* This essay column is written by a longtime foreign resident of Japan.

It was to be the climax of sports day. Just the way the marathon used to bring the curtain down on the Olympics, the 12 x 100-meter relay at my son's undokai would be the culmination of the best part of five hours of sweat, self-sacrifice and suspense -- and that was just for the parents. And Tom was making his debut in the squad that could bring the cup home for kiiro gumi.

It was a moment that had to be recorded for posterity and it was decided that my 35-year-old, manual-everything Nikon F camera just wasn't up to the job. I suppose in a way it's like me: It's heavy now; the body's seen better days, it's a bit battered, there's a few scratches and it's lost its sheen; the film advance is not as quick as it used to be; and the latest technology has left it behind. But although it's no longer much to look at, it never lets you down. It's recorded much of my son's 10 years -- from his first hours of life in an incubator in a Tokyo hospital (he was six week premature) -- without fail.

What was required, I was told, was a digital camcorder that would give us digital still photographs of Tom and video footage of him running like the wind. So I was dragged off to Shinjuku to get wired.

The sales clerk was very helpful and patient, but I quickly switched off. What the wondrous devices could do and how they did it was meaningless to me in English and Japanese. He seemed to take the occasional smile and nod, and the odd so desu ka as indications that he was doing a good job, that is until I asked him how we could play the camera's tiny tape in our 15-year-old VHS video deck. At that moment his smile broadened into a grin and I could have sworn that I heard him chuckle and noticed a shake of the head as he led us to a different display.

These, we were told, were the store's best sellers, they were simplicity itself to operate -- I wondered what had happened to all the talk of megapixels, helical scanning systems and CD burners. Just to emphasize the point the display carried the same stickers that novice drivers in Japan have to afix to their cars.

"They're idiot-proof," the sales clerk said, looking straight at me. "They're idiot-proof," my wife repeated, meaning, "Don't worry, you will not be using it."

How could an idiot refuse such a sales pitch. So the idiot plumped down 120,000 yen and walked out of the store with a liquid crystal camcorder that he didn't understand and would never use.

The events started just after 9 a.m., but sports day dawned much earlier in our house with my wife getting up about 6 a.m. to practice her panning techniques and stake her claim to one of the best video spots in the school playground, competition for which is keener than that during the events. My son was up early, too. He said he was nervous because it was his first time as a member of the relay team, but I think the fact that he was about to make his movie debut had something to do with it.

The tension that mounted during the morning and through lunch as the time of the relay approached was nothing compared to that as we walked home at the end of the day with Tom's performance in the can, eager to see it again and again, and again.

I wasn't sure what to expect, certainly not the snowstorm that appeared on our television screen instead of Tom's sports day heroics when we played the tape. We'd had one or two rain showers, but I didn't recall any snow. I suppose it just proves that even the likes of Cecil B. De Mille, John Ford, Federico Fellini and Akira Kurosawa had to learn that someone needs to press certain buttons in the correct sequence to produce the desired results -- even with the most advanced technology -- that, and that nothing is ever idiot-proof.

I'd welcome any comments or opinions, in Japanese or English, about my column. You can write or fax me at The Weekly, or e-mail me at jtweekly@japantimes.co.jp

The Japan Times Weekly: July 5, 2003
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