Baseball

It's been raining constantly here for more than two weeks, washing out highways and giving everyone cabin fever. As a result, the baseball playoffs have become a much-needed distraction from wet feet, not to mention mold. (The girls who live in the low-rent rooms in the back of my house are finding mold in their clothing and books -- my room is drier because it's more expensive -- I have a real ceiling.)

The locals are huge baseball fans. Most of them are rooting for the Red Sox because there's a Nicaraguan pitcher in Boston's farm system.

Last night at the bar I ended up at a table of Americans. I hadn't been around Americans in a long time and it was a pleasant surprise to be able to shoot the shit with some countrymen. Turns out I was sitting with two players in the Cleveland Indians organization (they're in AA) and a player-turned-coach, who was featured as one of Billy Bean's top prospects in the book, Moneyball. Ex-prospect's wife was there, too.

They're in town playing winter ball in Leon, and none of them speak Spanish. I had my hands full translating for them. Once the locals found out these guys were playing for their beloved team, they went a little nuts, saying things like, "This city depends on you," etc.

It was fun to get a professional perspective on the game. At one point a batter swung at a Papelbon fastball and missed, and I was like, "Oooh, nasty!" Pro says, "Uhh, that was a terrible pitch. Dude missed his spot by three feet." As Indians, they were furious when Kenny Lofton was held up at third base. I cheered very quietly for the Sox.

Anyway, they'll be in town for a few months and looks like I'll be going to lots of games. We're going to get a poker game going as well. It's about time I got some income.

The sun finally came out today and if the rain holds off, I'll get my bi-weekly basketball game in. I started playing pick-up games a few weeks ago and do pretty well against the local competition. It helps that there's always somebody my size to guard. The Americans are giants in comparison.

The Wedding

A couple of weeks ago we played a wedding at the Hotel El Convento, the fanciest place in town. (It used to be a convent, then squatters took over during the revolution, and it was rescued from oblivion a few years ago by one of the wealthiest local families, who also own the art museum.) The wedding was between a local fellow and an American, and the Americans kept telling us to turn the music down during the first set, but once they'd consumed enough liquor they got used to the noise (everything is overamplified here -- that's how the Nicas like it), they stopped complaining and tried to dance. To the left is our guitarist, Don Will, who brought me into the band. He teaches guitar lessons to the kids who live in my house. His sons are in one of the most popular rock bands in the country, and one of them, Lenin (yes, L-e-n-i-n), is taking English classes from me. Will's childhood girlfriend lives in San Francisco, and appropos of nothing, he loves to say to me, "Michael ... San Francisco ... mi amor," and kiss his fingertips.

John, the ex-Canadian, the organization behind the outfit. He teaches music at a private school in Managua to the children of foreign dignitaries, etc. On the road every morning at 4:30am, and on Fridays, when we perform, none of us get home before 2am. I'm not sure how he does it.

Salsa-ing. You can see that people dressed up. I bought new dress shoes for fifteen whole dollars. For some mysterious reason, our timbales player missed the memo (timbales are drums, but most of the time you hit the sides instead of the tops) and showed up in a green t-shirt -- he's just visible in the lower left-hand corner of photo #4. He tried to fit into one of my shirts, because I live across the street from the hotel, but despite being the same height, he's got a few pounds on me and he couldn't move his arms when the shirt was buttoned. Anyway, his green shirt -- "la camisa verde" -- is now infamous.





Another shotof Don Will. He's the big draw of the band -- the man knows how to milk a crowd. I have told him that my big regret with trumpet is that while I'm playing, I can't make the faces that he makes.