BASEBALL NATION
Change in air for Cuba’s sport
HAVAN A It is late February, sweltering hot, and the Cuban baseball season is in full swing.
We are racing in a 1955 Dodge taxi to the stadium where hometown team Industriales will face cross-island rivals Pinar del Rio this evening, in Game 2 of a threegame series. From the front seat, taxi entrepreneur Bobby regales us with “deals” only he can get for friends like us. He turns his head distractedly to urge his passengers to “call me.”
Right after, we miss the turn to the stadium amid the tangle of Havana back streets. Bobby urges calm: “No problem!”
We do a quick U-turn across the busy street and veer back toward the Estadio Latinoamericano. Three or four potholed blocks later, we screech to a halt, settle the 10peso fare hastily negotiated with Bobby, and stand on the street corner looking up at the giant blue structure looming above us.
Havana’s big baseball stadium sits wedged in a dingy part of the central city, ringed by loud traffic and crowded among low-rise residences. Its ticket booth resembles one you might find at a remote Greyhound station. One elderly woman peers out from a small wicket while carefully tearing little tickets, stamped CubaDeportes SA. Tickets cost 3 pesos, or roughly 30 cents for locals. They have no seat numbers.
The stadium’s entry tunnel is dark, and under the hot stands everything feels sticky. We climb a small set of stairs and emerge into the grandstand seats.
Suddenly, a broad blue vista opens: 120 metres to straightaway centre field, 100 to the corners. Banners above the outfield bleachers trumpet “Cuba, Land of Champions” and “Sport, an Achievement of the Revolution.” Strikingly athletic players run after grounders on the rough infield, which is splotched with light-green and brown patches.
The crowd is alive, and the young Pinar fan contingent jack their airhorns relentlessly, vuvuzelastyle. Congas provide a backbeat for the gyrating throng. These rabid fans are kept separate; Cuban police stand warily between their conga drums and the seemingly indifferent Havana Industriales fans.
The national anthem is mercifully short. The umpire signals it’s time to play ball.
Pinar comes out swinging, and
soon home runs are flying everywhere into the left- and right-field stands. In the first and second innings, the Havana hitters try to reply, but fail. By the top of the third it looks like a laugher, with Pinar leading 5-0. As tardy fans continue to wander into the stadium, the 7,000 to 8,000 present are still drowned out by a frenzied minority of green-clad Pinar fans.
For the first-time fan, there is little player information available. No programmes or lineup cards are distributed, and the low-tech outfield scoreboard is no help. You have to strain to decipher the scratchy PA system, leaving you to guess the next batter is “Younis
Somebody.” Finally, cribbing from the sports pages of Granma, the Communist Party daily, we figure out that Pinar pitcher Freddy Asiel Alvarez is on the mound. The wily right-hander holds Havana in check for two innings, until its talented lineup jumps to the fore.
In a memorable bottom of the third, Havana is suddenly able to hit again, belting line drives all over. The score tightens. Centrefielder Yunieski Gurriel slams a single, while fleet left-fielder Yunier Diaz stretches a single into a double. Then burly Lisbon Correa threatens to even the score in a hurry. With the score 5-2 and runners at the corners, a disputed
catch against the outfield wall sends officials back to discuss the play behind the plate. Meanwhile, all hell breaks loose.
In the stands near the visitors’ dugout, a small black dog suddenly leaps over the railing onto the field. Picking up speed, it begins to run all over the field, starting with the right-field corner. Soon, the grounds staff are in full pursuit. The dog slows down enticingly, but once they approach, it bolts, charging from the outfield to home plate, then around the bases again. By now, the entire crowd is standing, many cheering and laughing as the dog outraces the flat-footed humans.
The players stand impassively, trying to ignore the pandemonium around them. Finally, the crowd breaks into a delirious roar as a young boy is brought onto the field near home plate to scoop the dog into his arms. The official scorer is silent, but the dog appears to have run at least a triple.
The game continues. Havana scores again, and again. As we head to the fourth, Pinar’s lead is just 5-4.
The scoreboard shows the batter’s count with the familiar S-B-O (strike/ball/out) initials, but the line score reads C-H-E, with “Carrera” for runs. A hit is still H, but often spelled “jit” in the Cuban press. Spanish baseball lexicon has many delicious terms, rendering home run by the sonorous “jonron” and labelling a single an “indiscutible,” or an indisputable hit.
In such a knowledgeable baseball environment, one familiar Latin icon reappears in the stands. A middle-aged gentleman, arms and legs crossed, sits quietly and observes the game intently. Sometimes he shakes his head slowly, expressing dismay at the misplays to which he is witness. I can’t help but think of Felipe Alou. Reminders of old-time Caribbean pro baseball are everywhere. Before the current Industriales of the national series existed, the Havana Sugar Kings played in the International League, including against the AAA Montreal Royals.
Today in 2015, with relations normalizing between Cuba and the United States, could a renewed Havana presence in pro ball be on the horizon? Havana will certainly not join the MLB, unless a heretofore undiscovered middle class can absorb the jump from 30 cents to $30 a ticket.
In the baseball world, there is broad expectation that Cuba will soon be a replica of the Dominican Republic — a stupendous fount of all-star talent. With the talent pipeline open, how many more Yasiel Puigs are coming?! Another view is that 50 years of isolation from North American pro sports has an effect. These leagues’ new conditioning and nutrition regimes, not to mention sports psychology and advanced statistics, may make adjustment to MLB difficult for many. Cuba might end up more like Mexico, Venezuela or Puerto Rico, a reliable producer of Latin baseball talent but limited by its weaker baseball infrastructure.
Pinar holds on to win 7-4. The game report in the next day’s Granma scrupulously avoids any mention of Houndgate. Maybe this was the poor man’s Youppi or video scoreboard — a good laugh at the park on a hot evening. We left hoping that spirit doesn’t fade in a new, more Americanized era of Havana baseball.
"The crowd is alive, and the young Pinar fan contingent jack their airhorns relentlessly, vuvuzela-style.