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On Sports:  Beísbol en Chiapas October 15, 2021

Reports of an active baseball community in San Cristóbal de las Casas are so far proving unfounded.  There is, in fact, a tended pitch on the outskirts of the city, which I can monitor from the surrounding hills during my occasional walks, but I have not yet seen anyone playing.  If there is a popular ballgame in this town, it is more likely to be Pitz, the ancient Maya sport, with those iconic stone hoops and rubber sphere and human sacrifices.  True fans crave a good sacrifice, and bunts simply do not count.  And, as for any thoughts of stealing second or third or (Dios Mio!) home itself, remain advised:  “Si Te Agarramos, Te Linchamos!”  

Nevertheless, passion for the national pastime runs deep in the Shaw family, especially at playoff time.  My grandmother only ever cared about one player, the late great Ted Williams, so we always told her he was on deck to bat, even after he had been out of the game for twenty years.  As for my dad, just as for his dad, to follow the Boston Red Sox was to travel a trail of heartbreak—in 1947, 1967, 1975, 1986—always close, but no cigar.  Then, in 2004, the Curse of the Bambino was finally lifted, in mythic fashion, with the Sox overcoming an unprecedented 3-game deficit against the Yankees.  The subsequent sweep of the Cardinals in the World Series was all but a formality.  The Red Sox had won, my dad and his dad could finally rest in peace, and baseball was over for good.

Of course, baseball is never over until it’s over, as the philosopher once said.  Since 2015, I have followed the beísbol playoffs abroad, on TV, mostly from Mexico.  The Cubs won epically in 2016, breaking a winning drought even older than that of the Red Sox.  In 2018, when I was feeling especially homesick in Trinidad, Boston’s underdog victory over the Dodgers was a lifeline to the mainland.  Even without the Yanqui English of Buck and Smoltz and Scully, I feel an American-pie-slice of comfort at the sight of the diamond on fresh cut turf.  If only there were stadium sounds, I could hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat.       

The phrase Fox Sports is reflexively uttered often during any Fox broadcast, but in Spanish its mention is particularly ear-catching.  “Fock Sports”, growls the Mexican broadcaster, drawing a discernible breath between the hard K and the soft S.  Fock Beísbol, Fock Futbol, Fock Pitz, Fock Sports, Fock them all, I hear them say during commercial breaks.

Strikes are called Ponches, which means punches.  Tres Ponches is inexplicably referred to as Un Chocoláte.  Yes, three punches equal one chocolate.  Strikeout has no meaning whatsoever, nor should it.  It is a ridiculous word, like all of them.  

Since the Spanish broadcasters are in Mexico City, one pair can cover any number of games during the day while attending none.  To mute the English broadcasters means to mute the crowd, as if the Mexicans are covering the game from inside a broom closet.  During high-stress moments, the Spanish speakers stop talking and briefly open the closet door, effectively turning up the fan-cheers, hoping that Ron Darling does not suddenly utter something pithy, in English, at high volume.

The number of Latin players is highlighted in broadcasts from Mexico, so Red Sox are natural favorites.  David Ortiz, from Dominican Republic, is beloved throughout the hispanic community and, when he is not getting “accidentally” shot in Santo Domingo, he recruits for the Red Sox south of the border.  Consequently, the Bosox lineup is rich with salsa.  “Puerto Rico Me Lo Regaló” precedes every plate appearance of Kike Hernandez in this house.  When the Colombians bat, the soundtrack plays Cumbia.  For Venezuelan Edwardo Rodriguez it is Parang.  For Mexican-American Alex Verdugo—his surname means executioner—let the Mariachi horns wail!

I hope Ted Williams is on deck, but I know he is not.  Unlike his nemesis, Joe DiMaggio, Ted was never immortalized in a Paul Simon song.  Instead, his head is frozen in Arizona.  Please, no Chocoláte for him.

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