TOKYO — If Japan has a field of dreams, it’s a well-groomed patch of grass and dirt called Koshien.

Twice a year, high school baseball teams compete at the field outside Kobe in nationally televised tournaments that rivet the country. Last week, at the start of the spring tournament, a teen stood on a podium in front of home plate and made a speech watched by millions, with a dignity and conviction some Japanese find lacking in their leaders as the nation confronts its earthquake and tsunami calamity.

“We were born 16 years ago, in the year of the great Kobe earthquake,” said Shinsuke Noyama, a team captain chosen to represent players at the opening ceremony, his face grim and chest proud. “Today, in the great east Japan earthquake, many precious lives have been lost, and our souls are filled with sorrow.”

Baseball, long popular in Japan, rallied the country after World War II, providing welcome distraction while serving as a symbol of the cooperation, hard work, and self-sacrifice needed to rebuild the devastated land. It could be expected to play a similar role in the latest calamity, but an ugly squabble over whether to postpone opening day has smeared the image of the professional game.

Not only that, Japan’s tradition-steeped national sport, sumo, is in disgrace over a match-fixing scandal, its spring tournament canceled in an unprecedented act of contrition.

Now the nation is turning elsewhere for a glimmer of hope: fresh-faced adolescents who play their hearts out on the baseball field with a seriousness and integrity sometimes missing from their pro heroes.

Hours after Noyama spoke, his team crashed out in the first round. But his speech, made against a backdrop of teams lined up like squadrons on the diamond, was played over and over on national TV, even into the morning of the next day.

“It was much more beautiful than some mediocre politician’s speech, this 16-year-old youngster performing so magnificently, with that booming voice,” said Akira Kawaii, a children’s story writer walking toward Tokyo’s Shimbashi train station. “Pro ball is all about money, high school baseball is about passion.”

To put Japan’s love of high school baseball in perspective, it generates the same kind of excitement as “March Madness,” the ongoing college basketball championships in the United States. It’s a reaffirmation of values and identity, an occasion for national bonding, and an expression of nostalgia for the purity and vigor of youth.

To be sure, high school baseball is a big deal for reasons other than national identity: Big bucks are at stake with hawk-eyed scouts looking for hot prospects. Hideki Matsui, Daisuke Matsuzaka, and Ichiro Suzuki — all now playing in the American professional leagues — first became household names in Japan after memorable performances in high school.

But in Japanese high school baseball, losers attract almost as much attention as winners, and even the no-hopes garner a big chunk of the televised commentary. Fans are touched to see these youths giving their all, with the same palpable sense of purpose, even when they’re losing 11-0 in the eighth inning.

The teenage players have at least momentarily taken over the unifying role that the pros carried out after the war. During the opening ceremony, the Tohoku High School team — based in tsunami-ravaged Miyagi prefecture — marched onto the field carrying the school banner to a wave of emotional applause.

“The tournament shows you can make sports speak to the needs even of a tragic moment,” said William Kelly, a Japan scholar at Yale University. “And professional baseball shows how you can also lose that opportunity.”

The discord that has rocked Japan’s two professional leagues at a time the country needs unity has shocked the country.

The more powerful Central League balked at postponing its season out of respect for disaster victims, and its Yomiuri Giants — Japan’s most popular team — insisted it would hold electricity-guzzling night games at a time many families are eating dinner by candlelight because of rolling blackouts.

Fans were outraged. Players hinted at a possible boycott. And the government pressured the Central League to reconsider. The Giants, widely viewed as holding disproportional clout in baseball decision-making, were singled out for accusations of greed and heavy-handedness.

“Are these the circumstances where we should be doing this?” fumed Senichi Hoshino, the charismatic former manager of the Hanshin Tigers, who play at Koshien and are the chief rival of the Tokyo-based Giants.

Early last week, the Central League agreed to postpone the season’s start to March 29, and the Giants said they would play more day games and conserve energy during night games. On Thursday, the league caved in completely, postponing its season to April 12 in line with the Pacific League.

But the damage has been done. “These are very unseemly debates,” said Yale’s Kelly. “Baseball has struck out.”

In contrast, the high school players have struck a strong chord. The tournament coincides with another important ritual of youth: school graduation, which in Japan comes in early spring.

TV viewers saw images of baseball heroics on the tournament’s opening day set against scenes of junior high students bowing deeply as they received diplomas in Kesennuma — a pulverized town in Miyagi prefecture — then breaking down in tears and hugging each other.

“Making the effort, self-sacrifice, taking care of the next guy, all that’s wrapped up into one package, and it’s symbolized by high school baseball,” said Robert Whiting, author of “You Gotta have Wa,” a book on the culture clashes faced by Americans playing for Japanese teams. “It has this purity toward life and sports that professional baseball with its emphasis on making money doesn’t.”

Japan’s approach to baseball differs vastly from the more individualistic United States. It’s about the collective good and honing the spirit in a way akin to a martial art. Whiting likes to point out that if you’re hit in the face by a ball in school baseball practice, it’s forbidden to say “it hurts.” It is, however, permissible to say “it itches.”

In a game at the tournament last week, catcher Takahiro Suzuki lost two front teeth when a wild throw hit him in the face. He left the field for treatment, then came back minutes later to guide his pitcher to the last two outs. The next inning, his lips swollen and the gap in his mouth red with blood, he hit a double that scored the game-winning run.

That spirit may be useful in times of national catastrophe. “Baseball in Japan has some values that it tries to associate with itself,” said Kelly, “that turn out at this moment to be the values that people want.”