The Great American (Nicaraguan?) Pastime

FYI: My new mailing address:

David Larkin
Apartado Postal 166-5400
Puntarenas, Costa Rica
America Central


One downside of living in a Catholic country is that my gym is closed on Sundays. This truth has forced me to make Sunday my running day. The safest place for me to run is on a track that surrounds my town’s soccer field. Next to the soccer field and track is a baseball field that I never really see due to the Guanacaste trees that separate the two fields. Every Sunday, I hear the crack of the bat and the cheers of the crowd; sounds that remind me of my high school baseball days. The sounds fuel me and provide me with memories to keep my mind occupied as I keep my feet moving along the track.

This past Sunday, as I was going through my routine, I stopped, squinted my eyes and tried to make out the game through the curtain of leaves. After a minute of this, I realized that I could take it easy on my eyes and just head over to the ball field and watch the game. As I approached the diamond, I could see that both teams were wearing uniforms; this was clearly a league game. The Puntarenas team was hosting the team from Cañas. I found a spot next to the home team’s dugout and took it in.

It had been a long time since I’d seen baseball played; soccer is the dominant sport here. I concluded that these players were probably Nicaraguan immigrants. It is common knowledge in Costa Rica that if you find people playing baseball, they are probably Nicaraguans. This assumption is due to the sport’s popularity there, and its unpopularity here.

Regardless of who was playing, it was a refreshing site. The sprawling triangular shape was like a slice of America laid out before me. The sights and smells were familiar and comforting. There was a good sized crowd cheering on the Puntarenas team, and I proudly cheered them too. Both teams were good, but Puntarenas was better. The pitcher was throwing heat that must have been in the seventies or eighties. I was thrilled to watch the game, and assess the level of play. However, more than anything, I wished to be out there playing with them.

After watching a few innings, I concluded that I could probably hold my own against these guys. I was no all-star in high school, but played consistent, good ball. I wondered how I could get into the league. Perhaps I could at least try out next season. Sliding closer to the dugout, I caught the attention of one of the players and coyly asked how one would go about getting on the team. “Quiere jugar?” he asked with a grin. I responded by telling him that yes, I did want to play and asked him if they needed any extra players.

“Si, pase adelante, macha,” he beckoned me into the dugout with an even bigger grin. “Juege hoy!” Translation: “Sure you can play, whitey, play today!” While I was a bit taken aback by his response, I walked into the dugout. I wanted to explain that I wanted to play, but maybe in their next game.

“No tengo una camiseta,” I explained. As if I was expected, the man pulled out an extra uniform and glove and tossed them at me. He told me that it was no problem and to get dressed, because the second game of their double header was about to start. I threw on the uniform to find that it fit perfectly. Suited up, I knew that there was no turning back, and prepared myself to play baseball for the first time in six years. I warmed up with one of the other players with my mind racing. I realized that my arm had adjusted to softball, and my bat speed probably had as well. I saw that these guys were better than I thought they were and got really nervous. I was in over my head.

The game started and we were first up to bat even though we were the home team. The man with the grin came over and put his arm around me. He had an epic moustache and a friendly way about him. He introduced himself as Ramon, and informed me that I would be batting second.

“Segundo?” I asked him baffled. Second in the batting order is usually reserved for better batters, not usually where you would put somebody you’d never seen bat before.

“Quiere sexto? No me importa!” Offering me sixth in the lineup, I could tell that he really didn’t care.

“No, no, segundo esta bien.” So I walked to the on deck circle and took some swings while the lead off man took his at-bat. I don’t remember how, but the lead-off man did his job and got on base and it was my turn to bat. The whole team, and much of my town was watching me; it was a try-out of sorts. I was shared shitless.

I took the first pitch which was a fastball called for a strike. I became even more nervous. The ball comes at you a lot faster when you are in the batter’s box. The man was hurling ‘em way faster than the guys who I played in high school. I ran the count full and was ready for the payoff pitch. It looked good, slower and right down the middle. I took a good cut and was thoroughly embarrassed as I whiffed and watched the bottom fall out of the ball and drop to the back of the plate. I had never faced a knuckleball before. It is the kind of pitch that makes a fool out of a batter who doesn’t know how to handle them. I walked back to the dugout, totally sure that I had made a mistake by joining up with the team.

The guys were good enough to give me my position of second base, where I settled in after our ups. I was glad to be there, I only wished that I was wearing a cup. A fierce ground ball could easily sterilize you without proper protection. I made a few pretty put outs there in the field, and built up my confidence. At least the team could see that I wasn’t totally incompetent.

A few innings passed, and it was my turn to bat again. This time, I took a lighter bat to increase my bat speed. The knot in my stomach returned as I dug in against this fantastic pitcher. He took his wind-up and I knew immediately that I had to swing. I could tell by the way he released the pitch that it wasn’t his ridiculous knuckleball or any other breaking ball. I swung early, hoping to catch up to his heat, and the most incredible thing happened. I got a hit. It was no ground ball with eyes or dribbler; I hit the ball square and hard. It was a legitimate line drive to left field. The guys cheered me, chanting “muy bien macha!” I eventually came around to score.

The guys played impeccable baseball and we won six to nothing. I got a few walks and didn’t strike out again. After the game, Ramon gave me his number and told me that we have games every Sunday. Throughout the season, we will have to travel all over the country to play other teams. I told him that I am game and looked forward to the next game.

I’ll let you know how we do.

Dave