When we were in the Uber on the way to the stadium to see Venezuela play against the Dominican Republic in the World Baseball Classicthe Cuban driver asked us where we came from.
“Hello, Venezuela“He had told us when he got into his car. But when he heard us talk, he knew that, like him, we had not returned home for a long time.
Very critical of the Cuban team, already eliminated at that time by Canada. “Politics does not allow the best to play“he said. Then he said that he had been a third baseman and pitcher until an injury took him out of the national baseball series at age 21. A year later he arrived in Miami. 30 years later he is not used to “the gringos” or to living only to work.
We told him that we lived in the west of Canada and that, although we had become nationalized, we could not support any team other than the Venezuelan one. “You are where you were born,” he said. He repeated five times that he was counting the days until he returned to the island.
The Uber dropped us off a 10-minute walk from the Loan Depot Park. On both sidewalks they sold replicas of uniforms, flags, caps and pins. There were kebabs and hot dogs. Smoke, oil and mess, accordingly.
In the stadium parking lot there were some cars with their suitcases open and merengue blaring. People with charrascas and dancing. We had forgotten that we were in USA.
Return to the University
This was not the first time we got on a plane to watch baseball, which, for us, who live so far away and in a city that is only interested in hockey, is a way of remembering a familiar language (balls and strikes). We’ve been to the Blue Jays stadium but our pulse hasn’t gotten our pulse racing like this. We have never found an atmosphere like the one created in Miami for the Classic; It seemed like we had returned to Caracas and the University Stadium.
We knew, while standing in line to enter the stadium, that the rival fans surpassed us in numbers and decibels. Cramped together, in a procession towards the only available access, Venezuelans and Dominicans repeated that they had been waiting three years for this revenge game (Venezuela won the duel in the 2023 Classic and lost all the previous ones).
A Dominican couple who flew in from New Jersey was sitting next to us. They believed they were favorites for the title, but they said that they had to be careful with Acuña and they were amazed by Daniel Palencia.
Fast in the game, Dominican He went up on the scoreboard and so did his bar. “And now?” another group of Dominicans sitting further down asked in chorus, the charrasca playing, each time their team increased its lead.
As the last out fell, they chanted “I ate arepa” “It’s chercha,” they told me a couple of times, to clarify that it was all in jest, nothing personal or intended to offend. They said goodbye with hugs, handshakes and a smile. I felt that regardless of the result, and for coming from so far away, those of us who went to that game were grateful simply to see so many stars together. That game paid for the trip.
We returned home thinking that the Ohtani Japanwho has already won the tournament three times, was going to eliminate us in the quarterfinals and the Dominicans’ desire to eat arepa and sushi was going to be fulfilled; We still believed they could beat the gringos.
Since we have a nervous dog, we couldn’t effusively celebrate Ronald Acuña Jr’s home run or the comeback in the sixth inning. When Ohtani’s out fell we looked at each other in disbelief and we hug.
After that setback, for the semifinal match against Italy, which was played again at dinner time, I was superstitious. We rearranged the entire dining table to see him, again, sitting next to each other, not facing each other as usual.
Until the eighth inning, I thought it was a bad idea and that it was going to be my fault if we were out.
The ghost of other vinotintos lurked. But the team came back. Punches in the air, suppressed screams, muffled celebration. All for our dog. We watched the game against the United States on the couch; The confusion of being in the final of something made us forget the Kabbalah.
I still can’t believe that Venezuela played the best game of their lives to the selection of a country that says it protects us. That after decades of disappearances, losses, separations, horrors, frustrations, that team has reminded us that good things can happen to us. That’s why, when Palencia struck out the last batter, I couldn’t stop watching that video, we cried. Pride, it’s a shame there’s no one here to show it off to, it still hasn’t gone away.
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