Dr. Rajendra K Panthee
The Game We All Play
I’ve been thinking a lot about Shohei Ohtani lately. Not just his phenomenal talent or his World Series triumph. What hit me was that incident at a Blue Jays-Dodgers game in Toronto when fans yelled at him to “go back to your country.” Here’s a man who has captivated baseball with his once-in-a-generation ability, who has brought unprecedented attention to the sport, who plays by every rule—and yet, in that moment, none of it mattered. To those fans, he was simply “other.”
The hatred didn’t stop at the stands. When the Dodgers won the title, the Blue Jays coach made numerous accusations against Ohtani. First, he claimed Ohtani used advanced gear to gain an unfair advantage. Then, when the Blue Jays were defeated, the coach went even further, suggesting that Ohtani must have taken performance-enhancement drugs and demanding that authorities test him. Even Blue Jays player Vladimir Guerrero Jr. explicitly stated, “I do not like Ohtani because he is Japanese.” Not because of his playing style, not because of any on-field rivalry—simply because of his ethnicity.
It made me think about a parking lot.
The Incident at Mississauga Smart Center
Last weekend, my family and I visited the new Costco Business Center at Mississauga Smart Center. Like most weekend visits to Costco, parking was a challenge. We finally found a space between two cars, reasonably far from the entrance. My wife and son rushed out as soon as I parked and headed toward the store.
I was still in the car when I heard a door open—not a window rolling down, but the forceful swing of a car door. The woman in the vehicle to my left had stepped partially out and was yelling at me. The f-word featured prominently. Her complaint: I hadn’t brought the space for her or for her door to open properly.
I checked my parking. I was centered in the space—equal distance on both sides. I wasn’t over the line. I had parked correctly. This seemed to make her angrier. Perhaps she hadn’t expected me to speak back. Perhaps she expected compliance, acceptance, silence.
I didn’t want to escalate. I walked away, trying to catch up with my wife and son. But I didn’t enter the store with them. Instead, I stayed outside in the parking lot, thinking.
The Luxury of Not Noticing
I am one of the lucky few who has been a professor in a prominently white university. Perhaps because I was part of that organization, I never experienced that explicit hate as I did in the parking lot. The institutional setting, the professional role, the shared academic identity—all of these may have created a buffer that ordinary spaces do not provide.
The woman didn’t just criticize my parking. There was something else in her tone, in her assumption that she could berate me in that space, in that moment. Would she have opened her car door and shouted at someone who looked different? Would the same fury have erupted at a different face?
I can’t know for certain. But I’ve lived long enough to recognize the pattern. It’s the same pattern that allows Blue Jays fans to tell Ohtani to “go back to your country,” even as they sit in stadiums built by immigrants, eating food prepared by immigrants, watching a game filled with international players. It’s the same pattern that allows coaches and players to make baseless accusations and openly discriminatory statements against one of the game’s greatest talents.
The Spaces We Occupy
There’s a particular kind of vulnerability that comes with occupying public space as a visible minority. Parking lots, grocery stores, sidewalks—these everyday spaces become testing grounds. The rules change depending on who you are and who’s watching.
Ohtani has earned every accolade through extraordinary talent and work ethic. He is rewriting the record books. And still, in that Toronto stadium, and in the accusations from the Blue Jays coach and players, his belonging was questioned, his achievements diminished by the simple fact of his Japanese heritage.
I parked correctly in that Mississauga parking lot. I followed every rule. And still, I was made to feel like an intruder in a public space, as if my presence itself was the violation.
A Glimmer of Hope
Yet there are signs of change. Immigrants and people from different backgrounds have been proving themselves and claiming space for a long time—in local councils, state legislatures, and various positions of leadership. But recently, Zohran Mamdani’s victory as New York City Mayor marks a particularly significant milestone.
Despite the fact that so many of them tried their best to stop him, Mamdani ultimately prevailed. A Democrat and democratic socialist aligned with figures like Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Mamdani faced opposition not only for his progressive politics but also for his background. His identities were weaponized against him during the campaign. Yet he won the mayoral post of one of the world’s most influential cities.
Mamdani’s victory is a powerful sign that immigrants and people from different backgrounds are not just getting noticed but are being entrusted with leadership at the highest levels. These victories matter—not just as political wins, but as evidence that belonging can be claimed, that spaces can be transformed, that the rules are slowly, painfully, beginning to include more of us.
What We Carry Forward
I returned to the store after a while, found my family, and we completed our shopping. We drove home. The incident was over, but the feeling it left behind lingered.
These moments accumulate. They’re rarely dramatic enough to report or record. They don’t make headlines. But they shape how we move through the world, how much energy we expend just existing in spaces that others navigate without a second thought.
Shohei Ohtani will continue to play baseball at the highest level. He will continue to break barriers and records. And I will continue to park correctly, shop for groceries, and live my life. But both of us—and millions of others—will do so knowing that our presence in these spaces is perpetually conditional, perpetually subject to challenge, even when we follow every rule.
The parking lot is not just a parking lot. The stadium is not just a stadium. They are reminders that belonging is not something we achieve once and for all. It is something we must negotiate, again and again, in the everyday encounters that others take for granted.
