Cuba Journal: Pickup baseball game in parking lot a huge hit for Havana visitor
FRIDAY, FEB. 22 – HAVANA
I saw what a baseball looks like when you knock the cover off it. Here in Cuba, it’s not how hard they hit the ball. It’s what they wind up playing with. That’s all they have.
The pre-teen ball player stood next to me in the parking lot of staid old Estadio Latinoamericano and handed the ball to me. It looked like a million Band-Aids wrapped together. In actuality, the ball was years old and merely lost its cover from being hit over and over and over by the same group of boys and men who gather here in the stadium parking lot every day to play pickup games.
I came to see Los Industriales, the New York Yankees of Cuban baseball who have won 12 Cuban championship since they formed in Havana in 1962. They play every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday at Estadio Latinoamaericano, a crumbling dinosaur of a stadium that seats 58,000 crazed fans. The façade of the stadium, built in 1946, looks like Cuba. Peeling paint. Boarded-up windows. Cement blocks on the sidewalk.
The place was dead. I saw one open door. I peeked into see a poster of a younger Fidel Castro in a Cuba jersey waving a bat and eyeing a pitch. The two people said no game today. They’re preparing for “Il Classico.” That’s the World Baseball Classic. The Cubans I met were less concerned about who would replace Castro than how Cuba would do against China Monday in Japan. (Cuba won, 12-0).
But the real action was in the adjacent parking lot. This pickup game was nothing like I’d ever seen in the United States. Never, even as a child who lived at my neighborhood park in Eugene, Ore., in the ‘60s, did I see a neighborhood field two complete baseball teams.
From Havana’s Cerro neighborhood that borders the stadium, they looked like two street gangs. It was an oddball collection of torn tank tops, ragged shorts, beat-up Yankees hats and flapping old shoes. The ages ranged from about 8 to 58 but they all had one thing in common.
They could play.
The level shocked me. A third baseman in an orange T-shirt and floppy shorts back-handed a short-hop rocket like he was picking up a shoe and fired a strike to a first baseman who couldn’t have been more than 12. The same first baseman perfectly fielded a hard bouncer between hops – bad hops in a Third World parking are brutal – for an easy out.
A centerfielder zeroed in on a long drive that sailed through some telephone wires to make a catch in what must’ve been 370 feet from the home plate hand painted in one of the parking stalls.
This wasn’t a bunch of neighborhood hacks who came out to drink beer and bond. They were serious.
But then, this is Cuba. Baseball is part of the lifeblood that keeps the local population moving along through teeming oppression and poverty. Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses.
In Cuba, it’s baseball.
Of course, playing in a parking lot has its problems. One time a batter shot one straight up the middle. It hit a curb, ricocheted over a mangy plot of grass, rolled under a ’53 Chevy passing through and came to rest against a Cyclone fence.
An inning later, with a runner on first, a man in his 20s gapped one between left and center. The gazelle-like left fielder stopped it from rolling into an adjacent soccer game and threw the relay to the shortstop. Just like in an instructional video, the shortstop wheeled in one motion for home plate. Standing behind the plate was a kid no more than 5 feet tall or 12 years old.
And this baserunner was comin’.
The shortstop threw a bullet on the fly to the tiny catcher who didn’t give an inch. He caught the ball and tagged the angry runner who tried to pull the ball out of his glove. An old man in his 50s, sporting a Che Guevara tattoo on his left calf and who appeared to be a pseudo player-ump, rung up the runner like Joe West in the 2005 World Series.
The baserunner was furious. He yelled at the old man. The old man yelled back. The runner’s teammates yelled at the old man. The other team defended him. Cooler heads prevailed and the teams switched sides. While a batter rounded first on a double down the line, the baserunner was still yapping from third base. The old man looked at me, the only gringo within miles of this fascinating slice of Cuban life, and smiled.
Dusk was settling and I could barely see the pitched balls. One older guy in a beat-up olive ball cap shocked me when he came up and said, “You want play baseball?” I had heard very few people speak English in two days in Havana.
“You speak English.”
“Some. You want play baseball, you come Saturday or Sunday. You play with us.”
His name was Manuel and he puts in alarm systems around the city. I remembered him making a fine play at second base. I also remembered his textbook rotation of his hips with his stroke.
Manuel is 40.
“How often do you play?”
“Every day. We play three innings from 3:30 until dark.”
“You guys are really good.”
“Oh, no. But we try. We play every day.”
I asked him about the equipment. They all pool their resources and buy a baseball from the team across the street every few years or so.
“A baseball costs $5. We make $16 a month. That is one third of our salary.”
I offered to buy them one but he said, “No, they are closed now. But gracias.”
A big burly slugger came up and showed me his tennis shoes. One had a huge hole in the sole and neither had any laces. The shoes’ tongues flapped like Michael Jordan’s.
“Quarenta e cinco,” he said with a laugh.
Manuel said, “He wants you to know he wears a size 45 sneaker.”
Cuba is off playing in Japan, but Cuban baseball lives on. Every day.
WEDNESDAY: A TRIP TO ERNEST HEMINGWAY’S VILLA
March 6, 2013 @ 9:00 am
fascinating stuff….why isn’t this being published in the Post? Or will it be in Sundays paper?
March 6, 2013 @ 9:11 am
It’ll be printed as a Lunch Special today at noon on our website: http://www.denverpost.com/sports.
March 6, 2013 @ 9:22 am
I wonder if there’s anywhere in America that kids still play pick-up baseball games. It rarely happened even when I was young, and that was 40 years ago. One has the sense that these days there’s never a youth sports event unless there are five coaches, a stack of signed releases, a groomed field, grandstands filled with delusional parents, and trophies for all participants.
March 6, 2013 @ 11:00 am
problem now is that parents don’t let their kids run free in the neighborhoods anymore because they are paranoid of them getting kidnapped / assaulted. So, the old days of kids meeting at the park on their bikes on to play baseball at Central Park are over…..unfortunately
March 6, 2013 @ 11:06 am
I know what you mean. I have friends who would no way in hell let their kid go to the park alone after school. It’s a big contributor to our juvenile obesity problem.
March 6, 2013 @ 1:26 pm
Awesome story John. Gotta hear about you playing. Do you still have the arm? Did the 10 year old make you wiff at 3 straight duces?
“If a horse can’t eat it I don’t wanna play on it.” — New meaning to that line from the 70’s
March 6, 2013 @ 3:54 pm
Who is this? Is this Doyel? How many Beaver fans are there in Tennessee? In fact, how many Beaver fans are there, period?
No, I didn’t play. Believe me, I wanted to. However, I was wearing flipflops and hadn’t swung at a pitch since 1997 when Rockies hitting coach Clint Hurdle bet me $25 I couldn’t make contact off five curveballs from his specially ordered curve machine when I covered the Rockies. (I lost.) Also, I wanted to take pictures. Ever play pickup ball at Spencer Butte? Remember Washington Park on 19th and Washington? When I was at Frances Willard we went down there every day in the summer and played “workup.” You had eight or nine guys (no catcher or right fielder). You had one or two batters. If you made an out, you went to the outfield and the pitcher moved up to hit and everyone moved around the bases. Or we played a game called Seattle: batter, pitcher, shortstop, left fielder. If you hit it through the left side of the infield you got a single. Over the shortstop’s head was a double, past the left fielder a triple and over his head a homer. I haven’t seen a game of either since.
How’ve you been? A little gossip from inside college hoops: Oregon Straight’s AD wants to fire hoops coach Craig Robinson but can’t because he’s the president’s brother-in-law. Robinson wanted the Northwestern job where Carmody is good as gone. That ain’t happenin’ now. Tad Boyle, the Colorado coach, told me he prays OSU keeps Robinson. He apparently coaches no defense at all.
Don’t feel bad. I hear Oregon’s going on probation.
Yours in Duckdom,
March 6, 2013 @ 4:31 pm
Send you a reply on FB. Yes it’s really Dick Allen… the one you knew in 10th grade who used to scratch trade me or play me in the infield dirt.
I am envious of your story. It must have been an awesome day. Sorry you did not get any pics.
March 6, 2013 @ 3:54 pm
Sounds like the pick-up baseball I used to play (in sight of Ebbets Field) when growing up in Brooklyn, including the torn-apart baseball. But that was almost 70 years ago when the world was different.
I envy your chance to watch Cuban baseball, even more so at the neighborhood level. I have enjoyed watching baseball in some international settings, including the first-class ball played in Japan. Cuban baseball is fantastic. Maybe that’s the vehicle to start playing “nice” with Cuba. Start with a major league baseball tour of Cuba. Maybe even better than Nixon’s China table-tennis episode. This is something all of us baseball freaks can agree upon, no matter what country they represent.
(My daughter Carrie Packard led me to your blog. I enjoyed it and am looking forward to future episodes.)
March 6, 2013 @ 6:35 pm
Oh, yes. Carrie. We exchange some twitter feeds occasionally. Thank you so much for the kind note. I’m a firm believer that sport can bring society and governments together. My only regret was wearing flipflops to the game and not being able to grab a bat they offered and take a few hacks.