Within the past week, I have had the privilege of attending three baseball games in the championship series of the Nicaraguan World Series. The Tiburones (sharks) of Granada advanced to the finals after a 4-3 win in extra innings of game 7 of the semi finals..which was followed by vuvuzelas sounding loudly throughout the streets of the city until the wee hours of the morning. Despite the excitement and momentum entering the final series, Granada lost their first three games to the Tigres (tigers) of Chinandega. The first game and the fourth game were played here at the stadium in Granada. The first game was well attended and very loud until the Tiburones went down by 5 runs by the 7th inning and people started to file out early. Then after hearing that Granada then lost the next two consecutive games in Chinandega, very few people showed up for the fourth game. We had prime seats right behind the visiting team's dugout and the game stayed locked at 1-1 throughout despite big hits, great steals, and long throws for crucial outs at home plate. It was finally decided in the bottom of the 12th inning when Granada hit a walk-off double to send the second base runner home and keep their championship dreams alive. It was a great game to have the opportunity to witness, don't get me wrong. But there was something that kept me from feeling exhilarated along with all the other fans who went crazy with their horns, whistles, and flags when the Tiburones scored--one young boy.
A young boy at a major league baseball game sounds like one of the happiest people on Earth, at least on paper. It's possible that I'm just biased because I have a little brother that lived for baseball. At 3 years old, he had memorized and been able to imitate all of his favorite player's batting stances. His favorite TV show was Sports Center and he knew all the statistics of even the least well known players. He went to a few Red Sox games with my dad and would turn heads with his obscure knowledge, and then return home to rave to my mom about the game as well as the ball park delicacies. He was for lack of a better term, obsessed. So maybe for these reasons, it was jarring to see such a sad and forlorn face on a young boy, no older than 10 at the game. It was jarring that he wasn't even watching the game, but scouring the crowd to pounce on an empty beer or soda can to crush up and put in his tattered sack, probably so he could later trade them in to get a few cents for the material. I bought a bag of plantain chips and ate a few but then held the bag out to him. We made eye contact and I felt a pang of helplessness at the same as a deep human connection. He dropped his sack for a second and sat down beside me and devoured the bag.
I heard a song recently called "The Story" by Brandi Carlisle, and the lyrics start like this: All of these lines across my face tell you the story of who I am. So many stories of where I've been, and how I got to where I am." I think its a really beautiful song, but it makes me extra sad when I think about that boy. He has no lines on his face yet. He has flawless young skin, but he's already been forced to grow up and fend for himself in the world. He can't even enjoy an extra inning win in game four of the World Series. Worst of all, he is not alone.
So many children here don't have the privilege of having a carefree, fun childhood, and it keeps reminding me of how important sports, safe spaces and friendships are to the girls I work with. It keeps them young, and that's hard to come by here. We have been pushing to make our curriculum more educational and right now we are developing some health-related workshops that will happen every couple of weeks, touching on topics such as nutrition, hygiene, stress relief, healthy relationships, etc. It will potentially be a great thing, but its also nice to know that what we're currently providing is equally important and special.
Our new season officially starts on Tuesday! Stay tuned!
Amor, paz, and fútbol
KPope
