Mario Mendoza Aizpuru: The child of Spike

Mario Mendoza Aizpuru: The child of Spike

  Elia Casillas

If anything was left over the river, were stones, just what he needed for his hits. He quickly hurried, the creek was waiting. A stick bat would often do it, in that wasteland there was no risk of the house crystals. The sound of water making bubbles on feet and hands, bird’s singing were coming from the air, along with murmurs of insects and plants surviving the cold, seducing them. He was in love with the place where nature made his great variety of greens, in contrast with the rich brown earth and stones of different grays. In the distance, a glow that could not be located caught his attention; approaching slowly he came, and...? A spike shoe! A baseball shoe with hooks facing the sun, a spike just lying there on the ground. He turned his head to all sides, wanted to be sure he was the only owner now. He found it, didn’t he? Or rather they’ve found each other, his own now, because sometimes life leaves the motive so close for each of us to take our chances, that opportunity was his, he well understood it. Reached out for it and before putting it on he looked around again, was afraid some kid would come up and snatch it from him. It fits right in, it was as if it was sent out from heaven, he looked up and thanked God. While his foot was entering the spike shoe, he heard screams and applauses, slowly raised up his face and ... He was in a Baseball Stadium! Out of nowhere a park full of fans appeared! He had never played in such freshly cut grass, white lines were well delineated in the field, and the pads were brand new, or so it seemed to him. Bewildered, he turned around and around again, his sight was not enough to record such an event like this, he was in shock for an instant, thought he was dreaming, his small hands rubbed his eyes several times, but no. No, no, this was real. In a breath of air, there were two teams, and soon he noticed he was wearing a brand new uniform of Chihuahua State, his homeland, the city where he was born, his coat and arms today. At last a virgin wooden bat, he couldn’t believe it, the only wood he’d seen before up close, was through the window of a shop downtown. He searched for the creek again, and it was no more, now a baseball field was there with him on the field, wearing a baseball uniform. But only had one spike to play and was his turn on the plate, among the audience he saw his parents and siblings, encouraging him. Its name in the voice of the announcer was another emotion that made him shiver:
-Next at bat, Mario Mendoza!
He settled into the hitting zone, apparently nobody noticed he was wearing only one spike shoe, but him. when the pitcher settle in, he strengthen his feet with his single spike hitting on the ground, the ball came glaring and whistling and he hit it hard. The ball went right between the shortstop and third base, crawling in the grass, bounced back off the wall. He got to first base, inspired by the run kept on going sliding feet first into second base. He owned it, the spike touched the pad but the umpire called him out. Removing the dust, he began to argue about the ruling. All he had fought for was useless, he was out of the game and that’s how it was stated in the book that day. On the sheet of his personal history, that morning had a great meaning for him, he belonged to a stadium, to a land and a grass bound to him as daily bread, as a favorite prayer, that place was his other skin, and in the end, he knew baseball was his purest love. He went to the dugout with his usual sailing walk, was ejected out and neither manager or couches got to calm him down to keep him on the game. On his way out he looked down at his spike and his other foot, dry, sad, so vulnerable as himself in the merciless midwinter cutting through flesh. But that morning he had a spike, at first sight, he was an immensely fortunate child. He always dreamed on having baseball shoes, he had a spike now, and this was enough for him, since he had only rocks, logs, agile hands and bare feet. However, when he arrived at the dugout no one could console him for the suspension, he removed the spike shoe, his only shoe, his dearest relic, and ... he was alone again in the river, sitting on the largest local stone, with the spike on his hand. He thought that all was just a dream, a fantasy he’d lived for a moment. A field can not appear and disappear just like that, with no time to save trophies and pictures. Where would the played game be? The arguing? The expulsion? The shouts and cheers of the supporting family? Where does the lived life go? - he wonders-. At that moment he was convinced that everything was blooming in a garden of illusions, a garden giving to him by a dream, a dream which would tie him eternally to discipline and hard work. He would not lose the feeling of playing time for the rest of his life. He placed the spike shoe between the jacket and his agitated heartbeats, fearful of meeting the owner of it, the jewel that the river had given him and no one was going to take away. When he got home, wrapped the spike shoe in newspaper paper and put it under his bed, still in doubts he went to his mother and asked her:

-Mom, have you gone out today?

- Oh Mario! Where do you want me to go with all the clothes I have to wash, yours, and your brothers. Go, take the boiled corn to grind it, your father is almost here and I have to do many tortillas for today and tomorrow's breakfast. After that, you go to the store and buy a candle bait, to heal the wounds of those hands.

-Yes Mom ...

-Son, I don’t know how much time you lose playing baseball, I don’t know what will become of your life, you keep on playing and playing and talking to yourself. Look at your feet and hands, all cut and cold. I hope someday baseball gives you to eat.

When he came back from the store a doubt was squeezing his stomach, he went to check the place where the spike shoe was hidden and was calm only when he had it again. He was afraid this could also be a mirage, one of many he had in the river, that rocky and lonely land where baseball was his only companion, right there, where he was the visiting team, and the local team, the rival and the friend, he and his best antagonist, his favorite ghost, perfect elf visions. At the time, felt the spike and pulled it out the dark, immediately put it on... Then again the voices and applauses, he covered his eyes leaving just a gap between his fingers to see what was happening. Amazed he moved his hands away. He was in a Baseball Stadium again! His body had grown now, and he was the team short stop for a major baseball team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. Today more than ever, the candle bait his mother used to cure his cold cuts have made the miracle, giving him finesse, as if a worm had prodigiously silked fabric with his hands. His hands, moving pigeons in the field with elegant movements and accuracy, making the hard look simple; a long communion between his hands and his baseball glove. The field straight out of a storybook, the shiny seats, the green grass looking its best, the pads so much like the first ones and so different too, these ones of a much better quality. The place was immense. When his name was mentioned by the local sound, astounded he heard it the ball park. This time his fans were Americans, people with a different language united to him by a sport, Baseball! Incredulous, he checked again his equipment ... wore a pair of spike shoes, clean and shiny, never would be barefoot again in a stadium. The spike shoes were as if they were sent out from heaven, he looked up and thanked God.

Navojoa, Sonora. October 23rd, 2005