Guerreros de Oaxaca August 1, 2022
Tobillo means ankle. Esguince means sprained. These are a few of the words I learn after the baseball game, not that there have been any injuries on the field. As Vanessa tumbles to the ground outside the stadium, we are reminded that the earth is not flat. La Tierra es Irregular.
But back to the game, where the pitch is a perfect plain, Un Llano. Los Guerreros de Oaxaca have a losing record on this field for yet another season, but this does little to quell the enthusiasm of the thousand or so fans that come to cheer their team, wearing the jerseys and other memorabilia of their beloved Warriors.
It is the largest dose of Americana I have experienced in years, beneath the Golden Arches of McDonalds beyond the left field wall. Certainly it is a marked departure from the sports scene of Chiapas, which consists mostly of drunken motorcycle races, cock fights, and Mayan Ballgame sacrifices. Oaxaca, on the other hand, has a conservative strain that is more sympathetic to the pastoral American pastime.
Tonight the Tigres of Cancun are in town. This team is one of Mexico’s best and most famous, as it is owned by the legendary Fernando Valenzuela, El Toro, of Los Angeles Dodger fame. Unlike other teams of Mexico, which tend to focus on “small ball”—slap hitting, base running, tight infielding—Los Tigres are built for power. Tonight is no exception. With a total of 36 hits and 29 runs scored in ten innings, this is, anything but a pitcher’s duel.
The teams are multinational, with representatives from the Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Cuba, and even Dallas, Texas. None of the Guerreros’ starting lineup actually comes from Oaxaca. The Mexican players hail from the north, along the Frontera—Chihuahua, Baja, and especially Sonora. This is in keeping with tradition, as even Oaxaca’s greatest player, Vinicio Castilla, played his Mexican ball with Tijuana before making his way to MLB stardom in Colorado. Despite the beautiful modern stadium, Oaxaca is not the team of champions.
You would not know this from the boisterous cluster of fans behind home plate, who cheer every hit and stolen base. Between tosses they dance and sing along to the stadium soundtrack, which plays for just a few seconds, until the music is hushed for the next pitch. Then a new song blares for the next few seconds, and they dance and sing some more, like an adult musical-chair competition. Para Bailar La Bamba, My Achey Breaky Heart, Seven Nation Army—whether Yanqui or Cumbia, they sing and they dance, occasionally posing before the wandering Dance-Cam. This is how ankles get sprained.
The flavors are distinctly Mexicana—Victoria or Corona in bottles, Tortas de Cochinita Pibil, chips with lime and salsa, and, for those unafraid of the Oaxaca Ca-Ca, something called a DoriLoco, which is a bag of Doritos sliced lengthwise and topped with piles of corn and hot sauce. From this, I discover to my good fortune that the bathrooms are clean and functioning. The Warrior in me erupts with grateful exultation.
Final tally: Guerreros 15, Tigres 14, with Vanessa placed on the temporary disabled list.