By: Anthony Mateo
“?Y como están las cosas en Nicaragua?”
“Es un país tranquilo sabe; las personas son alegres. Pero, el gobierno es demasiado corrupto.”
My mom asked the taxi driver how things are in Nicaragua. He said it’s a calm country with happy people, but the government is corrupt. That turned out to be a great summary of the country’s status quo. Taxi drivers who work airport routes always have nuggets of wisdom which they’re willing to share if asked.
We were driving from the airport to a baseball field, where the rest of my team was waiting for me. They had flown in from Panama the day before. Most of my teammates attended Panamanian public schools where school days were four hours a day, as opposed to the private international school I attended, where school days were seven hours a day; I couldn’t take the Friday afternoon flight they took. I had to wait until Saturday morning to fly from Panama to Managua. On the ride to the field, I looked out the window to see a landscape that seemed familiar to me, although this was my first time in Nicaragua. Small pastel-colored houses lined the sides of the road, with the occasional corner store popping up in between them. The corner stores were indistinguishable from the houses except they had small signs indicating that these houses were indeed corner stores. As tends to be the case in most developing nations, the closer we got to the baseball field, the more rundown the houses were. They slowly began to transition from those small green, pink and blue colored concrete houses to shack-like constructions with rusted zinc roofs.
We drove out of the city where the airport was and into a smaller town on the outskirts of Managua. The baseball field was in what appeared to be the center of the town. The field was very similar to the ones in Panama: the infield was covered by gravel because the maintenance required with sand would be too expensive, the grass in the outfield was mostly dead and patchy, and the bases were as thin as pillowcases. The difference between this field and ours back in Panama was that someone clearly took great pride in maintaining this field. They made sure this wasn’t just another game. This baseball tournament was a momentous occasion for the people of this small town and they acted like it. The chalk lines that outlined the field, the pitching mound and the batter’s box were all drawn perfectly; they were outlined in textbook proportions. This brand of humble meticulous pride regarding aesthetics and ceremony engulfed the entire tournament. The town didn’t have a lot of resources, but what they did have was pride, to which they dedicated their time and efforts.
Once I arrived at the field and found my teammates, I said hi to everyone and sat next to my best friend. I had a lot of really good friends on the team. We spent a lot of time together so naturally, a lot of us got close; but Camilo was my best friend. Camilo was the coolest kid on the team. He carried himself with a swagger that I had never seen before. He’s what my mom would call, “Un tigre” — someone who grew up on the streets and learned how to get by in clever ways and who carries that air of resilience and capability with them into every situation. According to my mom, there was once a time when my dad had some of this “tigeraje”, so I was familiar with the concept; but Camilo was the first person I met who embodied it. From the day I met Camilo, I knew I wanted to be his friend.
After sitting down next to Camilo, I shortly found out that we didn’t have a game scheduled for that day. I pretended to be disappointed but I was actually relieved. I was worried about playing against different people in a different country. “Olle Mateo, vamos pa’ la tienda.” said Camilo. “Dale” I responded, and we headed over to the nearest corner store on Camilo’s request. He had only been there for a few hours and he already knew where everything was. He was navigating this town like it were his own. I followed Camilo confidently and knew we would be ok. Whenever we traveled locally in Panama to play in other towns Camilo always had his eye out for me. Often times we would go to neighborhoods much more dangerous than the one we played in. He knew that I didn’t have the street smarts of the other kids. Not that I was a pushover, but that I was a bit of a fish out of water. I wasn’t used to navigating the streets with a hustler mentality like Camilo and a lot of our other teammates. I had just moved to Panama about a year ago and I was still learning how to be street smart.
After a while of watching baseball games, our team headed back to the place where we were staying. Our baseball team came as a collective of all of the age groups from our section of Panama, which was called Parque Lefevre. I was a part of the youngest group of kids, the 12-14 age range, which was called the Pony League in Central America. We stayed in a long white cinder block building. The walls were crumbling. There was no running water, nor electricity. We slept in rooms with 12 triple-stacked bunk beds — 36 of us in each room, sleeping on mattresses thinner than a McDonald’s hamburger patty. I saw the disarray and paid it no mind. I chose a bed near my friends and went outside to play.
My favorite part of playing baseball was never playing baseball. I loved that we were all the type of kids whose mothers had to send out of the house before we shattered everything with a ball. We all had an infinite amount of energy and could never stay still. Our need for constant stimulation made us creative, and by this point, we had created a multitude of mini-games to play in our recess times. The games we ended up playing varied depending on the number of people, the space we had to play with, and the resources available. When everyone stepped out to play, we realized we had more than enough people to play baseball, but we didn’t have the space. We ended up creating a game closer to the rules of cricket.
The tournament started the next day. We went to the same field we went to the previous day and there was a commencement ceremony. They had huge dolls that were ornately decorated in emerald green dresses with red accents that they paraded around on huge sticks. I didn’t appreciate the ceremony much when I was 13. I was actually annoyed by the tradition and just wanted to get on with the games. Thinking about it now, I realize the sacrifices they made to honor us and make the event special. It is extremely touching that they would use their limited resources to share part of their culture with us. After the ceremony, it was time for our first game of the tournament. The tournament was formatted so the youngest team played first and the oldest last. We played our first game and it went well; we won! After that first game, my nerves about the rest of the tournament began to fade.
We sat down in plastic chairs that were laid out on the side of the field intended for spectators. There was a surprisingly large crowd for a children’s baseball game, clearly, this field was the place to be. As I was sitting, my friend Antonelli, our second baseman, approached me slyly and said, “Ves la muchacha detrás de ti? Ella gusta de ti” I looked at Antonelli in shock and disbelief. “A girl here can’t possibly like me,” I thought to myself. I saw the older kids playing pranks on some of the younger kids before, so my first instinct was to think Antonelli was put up to it by one of them. “Quien?” I asked him skeptically. “Tu no sabes que no se le apunta a las mujeres? Si la quieres conocer podemos ir allá a conocerla”, he responded. Next thing I know, we’re walking a few rows behind us to meet this fantasy girl. I was following Antonelli as he was giving me the rundown. He told me that there were two girls and that they were cousins. The one that liked him was wearing an orange dress and the one that liked me was wearing a white dress. As Antonelli began spewing details I realized that this might not be a prank and began to get nervous. When I looked up, I saw two girls dressed in the same dresses as the dolls in the ceremony, but with different colors. They waved and smiled, Antonelli and I reciprocated. We sat down in the row behind them so we could talk. “Hola, yo soy Veronica! Mi hermano juega del otro equipo. El equipo que le acabas de ganar” she said. “Ellos son buenos, fue un juego difícil.” I responded shyly. “Y me llamo Anthony” I added. Veronica’s brother was on the team we had just played, and she and her cousin were part of the commencement ceremony. “Ustedes son de Panama? Cuánto tiempo les queda aqui.” Veronica asked curiously. I nodded my head and responded, “Solo 2 dias mas, regresamos el Martes.” Veronica’s face showed a little disappointment when I told her we were only going to be in Nicaragua for a few more days. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation too clearly, except for that she was a year older than I. What I could never forget was her beautiful laugh, tanned skin, and sparkly eyes.
After all of the games that day, everybody was exhausted and ready to go back to the white cement house. As I was climbing into the bus, Antonelli ran to me and told me that Veronica wanted to say goodbye. I got off and went to find her. She was right next to the bus. When I saw her we exchanged pleasantries and I told her we were leaving. She gave me a hug — and then a kiss! It was my first official kiss and it was totally unexpected! As it was happening, I heard the bus erupt with loud reactions from my teammates. There was cheering and laughter and ooh’s and ahh’s as if someone had just hit a home run. Then I saw every 13-year-olds worst nightmare: I saw my mom getting off the bus and heading over to me. She came over to Veronica and me and had us pose together for a picture. After taking the most embarrassing picture ever, my mom left us alone and we hugged again and parted ways.
That night my mom came with us to the white cement building. Once she saw the conditions of the dilapidated building she didn’t want me to stay there. I liked staying there with my friends the first night but I was relieved that my mom had come to rescue me. I felt bad because I couldn’t suck up the less than ideal conditions to spend more time with my friends. My mom and I stayed at a hotel that was closer to the airport than the baseball field. The next day was the last day of the tournament.
The town’s people made sure the last day of the tournament was just as special as the previous ones. We played in the championship game but we ended up losing. Somehow we had matured enough on that trip to not be too upset about losing; a complete shift from our usual temper tantrums after anything that didn’t go our way. There was a closing ceremony after the games. Veronica’s brother, who was the captain of the Nicaraguan team, gave a speech and thanked us for our participation. Our team presented the Nicaraguan team with 2 boxes of brand new baseballs and new bases. Everyone was mingling with one another during the closing ceremony. My teammates and I were exchanging signatures with the kids on the Nicaraguan team. Veronica’s brother and I exchanged signatures and then he handed me an envelope.“Veronica tenía que quedarse en la casa ayudando mi mama, pero ella te queria dar esto.” I thanked him and put the envelope in my pocket.
My mom and I went straight to the hotel that night. When I got to the hotel I went into the bathroom to open the envelope. The envelope contained a wallet-sized graduation picture of Veronica with a cap and gown on, as well as a handwritten letter with the most pristine penmanship I had ever seen. I don’t remember the contents of the letter too well. I never told anyone about that envelope, not even my mom. I was embarrassed by it for some reason. I’m ashamed of my 13-year-old self for not cherishing that letter and that moment. It all happened so fast that I was overwhelmed with a combination of conflicting emotions. I can’t help but think that social class played a role in my subconscious guilt; that I was unable to humanize this other human being who I enjoyed the company of because of my shallow and naive conception of life. It’s painful to look back on a moment where I was so weak and malleable. Retrospecting to a time where societal pressures shaped my view of myself and therefore the world around me helps me recognize how I’ve changed, and how I must continue to change.
I tore up the letter without reading it and threw it in the trash. I realized my mom could somehow stumble upon it in the trash, so I took it out. When I held the torn up scraps in my hands I decided I wanted to read it. After reading it, I emptied all of the contents of the envelope, including the envelope, in the toilet. Moments like flushing Veronica’s letter down the toilet are formative for me. Moments that I can’t forget because of the disgusting truth that encompasses them. The truth is that, at my core, I am an insecure and selfish human being that is much too concerned with other’s perceptions and opinions of me. The truth is also that I have become aware of these inherent flaws ingrained in me and work every day to unlearn them.
I deeply cherish the time I was able to spend with Camilo, Suarez, Jonathan, Medina, De Leon, Flaco Bala, Antonelli, and my other teammates. It helped me realize and internalize an ineffable truth: humanistic value is infinite and intangible. I could see the clear disparity between how society treated my friends from baseball versus those from the international school. I was able to recognize that society was wrong, inconsistent and unfair in its treatment of people. My friends on the baseball team were innovative, resilient and cunning as well as wise, caring, supportive and loving. We entertained each other for hours on long bus rides. We got into fights and arguments; we laughed together; we celebrated victories together and cried over losses together.
Suarez was our catcher and he always had the loudest voice on the field. Suarez would wait till late at night to tell us scary Panamanian folk tales he’d learned from his aunt; I couldn’t sleep for days after those. De Leon was our first baseman, and also one of the top five ping pong players in the country. He was the most emotionally intelligent 13-year olds I had ever met. I would cry relatively regularly after striking out, and De Leon would help me compose myself to get back on the field. Camilo had the quickest and funniest responses to any diss that came his way. He would occasionally extend his joke-proof armor my way and help me fend off any comedic remark directed at me. Having the privilege to spend three years growing up with my friends on the baseball team in Panama added so many dimensions to my life and my understanding of life. It expanded my perspective on humanity much farther than I could have ever imagined. Through it, I was able to internalize how complicated, confusing, beautiful and sad every single human life is, regardless of society’s conception of one’s worth.
