against the jar, the pinpricks of light reflecting softly on the scuffed baseball.
When they returned to Courteguay after their first season away it was the baseball fields that seemed to have changed the most. What they remembered as smooth, angora-like surfaces, were highly uneven and filled with hummocks, every step of the outfield an adventure. They had never realized that the grass was not shaved daily with mowers, in fact it never occurred to them to think of the grass at all.
On a cool, green evening some father or uncle, or neighbor, would be loitering on the sidelines, smoking, watching the game, when he would notice the grass was above ankle height. He’d smile slowly and produce, seemingly from nowhere, a scythe, and take one turn across the farthest arc of the outfield where if there had been a fence it would have stood. On the far side of the field he’d toss his cutting implement to another man, or one would be waiting with his own machete glittering in the orange spill of sunset.
And the fields were smaller than they remembered. Courteguay was smaller than they remembered; Julio recalled the first time he ever saw a map of the world and realized Courteguay was not only smaller than a postage stamp it was smaller than half a postage stamp, about the same size as the moon on his thumbnail, a crescent-shaped fragment cut from Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
Everything was small, even Fernandella was not the giant-sized mother they remembered. The boys were startled to find how small and almost frail she was, and their father was thin with bad teeth and a furtive air about him — which was about how they remembered him. And the Wizard … only the Wizard remained larger than life, slicing down out of the sky, silent as a bird of prey, appearing out of nowhere in his spangled costume, part harlequin, part prophet, part priest.
But though the baseball fields were smaller, shabbier, their players less skilled than they remembered, the urchins of the green remainedunchanged, as shadowy, as dreamy as always, and the languorous game went on from sunup to sunset, year after grassy-green year.
School for the urchins of the green had been a sometime thing, sometimes they attended on days when rain made baseball impossible. Uninspired teachers, some missionaries, some local people bewitched by the teachings of missionaries, held classes in humid church halls or basements, or in open air when the weather was fine. Students used the fine, ochre-colored dust as a slate, drawing letters, adding sums by scraping in the earth with a stick.
Then Eugenio Martindale arrived, a black man from Miami, heavy-bellied now, but formerly an athlete, a former outfielder who had made it as far as Double-A ball in the United States.
He chanced by one of the perpetual baseball games and his anthracite face glistened with sweat just watching the urchins of the green engage in their eternal baseball game. He became excited by what he saw in Julio and Esteban, coming forward to offer advice and coaching to the cinnamon-skinned Pimental brothers.
“How many of you know how to calculate your batting averages?” he asked the boys, hoping to induce them toward education by offering something they would desire.
“Courteguayan boys are born with that knowledge,” assured Julio, “ ERAS also. Esteban and I were a battery before we were born. My ERA in the womb was 2.04.”
Eugenio discovered that in spite of Julio’s statements only a fraction of the boys shared his and Esteban’s knowledge, and that notwithstanding their ability to calculate statistics, neither could read more than a few words. Eugenio produced from a scarred leather briefcase a sheet of newsprint that held magic as an educational tool. He taught them all to read and write using Major League box scores first from the
Miami Herald
and later local box scores from the commercial leagues. At his own expense he had score sheets printed and refused to let a boy play
When they returned to Courteguay after their first season away it was the baseball fields that seemed to have changed the most. What they remembered as smooth, angora-like surfaces, were highly uneven and filled with hummocks, every step of the outfield an adventure. They had never realized that the grass was not shaved daily with mowers, in fact it never occurred to them to think of the grass at all.
On a cool, green evening some father or uncle, or neighbor, would be loitering on the sidelines, smoking, watching the game, when he would notice the grass was above ankle height. He’d smile slowly and produce, seemingly from nowhere, a scythe, and take one turn across the farthest arc of the outfield where if there had been a fence it would have stood. On the far side of the field he’d toss his cutting implement to another man, or one would be waiting with his own machete glittering in the orange spill of sunset.
And the fields were smaller than they remembered. Courteguay was smaller than they remembered; Julio recalled the first time he ever saw a map of the world and realized Courteguay was not only smaller than a postage stamp it was smaller than half a postage stamp, about the same size as the moon on his thumbnail, a crescent-shaped fragment cut from Haiti and the Dominican Republic.
Everything was small, even Fernandella was not the giant-sized mother they remembered. The boys were startled to find how small and almost frail she was, and their father was thin with bad teeth and a furtive air about him — which was about how they remembered him. And the Wizard … only the Wizard remained larger than life, slicing down out of the sky, silent as a bird of prey, appearing out of nowhere in his spangled costume, part harlequin, part prophet, part priest.
But though the baseball fields were smaller, shabbier, their players less skilled than they remembered, the urchins of the green remainedunchanged, as shadowy, as dreamy as always, and the languorous game went on from sunup to sunset, year after grassy-green year.
School for the urchins of the green had been a sometime thing, sometimes they attended on days when rain made baseball impossible. Uninspired teachers, some missionaries, some local people bewitched by the teachings of missionaries, held classes in humid church halls or basements, or in open air when the weather was fine. Students used the fine, ochre-colored dust as a slate, drawing letters, adding sums by scraping in the earth with a stick.
Then Eugenio Martindale arrived, a black man from Miami, heavy-bellied now, but formerly an athlete, a former outfielder who had made it as far as Double-A ball in the United States.
He chanced by one of the perpetual baseball games and his anthracite face glistened with sweat just watching the urchins of the green engage in their eternal baseball game. He became excited by what he saw in Julio and Esteban, coming forward to offer advice and coaching to the cinnamon-skinned Pimental brothers.
“How many of you know how to calculate your batting averages?” he asked the boys, hoping to induce them toward education by offering something they would desire.
“Courteguayan boys are born with that knowledge,” assured Julio, “ ERAS also. Esteban and I were a battery before we were born. My ERA in the womb was 2.04.”
Eugenio discovered that in spite of Julio’s statements only a fraction of the boys shared his and Esteban’s knowledge, and that notwithstanding their ability to calculate statistics, neither could read more than a few words. Eugenio produced from a scarred leather briefcase a sheet of newsprint that held magic as an educational tool. He taught them all to read and write using Major League box scores first from the
Miami Herald
and later local box scores from the commercial leagues. At his own expense he had score sheets printed and refused to let a boy play
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