chu Hwa-Hsiu realized that Ren-Kang performed mediocrely to avoid drawing too much attention. This was also true of his academic performance. That was why Chu Hwa-Hsiu was very surprised when, at seventeen, Ren-Kang joined a gang. How had his father's rebellion and subsequent execution affected him as a child? And as his stepfather through his teenage years, what had Chu Hwa-Hsiu missed?
Were there similarities, psychiatrically, between the baseball players who cheated in the games and Ren-Kang’s choice of being a gang member? Ren-Kang continued playing baseball in middle school and was with him when their team represented Taiwan in the US. It was the last year of Ren-Kang’s participation in baseball games before he aged out of the World Series. Was that why Ren-Kang joined a gang? On the contrary, for those professional players who threw games, their actions not only ended their own careers but also seriously damaged the entire industry.
Chu Hwa-Hsiu cherished the most glorious time for Taiwan’s baseball. In the 1970s, baseball regained popularity in Taiwan, even though the Nationalist government did not encourage the sport due to its association with Japanese colonialism. Chu Hwa-Hsiu’s elementary school team entered many games and often won; even if it wasn't a champion, they were no worse than second or third place. In 1977, Ren-Kang’s school won the island-wide championship and advanced to the Senior League Baseball World Series overseas. At that time, Japan and South Korea were not members of the League, so once Taiwan’s team defeated the teams from the Philippines and Guam, they earned the right to represent the Pacific Rim in the games taking place in the US every summer. Chu Hwa-Hsiu was invited by Ren-Kang’s school coach to join the overseas coaching team, and he happily accepted the offer. He was excited about preparing these excellent teenage athletes for international games and spending precious time with his stepson.
Before taking off for the US trip, an “agent” from the Second Office of Personnel approached Chu Hwa-Hsiu, telling him because he had a criminal record, the authorities demanded a statement from him to guarantee he would never commit any misconduct during his tasks as a coach of the national team.
“I never ever participated in any activity for Taiwan’s independence since my release, I even never talked about it. Why should I be asked to present a statement?” Chu Hwa-Hsiu responded, repressing his irritation. The government was still absurd as it always has been.
“No worry,” the agent smiled, while presenting a paper already well-typed, “Just sign your name at the bottom, and you are all good.”
Official Statement by Coach Chu Hwa-Hsiu
In light of my upcoming travels overseas to coach Taiwan's baseball team in international games in the United State, I, Chu Hwa-Hsiu, hereby declare that I will not engage in any actions or activities that advocate for the separatism of Taiwan. My sole focus and commitment during this period will be on the athletic performance and sportsmanship of our team.
I fully recognize the importance of maintaining a neutral stance on political matters while representing the Republic of China in the international sports arena. As such, I will adhere strictly to the guidelines and regulations set forth by the relevant authorities and governing bodies.
I appreciate the trust and support of the Taiwanese people and assure you that my actions will reflect the highest standards of professionalism and dedication to the sport of baseball.
To save trouble and time arguing, Chu Hwa-Hsiu signed. The Republic of China would eventually be etched by its own absurdity, he thought to himself.
In the US, their team crushed Canada with 10:0 in the first round, then defeated the California team that represented the Northern American West with 7:0 in the semi-final. In the final, they dominated the Florida team that represented the Northern American South with 6:1.
During the final game, millions of people in Taiwan stayed up in the early morning to watch the live broadcast. Right after they won, they received a congratulatory telegram from Taiwan’s prime minister. The prime minister at that time, Chiang Ching-Kuo, was the son of Chiang Kai-Shek, who had imprisoned Chu Hwa-Hsiu for separatism and killed Ren-Kang’s father for his insurgent actions advocating for Taiwan’s independence from the Republic of China.
Ironically, 1977 was the last year that Taiwan’s athletes could represent the Republic of China. Since Taiwan’s seat in the United Nations had been replaced by the People’s Republic of China, an international trend of the One China policy was brewing, until Taiwan became having no choice but to be called as “Chinese Taipei”—a name so confusing that it stands in direct contrast to the way society perceives itself.
Looking back, the shifting relationship between an athlete’s self-identity and sportsmanship might be what leads to their downfall. What do they truly represent? How do they see themselves? For what cause have they trained so tirelessly, endured repeated defeats, only to push forward in pursuit of victory? Why not take the easy way out?
Chu Hwa-Hsiu felt adrift. The name “Chinese Taipei” held no trace of the small island he had always carried in his heart. As a trainer, he found himself untethered—unsure of his identity, uncertain of whom he was striving for. He exhaled, a quiet resignation settling in his chest. A sweet yam should never be mistaken for a taro—that is what it feels like to call Taiwan “Chinese Taipei.”
No comments:
Post a Comment