IN THE HALLWAY outside a cramped interview room in the Tokyo Dome, Shohei Ohtani loomed in the rear doorway, towering over nearly everyone around him, his shoulders filling the entire frame. It was here that he faced his worst fear: Nothing to do and nowhere to go. A large man in a small space, happiest when he has a bat to swing or a ball to throw, grew more impatient with every passing moment.
Yoshinobu Yamamoto, Ohtani’s Dodgers teammate and the winning pitcher last Wednesday night in the first regular-season game of 2025, was at the front of the room, sitting at a table and addressing questions with expansive answers that elicited laughs from the Japanese media. This was his moment, too. Back in Japan, five solid innings against the Cubs in his back pocket, an overflow room hanging on his every word. Those who know Yamamoto say he not only welcomes stardom but also wears it well, and he was enjoying himself — perhaps a little too much.
Ohtani was waiting for Yamamoto to finish so he could quickly trample his way through four questions, two in Japanese, two in English, and get on with his night. In contrast to Yamamoto, Ohtani wears the public aspect of his fame like a hand-me-down suit. He was not accustomed to standing awkwardly in the back of a room while someone else dictated his schedule. And yet Yamamoto kept talking, almost gleefully, and Ohtani began sending a series of playful messages that suggested the pace needed to be quickened.
First, he looked at his watch, checking it with an elaborate flourish. Whatever Yamamoto did in response — I was among those piled 15 deep in the hallway, watching Ohtani watch Yamamoto, so the adventure is yours to choose — elicited a big laugh from Ohtani, who then did history’s subtlest jig, one foot to the other, as if speeding himself up would have the same effect on Yamamoto, which it did not. Finally, Ohtani tilted his head back and forth, shoulder to shoulder, in a move that translated universally as blah-blah-blah. This seemed to do the trick. Yamamoto finished, left his seat and headed out the back of the room at the same time Ohtani was heading to the front. Yamamoto was still laughing when he left the room, and I’m pretty sure Ohtani had something to do with that.
And so it was here, in and around this cramped, uncomfortable room that smelled of cigarette-infused sportscoats and deadline sweat, that something truly unexpected occurred: Shohei Ohtani showed a piece of his personality that once seemed destined to remain hidden. Here was Ohtani, expressive and joyous and unconcerned with how it all looked. Ohtani, doing something other than grinding away at the game he seems determined to perfect. It felt as revelatory in its own way as a shirtless run through the streets of Ginza.
THIS DODGERS TEAM feels different, looks different and sounds different, and it goes beyond a comfortable and fully integrated Ohtani on the most expensive, and perhaps best, team ever. This group feels like a category error — the promise of a riveting spectacle that will play out over the next seven months, a team to either loathe or love every single day. Baseball has never seen anything quite like this, and it’s clear by now it doesn’t have any idea what to do with it.
Considering the perceived gap between them and the rest of baseball, it’s somewhat poetic that the Dodgers are 2-0 before baseball’s official Opening Day. They swept a quick series from the Cubs in Tokyo, and after each game, Andrew Friedman, the Dodgers’ president of baseball operations, made his way through the Tokyo Dome’s tight passageways toward the Dodgers’ clubhouse, a sly grin on his face, like a kid eager to show off his favorite toys.
He has assembled a roster built to withstand the tides of a long season, a difficult task made considerably easier by the lack of budget constraints. He went shopping for starting pitching depth this offseason and got two-time Cy Young winner Blake Snell and Japanese superstar-in-waiting Roki Sasaki. (“Deepest SP staff ever and it’s not close lol,” former Dodgers starter Alex Wood cracked on social media.)
Friedman spackled the holes in a solid but unspectacular bullpen by signing two top-flight closers, Tanner Scott and Kirby Yates, because why stop at one if you don’t have to? The Dodgers’ payroll will exceed $320 million this season, according to Sportrac, and a roll call of Concerned Baseball People have either bellowed (Rockies owner Dick Monfort) or intimated (commissioner Rob Manfred) that the amorphous and unwritten rules of fairness are being violated.
“I look at the inverse of the criticism,” Friedman said. “If other fan bases are unhappy with us, it means more likely that our fans are happy with us, and that’s our job. In that way, it makes us feel good when we hear that stuff.”
It’s indicative of baseball’s odd position within the sports firmament that Friedman and the Dodgers are called upon to defend themselves for their owners’ willingness to reinvest the profits from a successful business to put the best team on the field. Since the dawn of free agency, the game has been played to a maudlin, emo soundtrack of big-market/small-market standards. Teams like the Dodgers and Yankees — and occasionally the Red Sox, Cubs, Padres or Braves — play the vital role of sinister monarchies, allowing the small-market teams to throw up their hands in exasperated supplication. It has become a self-fulfilling prophecy: Each team that doesn’t spend can justify its lack of spending by claiming it can’t compete with the teams that spend.
“Just because you’re good at something, that makes you evil?” Dodgers reliever Blake Treinen asked. “That’s kind of crazy talk. To me, the talk of this ‘Evil Empire’ is from people wanting to blast the Dodgers for wanting to put a good product on the field and being willing to pay to do it. What’s Billy Madison say? ‘You can’t sit in kindergarten and expect to inherit an empire’? You have to actually check some boxes, take some steps to be successful. Some people just don’t want to take the direction the Dodgers have, which is fine. Just don’t complain about it.”
DODGERS MANAGER DAVE Roberts has a way about him that makes you think he could sell just about anything. He faces reporters every day, usually twice, and he has mastered the banter, the eye contact, the ability to give off the appearance of candor. On the first day of spring training in Glendale, Arizona, he answered the obligatory questions about Ohtani, saying he will not pitch in Japan but will pitch this season. He will not steal bases this spring, but he will steal bases this season.
Then he was asked about expectations, and whether it is safe to assume the Dodgers enter the season expecting to become the first team since the 1999 Yankees to win consecutive World Series.
“Yes,” Roberts said, his eyes scanning the group like a practiced statesman. “That is our expectation.”
From that first day of spring training, the Dodgers have been a spectacle, the closest thing to a full-fledged mania that baseball has had in decades. (Think an international version of the “Last Dance” Bulls without the outsized personalities.) Fans filled the parking lot at Camelback Ranch and crowded around the walkway between the practice fields and the clubhouse, screaming and waving baseballs at anyone in a uniform.
Inside the clubhouse, the locker configuration on one wall went, from left to right: Sasaki, Yamamoto, an empty locker, Ohtani. (The empty was Ohtani’s, a gesture of respect extended to only the most accomplished players, and even in this clubhouse a three-time MVP qualifies.) Third baseman Max Muncy became the de facto team spokesman for the first day, standing at his locker wearing a look of abject horror as the crowd around him grew larger and larger, and his avenues for escape vanished. He parried questions about the absurd makeup of his team’s roster by saying that baseball is different, that the best team at the beginning of the season is not always the best at the end. He sounded like a kid being forced to argue an unpopular side in debate class. “In baseball, the best player in the world isn’t always going to take over,” he said.
Muncy’s approach was understandable; it’s what you say when you have to say something. But the argument fell apart the second everyone walked away and looked at the names hanging above the lockers. The Dodgers, to an almost ridiculous degree, seem uniquely non-reliant on any one player.
Take away their first four starting pitchers (Snell, Yamamoto, Sasaki, Tyler Glasnow) and you’re left with a rotation that would compete for a playoff spot. There’s No. 5 starter Dustin May, who was 4-1 with a 2.63 ERA and a 0.94 WHIP in 2023 before undergoing Tommy John surgery. Tony Gonsolin, another front-line starter who will be back within six weeks. And Ohtani the pitcher — or, as outfielder Michael Conforto says, “The other half of Shohei” — is expected to return to the mound by May or June.
“It sounds a little crazy to say, but as much recognition as Shohei’s gotten, he’s still underrated,” Friedman said. “He’s just the most diligent, thoughtful worker I’ve ever seen. The more we’ve seen him and the more we’ve been around it, the less and less surprising it gets when we see what he can do on the field.”
Yates’ numbers as a closer last year with the Rangers (85 strikeouts in 61 2/3 innings, 0.827 WHIP, 33 saves, 1.17 ERA) make it difficult to fathom how he could enter the season as a setup man for Scott, until you realize Scott was nearly as good (84 strikeouts, 45 hits allowed) last year with Florida and San Diego. Scott stood at his locker in the comically condensed Tokyo Dome clubhouse, Yates maybe six inches away at the next stall. “It’s gonna be fun,” Scott said. “I have no clue what the roles will be, but whenever the phone rings, I’m pretty sure everybody in our bullpen is going to be ready, and it’s going to be exciting.”
In the opener in Tokyo, a preview: Yamamoto for five, then one inning each from Alex Vesia, Treinen, Yates and Scott. Four innings from the bullpen, zero baserunners. The starting pitching might be the deepest ever, as per Wood, and the lineup — they played without Freddie Freeman and Mookie Betts in Japan — is free of any major deficiencies. But the bullpen might be what makes the talk of a 120-win season sound almost reasonable.
“I think when this team wants you, it’s really, really hard to turn them down,” Yates said, echoing other conversations with Scott and Conforto, another offseason signing. “They were the most aggressive team. They were very persistent. There was no sales pitch; there didn’t have to be a sales pitch. To have the chance to come and take part in this is a tremendous opportunity.”
On the second day of spring training, word spread that Sasaki would throw his first bullpen. It was an absolute frenzy, media on one side of the eight bullpen mounds and nearly every Dodgers executive, coach and player lined up either beside or behind Sasaki. Friedman was right behind him, and Roberts was right beside him. Clayton Kershaw was one mound away. Farhan Zaidi, the former GM who was recently rehired as special adviser after being fired as team president of the San Francisco Giants last year, was peeking around two or three pitchers throwing their own bullpens, trying not to make it obvious.
Catcher Austin Barnes, the first Dodger to catch Sasaki in gear, looked around at the crowd quizzically, as if somehow this scene came as a surprise. Several pitches into his session, Sasaki motioned to Barnes that he going to throw his splitter, the pitch that made him frequently unhittable in Japan — a pitch that could drop to its left or its right or straight down, often of its own accord. Sasaki threw, and Barnes stabbed at the ball as it dove toward his left foot. “Oh, my god,” he said, loudly enough to be heard 30 feet away. Later he would explain his reaction by saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever really seen a pitch like that.”
Sasaki is tall and stalk-thin, and he carries himself with a slumped nonchalance that makes it seem that he has yet to grow into his stature. His features are sharp, as if everything is held together tightly. “Everyone has been very kind,” he said of his time with the Dodgers when he met the media for the first time. He stood with his right hand holding his left wrist, clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight. He’ll go on to start the second game against the Cubs in Tokyo, his talent as obvious as his nerves in a jumbled three innings. He hit 100 mph on the gun several times, walked five and struck out three. The Cubs’ solitary hit traveled about 75 feet before it stopped. He will be very good, maybe great. The Dodgers have the luxury of patience.
“They just go out and get the pieces they think they need,” outfielder Teoscar Hernandez said. His words amounted to a shrug, like, what do you expect?
OVER IN A corner of the Dodgers’ clubhouse in Tokyo, an objectively depressing corner between the smoking capsule and the door to the showers, 26-year-old Jack Dreyer failed in his attempt to contain his giddiness over making the team’s Opening Day roster. A left-handed reliever from Iowa, the most unlikely Dodger learned of his promotion from Roberts roughly 48 hours before the first game against the Cubs — too late for his parents to hop on a flight, but plenty of time for him to savor the moment.
The Dodgers like Dreyer’s ability to miss bats — 72 strikeouts last year in 57 minor-league innings — and induce soft contact without elite velocity. They like his maturity and his personality and other intangible stuff that accelerated him past some of the more vaunted arms in the Dodgers’ top-rated farm system.
But almost four hours before his first game in a big-league uniform, none of that mattered to Dreyer. He was standing at that locker — no empty next to him — alternating between staring at his crisp gray uniform — No. 86, but who cares? — and looking around the room. Kershaw’s locker was almost close enough to touch; Ohtani was getting dressed less than 15 feet away; Freeman was on the other side of the room; Betts, though he was back home in Los Angeles with an illness, had his uniform hanging in a locker two down from Freeman.
“This is crazy,” Dreyer said. “It’s me and a bunch of All-Stars and future Hall of Famers sharing experiences for the first time together.”
He was unfailingly polite. He was speaking quickly. The smile on his face might have remained there forever. He scanned the room and shook his head. There was a part of him that wanted to pretend like he had been here before, to act like none of this was a big deal because this was precisely what he had been working toward for years. But then he thought about it one more time, where he was and who he was with and what it meant.
“Surreal,” he said. “Sorry, but that’s the only word I’ve got.”
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