There are a lot of things the American tourist doesn’t expect to find in Argentina. Country music concerts, for example, are not exactly printed on the front of Buenos Aires tourism guides. Peanut butter and Mexican food are other North American comforts that come to mind. On the top of that list, however, would have to be baseball. Everybody knows that flying down south means waving goodbye to crackerjacks, homeruns and seventh-inning stretches.
Somebody forgot to tell that to the Shankees. Led by Coach Paul Perry and Captain John Harris, the Shankees are a force to be reckoned with in the Liga Metropolitana de Beisbol (Metropolitan Baseball League) here in BA. Its participants include mostly expats and visitors from the United States, people who refused to leave their national pastime in the US. Founded just months ago, while watching a Phillies-Dodgers game over beers at the Alamo, the Shankees have already moved their way into the upper echelon of teams in the league. I was lucky enough to join them during their heated game against rival Cuba, a match that would likely decide who got first place in the final tournament.
The first thing that surprised me when I met up with the team, other than the red caps and the team bus, was how calm all the players were. There was a hint of nervousness in the air, but it never spilled over into panic. The powerful Cubans, whose only loss up until then was by forfeit, had beaten the Shankees all four times the teams had played previously. This was easily the biggest game in the history of the Shankees’ franchise, a chance to prove all their hard work was worth it and show their doubters that it could be done. Yet, even as the bus slowly made its way down the highway, just minutes before the scheduled first pitch, the atmosphere remained tranquil, jovial even.
The team was passing around cookies, smoking cigarettes out the window and marveling at the large bottle of whiskey meant for after the game (win or lose). But anyone looking for a friendly game of Sunday softball would be better off looking somewhere else. The Shankees are real athletes, many former high school and college players, and championships are no small matter. Many of them, including Canadian Adam Webb, admitted to having played through nagging injuries this inaugural season. Sure, there were jokes and tales of the night before, but in between you could see a focused concentration in each of their eyes.
Finally getting to the stadium offered another surprise. Not far from Ezeiza International Airport, Estadio Nacional was much more than I had expected. The field was in good condition, the fence was at a nearly professional distance, there were stands along the base paths and behind homeplate, a real scoreboard hung over the outfield. The concession stand that sold delicious hamburgers, and 7-pesos liters of beer almost made me forget the ballparks back north. As I took my seat and got ready to watch the game, I was happy to have found a little piece of home, albeit with an Argentine twist.
The atmosphere was electric, though admittedly this was mostly because of the fans on the Cubans’ side. They had fans of all ages, from babies to grandmas, and had come prepared with air horns, drums, and a bottle of champagne to celebrate what they expected to be an easy victory. The men screamed and the women danced (easily worth the price of admission), cheering on their team and giving the Shankees all the more reasons to want to shut them up. Finally, the umpires, who demanded to be paid before the first pitch, signaled for the game to start. The championship was on.
The Shankees got on the board first, with a bases-loaded walk drawn by “Checito,” the only Argentine on the team. With a crisp defense and a few lucky breaks, they were quietly controlling the game. Coach Perry, who exuded confidence from his leather fanny pack and Don Mattingly mustache, barked orders at his players and complaints at the umpires, who were doing their very best Naked Gun impressions. The pitcher, Andrew Terry, stood as an imposing barrier against the potent Cuban offense. He worked his way out of a bases-loaded jam in the first, and progressed on his way to a seven-strikeout day. When the Cubans went ahead 2-1 on a bases-loaded single, the flag-waving and dancing began again.
The game went back and forth for the first few innings. As the sun began to near the horizon, the Shankees seemed like they were again taking control. A seemingly game-saving catch by leftfielder David Beaton, followed by a run-scoring wild pitch by the Cuban pitcher, helped the Shankees build a 6-4 lead. Momentum was certainly on the Shankees’s side, as the Cuban players were screaming at each other on the field. This stark contrast to the tight-knit chemistry of the Shankees dugout gave the audience a good idea of where this game could be heading.
That’s when, for lack of a better phrase, all hell broke loose. Keanu Reeves, in the 2000 film “The Replacements,” once talked about “quicksand,” when one athlete’s mistake leads to another, and another, and yet another, until the whole team feels like it is sinking together. It is a common occurrence in the world of sports, and this time it happened to our beloved Shankees. Numerous mistakes and bad breaks lead to a disastrous inning, with the Cubans surging ahead 13-6. The Shankees were unable to recover, and in the end it was the Cubans running around the bases and celebrating with their dancing fans.
Both teams showed great sportsmanship, shaking hands after the game. The Cubans then shared their celebratory bottle of rum, and the music began playing once again. The Shankees laughed and took sips from the celebratory bottle, lamenting certain calls and wondering what would have happened if a few balls had bounced their way.
Back on the team bus, the Shankees looked tired, but not dead. They congratulated each other on a good effort, and passed around the whiskey like they had promised before the game. Losing was tough, but the fraternity of the team was able to lessen the blow. Slightly less jubilant was Coach Perry, who couldn’t get that one terrible inning out of his mind. I tried to console him by showing him how far the team had come, that this was only the team’s first real tournament, that in only a few months they have worked their way to near the top of the league. He quietly agreed, then returned to his son, who was wearing his own Shankees uniform with pride.
On the outside of Estadio Nacional, it is written: No se puede robar secundo base con los pies en primera base. You can’t steal second with your feet on first. This loss is certainly just the beginning for the Shankees, who will one day be the ones smiling at home.
Sam Ginsburg
LPBA Staff
