Michael Goro Takeuchi

Michael Goro Takeuchi is a journalist based in Goleta, California. A weekly newspaper sports columnist with the Santa Barbara News-Press for 17 years, his freelance work has appeared in numerous publications including the Huntington Frontiers Magazine, the Rafu Shimpo and Nichi Bei.


Updated November 2017

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Nikkei Chronicles #9—More Than a Game: Nikkei Sports

Dave Roberts, Mr. Santa Barbara Dodger, Tommy Lasorda, and “Fred” Sinatra

When manager Dave Roberts and the Los Angeles Dodgers clinched a long awaited World Series title, the journalist in me felt pretty happy for one of the truly good guys I wrote about over the years as a player, coach, and skipper. As a fellow Nikkei, watching the Okinawa born Roberts, whose mother is Japanese and late father African American, the same scene elicited more powerful feelings within while triggering childhood memories of watching baseball games with Mr. Santa Barbara Dodger.

My Uncle Shizuo “Caesar” Uyesaka was given the aforementioned nickname while he was the president of the Los Angeles …

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Walking (and Flying) Thousands of Miles in My Father’s Geta

If Dad were alive today, I think he would have been simultaneously embarrassed and proud that something of his is currently on display in one of the world’s most prestigious and famous museums. And my late mother, would be standing right beside him smiling with amusement about the improbability of it all.

Yet since February, something of Goro Takeuchi’s indeed sits a few dozen steps away from Abraham Lincoln’s iconic top hat inside the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History, Kenneth E. Behring Center. As part of a yearlong exhibit that opened in February titled Righting a Wrong: Japanese …

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culture en

Uncle, The Imperial Dancer: A well-traveled performer of stage and screen is profiled in a forthcoming book by his nephew

The elderly man leaned on his walker while shuffling across the wood-stained floor, pulling behind him what amounted to his life-support system. The wheels creaked, and were severely in need of a couple of squirts of WD40.

The septuagenarian took two steps, then pulled the cylindrical tank closer to him before planting the rubber knobs of the walker onto the floor. Without any other ambient noise, the action seemed to mimic a rhythmic beat that could surely be an opening for a Berry Gordy Motown number.

Shuffle. Shuffle. Squeak. Thunk. Shuffle. Shuffle. Squeak. Thunk. Tom. Tom. Snare. Bass.

Marvin Gaye, …

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