opinion

I had been in the country for less than a year when a group of Panamanian students, all avid baseball fans, urged me to attend a local game.

As a boy, growing up in Los Angeles, California, my family lived within walking distance of the Coliseum. I was four years old when the Dodgers moved to the west coast from Brooklyn. My father, a baseball fanatic, thought he had died and gone to heaven. During the fours years the Dodgers played in the Coliseum --- as their stadium was being constructed in Chávez Ravine --- he didn’t miss a single home game, and I was always in tow. (Back then my father paid a quarter to sit in the bleachers, and I got in free.)

I arrived to the age of reason watching legends play: Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Johnny Podres, Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Tommy Davis, Willie Davis, Maury Wills, John Roseboro, Jim Gilliam, Ed Roebuck, Frank Howard and, my personal favorite, Wally Moon. I grew up believing that I was destined to play third base in a Dodger uniform.

Sadly, at the end of the 1960 season, the team played its last game in the Coliseum. In spite of this, I admit that Dodger Stadium --- where the team has played since 1961 --- is among the most beautiful places in the universe. In fact, I’ve asked my wife to sprinkle a portion of my ashes there, on the third base bag.

Although my introduction to baseball was glorious, I’m not a snob. I enjoy watching the sport played anywhere as long as it’s done with passion. Some of my fondest teenaged memories are of balmy afternoons in the stands of Granada, Nicaragua’s small stadium, watching béisbol. Thus, it was easy for the students to convince me to attend a Panamanian game.

Since my wife is not a fan, I went on this adventure alone. Being new to the city, the taxi ride seemed to take forever. We started to climb a deserted mountain road and I began to wonder if the driver knew where he was going when, suddenly, poised beautifully in a ravine, a stadium materialized. At once, the thrill of watching a well-played game of baseball started to course through my veins.

There wasn’t a soul at the box office, which I found surprising because it was a playoff game: Chiriqui against Herrera. I paid the $3.00 for preferred seating, presented my ticket at the entrance, and once inside the gates bought a soda and a bag of popcorn. I have to confess that the barren, unfinished lobby led me to question the condition of the rest of the stadium. Yet I’ve happily sat through games played in Nicaraguan cow pastures, so I was prepared for anything.

But I wasn’t ready for the scene that greeted me as I approached the end of the tunnel: a clear, pristine night; grass as green as green can get; loads of comfortable, empty seats; and a stadium that, in its architecture and interior layout, reminded me very much of my beloved Dodger Stadium. I had arrived in paradise.

The blissful view drew me like a magnet and, popcorn and soda in hand, I increased my pace. Then, the idyllic moment came to a crashing halt when a brute, probably in a rush to buy another beer before the first pitch, turned into the tunnel and bumped into me.

The popcorn went flying. Infuriated, I felt my hands tighten and begin to roll themselves up into fists. My blood pressure soared and just as I was preparing to hurl the best insults in my arsenal, I recognized the offender --- Roberto “Mano de Piedra” Durán, his face only inches from mine.

For those of you unfamiliar with the world of boxing, Roberto “Hand of Stone” Durán, in addition to being Panama’s most worshipped sport hero, is ranked among the top ten boxers of the twentieth century. Throughout his career, which spanned over thirty years, he won five titles in five different weight categories (including the Super-middleweight belt at age 49), and he left sixty-nine opponents flat on the canvas.

I remember watching several of his bouts, particularly those against Sugar Ray Leonard. Durán was a relentless and ferocious puncher. And I can still recall how the stare with which he fixed his opponents --- his eyes dark with rage and determination --- could make me, or anyone else, for that matter, shudder.

And here he was now, Roberto “Mano de Piedra” Durán, staring menacingly at me. What made matters worse: he looked much larger and seemed a thousand times meaner up close. A painful, piercing shiver ran down my back.

It’s a commonly held belief that before dying one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. In this case, that didn’t happen. Instead, everything moved in slow-motion, and in my mind I could hear the ring announcer shouting into the microphone: “And in this corner, the pathetic challenger, weighing more than he should and terribly out of shape --- Kid Silvio ‘About to Be Murdered’ Sirias.”

The insults that had been on the tip of my tongue dropped like leaded weights into the pit of my stomach. My hands --- once tense and ready to cause some damage --- became slack and weak, like a baby’s. And although I had every reason to be enraged at Roberto Durán’s carelessness, not to mention at the loss of my popcorn, I quickly stepped aside, and muttered:

“Disculpe, señor. It was entirely my fault. I’m so sorry I got in your way. That was very clumsy of me. Please, sir, go ahead.”

Roberto Durán grunted, “Gracias” (I think), and disappeared into the tunnel.

That night, while I repeatedly thanked God for sparing me, I divided my attention between the game and my discreet observations --- from a safe distance, of course --- of the antics of Mano de Piedra Durán, who sat behind the Herrera dugout and cheered wildly for the team.

The game was indeed exciting, going down to the wire with Herrera winning in the ninth inning thanks to a two-out, two-men-on, home run. And throughout those nine innings, just in case Roberto Durán ever glanced my way, I stood up and rooted for Herrera every time they scored a run.

Silvio Sirias, a writer, resides in Panama.  His most recent work, Bernardo and the Virgin, is available at Exedra Books.  For more information, visit his website at http://www.silviosirias.com

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