CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Baseball Diplomacy

A

fter leaving our lobster paradise in Ensenada El Cajon, we left the western tip of Cuba, sailing to the underside, or southern coast, to the small fishing village of Cortez. Not a picturesque village, Cortez seemed to exist in spite of itself, by virtue of its location on a convenient bay that was a natural spot for fisherman to launch their small vessels. There wasn’t much to the town other than a short, dirt-trodden main street, and a few simple, primitive houses and stalls, yet it was all relatively clean.

Along with speaking Spanish in Cuba, we quickly discovered that they also speak baseball. Now, we are not baseball fans by any means, and Michel, being French, is totally befuddled by the sport. But in Florida, Sean and Brendan had briefly participated in an after-school little league as part of their full childhood immersion in the American experience. Neither of the boys were enamored with the sport, but at least they learned what it was, and as it turned out, their brief baseball experience served them well as passports to opening friendships with Cuban children.

Michel set off to scope out Cortez, and this time he took Brendan with him. They became quite the attraction when they landed on the beach. It seemed that every child in the village crowded around, asking non-stop questions, and hovering around them as they tried to move up the beach. Keeping this first visit brief, Michel returned to the boat and headed back again later with both Sean and Brendan, baseball bat and ball in hand. Any hesitancy by anyone at that point instantly melted away.

We had brought along a fluorescent orange, sparkly aluminum baseball bat with us when we left Florida. The Cuban children had never seen such a beauty, and they were in awe. The questions continued: Where do you come from? Where did such a pretty bat come from? Do you go to school and how? What do your t-shirts say? It was a rare sight for the village children to encounter sailors, let alone a family with young children on a boat. They took Sean and Brendan under their wing, quickly whisking them off to a makeshift baseball diamond.

The next day, Brendan and Sean were anxious to return to shore, and the children were waiting on the beach. This time we all went on shore, and it was like being the Pied Piper. The whole little crowd followed us around, and the questions kept flowing. Sean and Brendan now knew the routine, and off they scampered with the crowd of kids to the ball field. An older teenage boy took a particular shine to Brendan, giving him pointers on how to properly hold the bat, along with tips for swinging and aiming at the ball.

Since we could see that they were in good hands, and there was no danger, Michel and I wandered off a bit to explore the main street. A man stopped us and proudly said, "bonjour," apparently having overheard Michel and me in conversation. Introducing himself as Manuel, he noted that was the extent of his French, but he was eager to introduce us to his family. Normally, Manuel worked in Havana, but he was here for the weekend visiting his parents with his wife and daughter. We were graciously received in a tiny home down a narrow dirt path, and Manuel delighted in answering our many questions about Cuba as well as volunteering much information.

A foreman of a hotel construction team, Manuel proudly showed us an 8" x 10" glossy photograph of him and Fidel Castro on the construction site. "Fidel has much confidence in me," he said. He and his family were very curious as to what we thought of Cuba and why our governments were so antagonistic to each other. As the other Cubans with whom we had such discussions, Manuel praised his country, his society, and Castro. At this time in the late 1980s, it was quite obvious that Castro was embarking on an aggressive campaign to lure tourists and expand Cuba’s tourism economy. Several hotels and tourist resorts were already up and running, catering to the Canadian, Russian, and European tourists, and more construction was in the planning stages. Manuel’s current job was further evidence of this emerging trend.

The day finished with us buying all the kids ice cream at the village’s ice cream shop (it was amazing such a shop even existed!). We still had so many of our Cuban pesos, that Michel decided this would be a good use for some of them. In true Cuban fashion, you could only buy what was available—no choice. So it was decided: a vanilla ice cream cone for everyone. It all cost only a few pennies!

Along with the wholesome outdoor activity of baseball, the children of Cortez also reminded us of an earlier time when toys were simpler, bringing joy and fun to children without the modern marvels of Lego, Gameboy, and the like. One of the kids was playing with a homemade top, carved from wax—the kind with string wrapped around the top, that one throws to the ground. I certainly remembered those from my childhood, but Sean and Brendan had never seen one, and they were enthralled. They wanted to learn the spinning technique, and the session finished with the top being given to them as a gift. These kids didn’t have much to begin with, and they gave away one of their precious items. We still have that top today, as a reminder of the kind-heartedness of these children.

We didn’t intend to stay long in Cortez, but we could see the boys were enjoying themselves and getting a lot out of the experience—not only for the activity but for the cultural exchange as well. We prolonged our stay for their benefit. Brendan’s normally reserved demeanor melted away while he was there. He was anxious to go on shore immediately after we finished our morning school lessons. On one occasion, he even insisted that he go without Sean, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Outside of the rules of baseball, we were intrigued as to how our boys communicated with the locals while playing. "Aren’t there sometimes disputes as to whether or not you are out during a play?" I questioned Sean and Brendan. "How do you know what they decide if you can’t understand what they’re saying?"

"Oh, that’s easy. They just go like this," and Brendan proceeded to make a sign of a hand slashing his throat. "Then we know we’re out." Ah. So simple, the language of baseball diplomacy!