While Andrew amassed frequent ferry miles, I awaited the news of his passported return to mainland from the stands at the Rivas Professional Baseball stadium. In some ways, I was lucky that there was a double header scheduled during the wait, but as I was soon to find out this was also something a of a curse. A far superior team from Managua was in town. The hometown 9 received back-to-back bludgeonings at the hands of these out-of-towner mashers.
The most notable difference at the Nicaraguan baseball game (from the MLB) was the level of fan interaction with the game. There were probably only 8,000 spectators, yet when the opposing team called a conference on the mound, it sounded like 80,000. No matter if Rivas was down and out, a runner in scoring position meant the crowd was on their feet shouting and whistling. The fans were very passionate about their team.
The players performed as if they too were heavily investing in the contest. Two bench clearing scuffles occurred. Once, predictably when a Rivas pitcher beaned a Managua player to load the bases and a second time somewhat unexpectedly when a Managua player beat out a play at first with a contact-laden head first slide.
Perhaps my favorite part of the game, occurred while I was still in the parking lot. A group of 6 teens engulfed Randal seemingly trying to get the owner of a car with DC plates to pay for parking in the near empty lot. Most of teens extended their pointer and middle fingers and rapidly switched aim from their eyes to the bumper of the car, an indication that they would 'keep an eye on it.' I decided to go with the classic zero Spanish approach I'd been contemplating for run ins with law enforcement. I spoke loudly to the teens all in English without any acknowledgement that I understood their miming. I said things like, "Good day for Baseball!" and "You guys sure are excited!". I slowly pushed through the pack. This led to more frantic miming. When I returned to my car after the game, two boys ran over to sit on the bumper as if they had stood guard the whole game. Again, I made no acknowledgement that I understood their demands. This time however, I listened closely for the prices they were demanding. They started up around 50 Cordoba, but as I approached the car, one dropped the price tag to 20. I instantly became acutely aware of their demands and the radical discount offered. I honed in on the teen who offered me the reduction and made direct eye contact. I prompted him again with "Qunto?" Spanish for 'how much?'. He said 20 again to which I responded "No, no! That's too much!" He dropped it to 10. His friend then said 5. I acted even more confused by the discrepancy in price and burst out laughing. Several of boys who had rejoined the pack followed suit and erupted in giggles. The oldest boys who had continued to press for 50 throughout the entire dialogue flashed scowls to the discounters. I hopped into the car and drove off without paying for parking.
Haha, nice haggling!
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