The crisp, hot, late afternoon sunshine in Nicaragua is perfect for playing baseball. Who might want to play?
We notice that the construction crews seemed to finish up the day’s work with a bit more energy and gusto; several of them asked me as the work for the day wound down, “Baseball?” Just that one word, with their deep Spanish language accent, and the interrogative lilt rolling up at the end, turned a word into a question. “Si,” I would readily reply, wondering what I was getting myself into.
David, our host and translator, had organized the game the evening before. He told me that there are two things that the guys on the construction crews really love: work and baseball. They play all the time in the field next to the school. The schedule was set. Baseball after work today!
This was truly a multi-purpose field. It is huge, easily the size of a full soccer field, with the main road of the village running along the long side of it. A few scrub trees line the edge of the field next to the road. There is a makeshift soccer goal set up at one end. Three long sticks: two sticking in the ground vertically, with Y notches at their tops, and one mounted horizontally in those Ys. No net in this soccer goal. I guess if you score a goal you must also chase the ball. The field also served as pasture, and we enjoyed watching the mama horse and her days-old colt quietly grazing.
The baseball field is evident only because of its use. There is no backstop, no chalk lines, and no outfield fence. But the base paths are clearly evident from their heavy use. The area around home plate is smooth and clean. Home plate is imaginary, but obvious. First base is a now-empty paper concrete bag. Second base is a rag. Third base is imaginary, a spot in the dirt. What interested me about this field was the accuracy of its size. Despite the lack of real bases or a backstop, this was, my measuring eye told me, really close to a full size baseball field. The spots in the dirt where the bases were supposed to be were in their perfect place; 90 feet apart in American measure. Baseball fields express beauty with their straight lines, angles, and symmetry. This field in the Nicaraguan dirt was beautiful.
David divides the teams, Americans and Nicaraguans all mixed up. This process took a while, with some thoughtfulness and discussion that was not translated into English for us. I guessed there was an effort to balance the teams, with some mysterious assessment made of our American ability. Indeed, we had two full teams. None of the Americans had gloves. So after three outs each player simply dropped their glove on the field at their position for the other team to pick up and use. The glove at my second base spot was gloriously well used, it flexed precisely like part of my hand, its leather was smooth and worn. This was an excellent baseball glove. It has been many, many years since I played real baseball, but as this glove fit over my hand I heard my heart whisper, I can play this game! A lifetime of baseball memories rushed through my mind: the feel of the glove, the grip on a hardball, the polished grain of a wooden bat, pick up teams, sweat and dust, grimy cap pulled down tight, kick the stones out of the way which may bounce up a hard grounder. Baseball is meant to be played, not watched. Baseball is poetry enacted.
We play fast pitch, regular baseball. The only difference is that each batter got ONE swing, not three strikes and unlimited foul balls — but one swing. This will be a challenge, I ponder. David instructs me, “They will pitch easy to you; wait for a good pitch and hit. If you strike, you’re out; if you foul off; you’re out, one swing per batter. Wait for your pitch.” The game really moves, three outs come and go quickly. We settle into a very nice game; I find my rhythm and comfort. The memory of how to play this game comes up out of my bones.
I play second base. I handle a few, routine ground balls, making the easy throw to first base. Innings fly by. Now my team is back in the field, Carlos leads off and drills a hard grounder past the shortstop for a single. Jerry, a small, terrifically strong and always smiling construction worker, is playing shortstop. He yells over to me; there was no need for translation. I know instinctually what he said, Be ready; double play.
The next batter hits a hard ground ball to Jerry. As soon as I see its direction, I move to cover second base. Jerry fields the grounder clean and fast, turning to throw to me as I arrive at second base. His throw is perfect — hard, fast. I catch it while in full stride, stepping on the rag that was second base. Out of the corner of my eye I see Carlos coming down the base line hard. He knew he was dead at second, so he starts waving his arms and yelling to disrupt my turn toward first. I run through second base and well past it to avoid his rush at me, stop fast, and fire on a string to first base. My throw is also perfect, the first baseman ready and waiting. Cheers erupt from all around. Double Play. Baseball glory.
On a Nicaraguan baseball field, of all places, I had this moment of true joy and blessing. Such moments are the stuff of real faith, exhilarating and thrilling and all grace. Why do we adults in America never play pick up baseball anymore? Why do we so seldom run and play, sweat and laugh? Why are our lives so structured and organized and professional? Why do a bunch of people from Derry Presbyterian Church — doctors, professionals, computer geeks, teenagers, executives — want to go to Nicaragua?
After a hot day building a concrete-block house, while standing on a Nicaraguan baseball field I received a glimpse of an answer.
We are called back to something deeper and more meaningful. We are called back to something that we often lose in our sophisticated, air-conditioned, sanitized, modern lives. We are called back to the dirt where we learn again the basic truth of all truth. We are not as good and proper as we think. The dirt makes us clean. We are called back again to the joy of life itself revealed, maybe, in a game of pick up baseball or the quiet contentment of helping to lay the block for a new home for a quiet, deserving family. We are called back again to a deeper joy by the boisterous fun of men who can laugh together while laboring for a weekly wage that would not buy a round of drinks in our town. We are pulled back again into a deeper respect for others by the dignity of the women who sweep the dirt outside their shacks, and hang their crisp, hand-scrubbed, clean clothes on barbed-wire clotheslines. We are inspired by the faith we see in people who have no reason to have faith.
We go to Nicaragua because we need to face the mystery again of seeing people who are happy and content when they have no reason to be, while we are seldom happy and content when we have every reason to be. I learned about Jesus again mixing concrete and playing baseball in the bright Nicaraguan sun. I am very grateful. Thanks be to God.
Mark Englund-Krieger is executive presbyter of Presbytery of Carlisle, Camp Hill, Pa.
