Choi Tries Hard in Any Language

He holds both sides of his head and sways back and forth.

“Again?” he says.

He clenches his giant fists, closed, open, closed, open.

“Not sure?” he says.

You are telling Hee-Seop Choi you think he is brave.

You are telling Choi you appreciate the constant embarrassment he risks as one of the only Asians in the major leagues to speak English without an interpreter.

You are telling him there can be no greater embrace than the one he offers Americans with this gory, glorious attempt at assimilation.

“Brave?” he says.

You touch your heart. You say it again. Brave.

“Oh, OK, yes, now I understand,” he says. “Thank you.”

Another day, another new word for the Dodger whose most compelling daily performance occurs before he takes the field.

He could hide behind a human shield, but doesn’t.

He could offer only sanitized communication through a skittish sidekick, but won’t.

He could disappear beneath that cloak known as a language barrier -- his native language is Korean -- but refuses.

“I play in America,” he says. “I have to speak English.”

So he tries, sometimes stumbling, often staggering, hemming and hawing but never quitting until he has answered a question or complimented a teammate or thanked a fan.

Teammates sometimes listen with restrained impatience. He doesn’t care.

A column in this sports section recently teased him for his language struggles. He doesn’t mind.

“I do not want to be quiet,” he says. “I do not want to be alone.”

And so he is not, transforming a wary veteran clubhouse and critical Dodger nation into a cozy home, players grabbing his giant shoulders and fans chanting his name.

“You watch him speak without an interpreter and you see who he is,” says Jun Soo Kim, a visiting photographer for Daily Sports Seoul. “He is a major-league survivor. He is strong.”

And he is no Hideo Nomo, the Dodgers’ most celebrated Asian player who was also their most aloof.

Nomo played here for parts of seven seasons spanning 10 years, and not once would he talk to the media or fans without an interpreter.

“That’s hilarious,” pitcher Tom Candiotti once said, “because he speaks English better than I do.”

Nomo’s English was so good, Manager Jim Tracy was comfortable talking to him about strategy without help.

“Hideo didn’t need an interpreter, I went right up to him,” Tracy said.

Yet, for the all the millions the Dodgers paid him, he refused to communicate with the public.

When approached, Nomo would refer all questions to his interpreter, staring into the distance until the agony was complete.

When Nomo was mercifully dumped last winter, despite the legacy of “Nomomania,” it was as if he were never here.

It’s the same gap with Asian stars around the league, as teams supply them with interpreters because many did not come through the minor leagues, and many are alone.

With the exception of a few veterans -- the Angels’ Vladimir Guerrero and Bartolo Colon among them -- the same courtesy is not offered the Latino players because of their large numbers.

“If they gave all of us translators, the clubhouse would be filled with translators,” Dodger shortstop Cesar Izturis said. “You learn the language faster because there are so many of us. And if you don’t, you can find a teammate to help you.”

For Choi, who has yet to play on a team with another Korean player in his seven pro seasons, there has rarely been anyone.

He used an interpreter in his first pro year, in 1999 in Lansing, Mich., when he was 20 and could only say, “Hello.”

But he says he didn’t like how the interpreter sometimes changed his words.

“I would say something, then it would sound different,” he says.

So in his second season he dumped the guy and hasn’t used one since.

“I want to make friends, good friends,” he says. “I want to talk to teammates and fans and everyone. I want to be myself.”

He lives with his sister in Burbank. She is studying English. When he goes home, he sometimes helps her practice.

He also reads the daily newspaper clipping package provided by the Dodgers.

“That’s where I learn new words,” he said. “My teammate says something, I can say it too.”

He knows when he says something wrong. He winces and tries to say it again.

He measures syllables as if he’s measuring a fastball, contemplating and conniving before swinging for the fences.

And when he’s not talking the talk, he’s walking the, well, you know.

Have you seen the ballpark video where he and Izturis are exchanging what appears to be a mixture of Asian, Latino and hip-hop high fives?

“This is not Korea,” Hee-Seop Choi says again, his voice clear, his pronunciation perfect. “This is America.”

Bill Plaschke can be reached at bill.plaschke@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Plaschke, go to latimes.com/plaschke.