While living in Japan, I spent languid summers watching Koshien on television. I'd rise before the first game and pour cold mugicha (barley tea) as cicadas hummed outside my open windows.

It's the sounds I remember most.

The chatter of the announcers punctuated by aluminum bat pings from foul balls, hits and home runs. The bands playing brassy versions of pop songs from the past. Koshien is as auditory as it is visual.