Kill the Ámpaya!

by Dick Cluster

  “Strike!” the umpire cried.

  AUT AT THIRD

  Vicente Leñero

  (Mexico)

  Vicente Leñero was born in Guadalajara in 1933 and died in Mexico City in 2011. Winner of Mexico’s National Arts and Sciences Prize in 2001, he was a journalist, dramatist, screenwriter, novelist, and editor. He was among the founders of the magazine Proceso. His eighteen screenplays include El crimen del Padre Amaro, nominated for the Oscar for Best Foreign Film in 2003. He was the coeditor, with Gerardo de la Torre, of Pisa y corre (Tagging Up), the 2005 pioneer anthology of Mexican baseball literature. Besides the play that follows, he wrote another one-act theater piece, El fílder de destino (Fielder of Destiny), in which a shortstop exiled to right field is addressed by the voices of a pair of poets as he pounds his glove and awaits the next fly ball.

  Characters:

  CHATO MÉNDEZ

  MANAGER

  CARMEN

  THIRD BASEMAN

  ÁMPAYA [Hereafter the stage directions will say umpire for ease of reading.]

  RUNNER (CHATO’s stunt double)

  Staging:

  Three different areas can be seen.

  •The area around third base on the ball field of a professional-league stadium. As if to isolate this area from the rest of the field, the lighting falls exclusively on the base, the chalk line dividing fair and foul territory, and the trodden dirt around the base, in which the third baseman moves. Home plate, which is invisible, would lie in the audience.

  •The corner of the players’ clubhouse within the stadium. A bench with no back, and lockers.

  •The corner of an apartment.

  The third base umpire, standing in foul territory, waits for the next play. We hear the sound of bat hitting ball. The motions of the third baseman and the umpire convey that the ball has landed safely in left center field, which cannot be seen. Seconds go by. The third baseman moves to cover the base. A base runner from the opposing team (who had been on first at the outset of the play) appears, running toward third. The baseman awaits the throw. The runner slides. The throw comes in from center field, a lightning throw, fast and strong, into the fielder’s glove. He lowers his glove to tag the sliding runner. It’s a close play. The umpire, with an emphatic gesture, unhesitatingly signals an out. The runner, CHATO MÉNDEZ, jumps up furiously.

  CHATO. He didn’t tag me! (Pause.) I slid in first, dammit. He didn’t touch me! (The umpire is impassive while CHATO angrily confronts him.) I was seif, dammit! Seif! Are you blind? He didn’t tag me! . . . What did they do, ump, bribe you? (The umpire gives CHATO a challenging look.) You crooked sonofa—. (He moves away, still furious.) It was clear as day. (Mumbles to himself.) Motherfuckers. (Pause.) Aut! That was no aut! He’s blind as a bat.

  The umpire moves away from CHATO and ignores his outburst. Convinced he won’t change the call, but still muttering protests, CHATO begins moving away from the base, his uniform stained with dirt from his slide. The lighting fades until the area disappears. CHATO proceeds toward the clubhouse bench. He flings his cap angrily into the distance and sits down. The MANAGER appears, an older man wearing the same uniform as CHATO. He’s very angry too. During the manager’s speeches, CHATO takes off his uniform and his spikes.

  MANAGER. I don’t believe it. I really don’t believe it! . . . Who the hell told you to go to third? . . . With two auts! . . . You were the tying run. You needed to hold up at second. And what did you do?

  CHATO. I was seif.

  MANAGER. Seif my ass. They had you cold. . . . Didn’t you look at the coach? Did the coach send you? . . . Why can’t you ever pay attention to me? What’s the third base coach there for? If he sends you, you go. If not, you stay put. . . . And he held his hands up, I saw him, to tell you to hold at second. . . . But no, you always have to be the hero. All of you.

  CHATO. I was seif.

  MANAGER. Sure you were! . . . The same old thing. Don’t I know it. Every time. You do something stupid, like you were playing all by yourselves, and then it’s the umpire’s fault. (Mimicking.) I was seif. . . . Shit! What a sorry excuse. Why do I break my ass teaching you how to play this fucking game? It’s useless. . . . And you above all, Chato. Making bonehead running plays on your own say-so like the coach is just painted there and I’m an idiot. . . . I don’t know what to do with you, I really don’t. (While he speaks, the third base area lights up again, but this time dimly, like a ghost scene. The earlier action on the field repeats. The sound of ball hitting bat, a sound of excitement from the crowd, and the third baseman going to cover the base. A runner—CHATO’s double—charges toward the base at full speed. He slides and is tagged out. The umpire makes the call. The light goes out. The MANAGER, without interruption, continues speaking.) You have to remember the score, how many times do I have to tell you! If we’ve got two auts and we’re in the ninth in a tie game, who the hell tries to take an extra base? What good is one fucking base? . . . The Mouse’s hit was short, you saw it, shallow in the outfield, almost a Texas Leaguer. On a hit like that you stop at second, you don’t even need the coach. Take it easy, stop at second, let Martinez knock you in. . . . Martínez is a lefty, did you even think about that? He was going to pull the ball. For sure. He’s hitting .302 and that pitcher couldn’t find the plate. It was obvious. And his slaider wasn’t breaking. (Pause.) The thing is, you never stop to think, Chato, and this game is played with your brain, not your balls. That’s what you never understand. You keep thinking like a country boy—if there’s a hit, run like a spooked mule. Very nice. And why? To show off? Now you see what that gets you, how the fuck do you look now?

  CHATO. I was seif.

  MANAGER. How can you say that, Chato? My God, even your own mother wouldn’t have called you seif. As soon as you rounded second, I said, “This guy is dead.” As a doornail. . . . The worst of it is, you knew what this game meant. What we needed was to get into extra innings. Then we’d have had it wrapped up. They would’ve needed a new pitcher, and the only arm they had left was that jerk Maldonado, who couldn’t get three straight auts even against Puebla. . . . We were in the middle of a rally, Chato. The tying run. Your run. You were it. Everything depended on you. . . . And that’s no good. It’s no good. You can’t do whatever you want. Run the bases on your slightest hunch. What am I supposed to . . . You can’t do this to your team. Or to your manager, either.

  CHATO. I took a chance because I thought I’d make it. . . . And I did make it. I was seif.

  MANAGER. If you say that again, you bastard, I’ll really fuck you up. So shut it. (A long silence. CHATO has finished undressing, he’s sitting on the bench in his shorts. Thinking. The MANAGER stays where he’s been standing, shaking his head until he begins speaking again. Lights come up on the third base area again, diffuse and ghostly. The action of the third baseman tagging CHATO repeats. In the middle of the play, the MANAGER resumes speaking.) Now we’re a whisker away from being eliminated. Screwed. . . . We’d need to sweep the Tecolotes, and for Puebla to beat the Tigers at least once. But that’s tough. The Tecolotes are on a roll. They’ve won six in a row, three of them shutouts. Two series sweeps. And that lefty, Esparza, is somebody to worry about. You knew that better than anybody, right? Didn’t he whiff you twice the last time? Or was it three times? However it was, he killed us that game, and with fastballs, nothing but fastballs, about a hundred twenty miles an hour. . . . Probably it’ll be him in the first game, that’s who Carmona will put on the mound—if we’re not already packing our bags, that is. (Pause.) I’m not saying we can’t beat them, sure we can beat them, we’ve got the best lineup in the league, look at the numbers, but we need to really want it. And not only that, but everybody’s got to do his job. Do his job, and no running the bases like today. Brains, not just guts. Brains and guts. That’s it, or curtains. We don’t make the playoffs, and next year, who knows? It’ll all be about contracts and salaries, and they’ll put us on a tight leash, I know that. . . . And why not? If we don’t even know how t
o run the bases, what can they expect from a team that should’ve been the best in the league? I’m telling you the truth.

  With his last words, the MANAGER leaves the clubhouse and disappears. While he’s been talking, CHATO has finished dressing in the clothes he’s pulled out of a locker: blue jeans, lightweight shoes, T-shirt, jacket. Pensive and depressed, he moves to the area in which some pieces of furniture suggest the apartment where he lives. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out a can of beer, and sits at a table. Time goes by. The third base area lights up again. The third baseman is ready for the pitch, the play, looking expectantly toward home. The umpire, too. Again the sound of ball hitting bat, a sound of excitement from the crowd, but the area suddenly goes dark, as if erased by the presence of CARMEN, who enters the space where CHATO has been sitting at the table drinking his beer from the can. CARMEN is a young woman, CHATO’s wife. She’s dressed and made up in preparation for going out.

  CARMEN. You’re home? I didn’t hear you. (CHATO looks up, though barely, and otherwise doesn’t move. CARMEN kisses him on the cheek, routinely.) How did it go? Okay? (She doesn’t wait for an answer.) I didn’t think I’d see you, because they called me from that company, Sicón. Señor Martínez Reza, remember? It sounds like they’ve decided, like they’re interested in the idea. Not just life insurance but cars, too. Amazing, don’t you think? Because if I can sell the car policies and the life insurance too, it’ll amount to . . . I’ve been working out the numbers. Something like twenty or thirty thousand, and to count on, I mean permanently. Just the annual renewals, that’s what makes this so good, like Josefina told me, I’m so glad I listened to her, because she knew what she was talking about. . . . And Martínez Reza promised to recommend me to another company that’s affiliated with theirs, an accounting firm, I think. Or else to their branch in Guadalajara which is expanding big-time. . . . If this works, we’ll go out and celebrate, right? Like we planned. (She looks at her watch, gets a bit of a shock.) Wow, I’m late. (She changes direction.) Oh, where’s my head? I forgot my purse. Where is it? What else am I forgetting? (CARMEN disappears toward the interior of the apartment. Diffuse and ghostly light comes up in the area around third base. Once more the play, the throw to the third baseman, the sliding runner, the umpire signaling an out. CARMEN returns with a purse before the action is done.) See you later, honey. (She kisses him quickly.) I’ll be back, not too late. I don’t think Martínez Reza will keep me long, but anyway I’ll call if I’m going to be later than I think. Be good. I’ll see you soon. (She stops a few steps short of the exit, turns toward CHATO.) Oh, listen. If Josefina calls, tell her I’m sorry; tell her I didn’t call her because I had the urgent appointment at Sicón. Explain it to her. And I’ll call her myself later. . . . And if my dad calls, I won’t be long, and we’re going to see him Sunday, like we planned, and he shouldn’t worry. . . . Thanks, honey. I’ll see you. And pray to God that this business works out. Cross your fingers. Bye.”

  CARMEN exits, not to return. CHATO remains seated at the table, sunk into himself, finishing his beer. Then, after a long time, he crushes the can in his hand. He stands up and remains standing while he looks toward the ball field. Lights come up on the field, now brightly and sharply as in the first scene. CHATO watches while the third baseman waits expectantly for the play and listens to the murmur of the crowd. The third baseman and the umpire follow the flight of an imaginary ball. The third baseman runs to cover his bag. At that moment, CHATO tosses his crumpled beer can into the distance and runs at full speed toward the base. The throw comes in from the outfield. The third baseman catches the ball and leans down toward CHATO who is sliding in, still very fast. It’s a close play. The umpire takes a few seconds to react. Still on the ground, CHATO looks up at the umpire. The umpire makes his decision and, with an emphatic gesture, signals the out. CHATO doesn’t protest this time. He gets up and walks slowly, head hanging, toward the audience.

  Blackout.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many writers, readers, and translators pitched in to help with my search for stories and my efforts to contact their authors. I would like to thank Rafael Acevedo, Félix Julio Alfonso, Arturo Arango, Norberto Codina, Mylene Fernández, Daniel García, Javier González, Javier Lasarte, José Negroni, Achy Obejas, Barbara Paschke, Gabriel Saxton-Ruíz, and Katherine Silver as well as the acquisitions librarians of the University of California at Berkeley for their Latin American collection and the interlibrary loan staff at the San Francisco Public Library for their excellent service.

  For their aid in pursuit of a publisher and early work on publicity I am grateful to Ellen Cassedy, Frances Dinkelspiel, Dan Fost, Tom Hallock, Andy Ross, and Joan Ryan. And, of course, to Robert Mandel and Irene Vilar for their belief in the book, as well as to Noel Parsons for careful copyediting.

  It was, as always, both fun and extremely helpful to try out several of the translations on colleagues in the Bay Area Literary Translators Working Group as well as to read them at the annual Café Latino sessions at the conference of the American Literary Translators Association. All the authors graciously bore with my questions and suggestions.

  Nancy Falk has been enthusiastic about this project from the beginning, as she has about so many of my other obsessions.

  FURTHER READING

  Complete novels, plays, or story collections by Vicente Leñero, Leonardo Padura, and Sergio Ramírez are available in English translation. Individual poems, stories, or plays by many of the other authors can be found in anthologies and periodicals. For baseball stories in particular, Ramírez’s earlier tales “The Centerfielder” and “The Perfect Game” are in his Stories (Readers International, 1986, trans. Nick Caistor), and Arturo Arango’s “Murder, According to My Mother-in-Law,” is in Achy Obejas’s collection Havana Noir (Akashic, 2011). Also in the crime fiction genre, the Cuban-Canadian novelist José Latour’s Havana World Series (Grove, 2005) is a casino heist caper set against the background of Mafia-run gambling on the 1958 Yankees-Braves series.

  For baseball fiction written in English by Latinos in the United States, see Robert Paul Moreira, Arriba Baseball! A Collection of Latino/a Baseball Fiction (VAO Publishing, 2013). In Spanish, the following anthologies are not easy to find but are well worth the trouble:

  Jonrón 600: Primer concurso de cuentos sobre el béisbol (Secretaría de Estado de Cultura, República Dominicana, 2008), and

  Círculo de espera: II concurso de cuentos sobre béisbol (Ediciones de Cultura, República Dominicana, 2012).

  Leñero, Vicente, and Gerardo de la Torre. Pisa y corre: Beisbol por escrito (Alfaguara, Mexico, 2005). Stories, poems, plays, and memoirs.

  Pacanins, Federico, ed. El libro del beisbol: Cien años de pelota en la literatura venezolana (El Nacional, 1998). Primarily essays, journalism, and poetry.

  Terry Valdespino, Miguel, and Francisco García González, eds. Escribas en el estadio: Cuentos cubanos de béisbol (Editorial Unicornio, 2007, 2012).

  On the history of Latin American baseball, in addition to the sources cited in the Introduction, some useful books in English are:

  Bjarkman, Peter. Baseball with a Latin Beat (McFarland, 1994).

  Gonzalez Echevarria, Roberto. The Pride of Havana: A History of Cuban Baseball (Oxford, 2001).