A prestigious high school baseball team recently withdrew from Japan’s national tournament after a violence scandal, a story that has dominated the news. Japanese school sports are often celebrated as symbols of discipline, perseverance, and virtue. Yet behind this noble image lies a darker reality. According to multiple media reports, the violence was far more brutal than what has been officially acknowledged, suggesting that such incidents may have been systemic rather than isolated. This episode has become emblematic of the disturbing sports culture deeply rooted in Japanese society—what is commonly known as 体育会系(taiiku-kai-kei).
Of course, toxic masculinity exists in Western societies as well. Men may be mocked for carrying umbrellas in the rain, or ridiculed with slurs, like “p-word” if they show weakness. But Japan’s sports culture carries a different kind of pathology. Here, even a one- or two-year age difference creates an absolute hierarchy: seniors command, juniors obey, and disobedience is punished with violence or humiliation. This is not simply peer-to-peer macho posturing—it is a system of master and subordinate, closer to military discipline than to athletics.
I was never part of a sports club myself—I preferred to go straight home after class—but as a student I witnessed many disturbing scenes. One day, a group of baseball players appeared at school with freshly shaved heads. Curious, I asked one of them what had happened. His answer: “Reflection.” They had been punished for not shouting loudly enough during practice, supposedly showing a lack of spirit. In other words, their hair had been sacrificed to prove loyalty. To me, it felt bizarre, almost religious—a ritual humiliation disguised as discipline. Performance in sports should be measured by skill, not by the volume of one’s voice or the length of one’s hair.
I also saw seniors lining up juniors on the floor, forcing them to kneel while screaming insults at them. Freshmen were made to run endless errands unrelated to practice, serving the seniors like servants rather than teammates. Seniors spoke slowly and casually, while juniors—denied any real right to speak—were expected to bark rapid replies in loud voices, as if speed and volume alone could prove their obedience. Watching this, I often wondered: how could a difference of just one or two years justify such rigid hierarchy?
Sports are supposed to nurture people, bring teammates together, and create the joy of effort. Yet in Japan, fear and humiliation have often been repackaged as “discipline” and defended as “tradition.” From an outsider’s perspective, this does not look like baseball or soccer practice at all—it looks like a military cosplay. I feel the same way myself. And I believe these harmful traditions must change. The fact that such scandals are now making national headlines may, at last, be a glimmer of hope.
It is worth remembering that until the 1990s, even corporal punishment by teachers was tolerated in Japan. A student who forgot homework could be slapped hard enough to leave ringing in the ears, and such violence was praised as “tough love.” But as public opinion shifted and newspapers and television exposed these practices, they gradually declined. By the 2000s, teacher-on-student violence had almost disappeared from daily life. Perhaps the same fate awaits the abusive senior–junior hierarchies of taiiku-kai-kei.
I only wish that change had come earlier—back when I was a student myself. If it had, I might have grown to love sports.
