Winter League Escapades: Dispatches from Ballparks in the Dominican Republic

Santiago, La Romana, and San Cristobal were quiet, less densely populated cities with few paved roads. Their stadiums were among only a handful of places where I felt a strong sense of community. In the grandstands people knew one another, partook in shared traditions, felt connected to the community, and felt a sense of belonging to something greater than themselves. I found the atmosphere stimulating and deeply relaxing.

In Santiago, the Dominican Republic's second largest city, weeds grew tall between buildings and along cracks in the pavement. There were no tall buildings, no thriving commercial districts, no tourists. After checking in at a dingy, mosquito-infested motel near Aguilas Cibao Stadium, I accompanied the owner, a big, burly, unshaven man in his forties, to that afternoon's game. On the grounds, we merged with the crowd of vendors, scalpers, customers, and bystanders. Women wearing bonnets protected themselves from the sun with black umbrellas. My companion approached several scalpers and tried to bargain. Realizing they were holding firm in their prices, he said to one, "OK. Two tickets," and walked away, leaving me to pay. My companion was abrasive, crude, and unresponsive to my attempts at dialogue. He had tried to overcharge me at the motel and backed off only after I had pointed to the spray-painted rates on the wall behind the check-in counter. But I didn't feel unsafe in his presence. When he had announced at the hotel that he was also planning to go to the game, I judged from the intent look in his face that he was a fan.

In front of the gate, he leaned his weight on my shoulder, slipping a flask of rum into his right sock. We entered the left-field bleachers. The benches there were splintered, the sun strong. My companion asked me for one peso, went off to find a vendor, and returned with an orange and two lemonade slushes. After sitting down he removed rum from his sock and poured some in both cups. I sipped. "Why do you keep the rum in your sock?" I asked.

He looked both ways then whispered, "Stadium police."

He handed me half of an orange.

Black umbrellas dotted the stands. Some women with children clinging tightly to their waists held huge, shade-producing, tropical leaves over their heads. Children in our section were jumping onto the field in the left-field corner and climbing into a hole in the fence of the grandstand along the third baseline. Two security guards watched from foldable chairs in the bullpen but did nothing.

Once the game started the crowd turned quiet, as if mellowed by the hot sun. Aguilas kept the crowd quiet, falling behind by several runs. My companion talked and laughed with neighbors. He said to me that it had once been his dream to play in this stadium. "This stopped me," he said, pointing to the flask, which was back in his sock. He seemed unremorseful, for the moment, springing up and heading down several rows to share his rum and mingle.

Minutes later, Aguilas's left fielder dove and made a catch and suddenly people were jumping up and down, whooping, as Aguilas came to bat. As Aguilas's players began slapping base hits, my companion returned to his seat, pouring rum into my cup then winking, as if to assure me that Dominican rum would have a positive effect. With each hit the crowd grew more festive. In the left-field grandstand, fans shook the fence, seemingly in the cadence of a merengue song. During a pitcher's conference, they faced into the crowd. Someone in one of the first few rows lofted an orange into the crowd above. There was a hush; then thousands of oranges were lofted. The grandstands parted down the middle with fans taking cover, oranges bouncing off of umbrellas, some escaping onto the field.

My companion was among many in our section who looked on, at first with amusement, then with concern, as an orange war erupted in the right-field grandstands. A few oranges landed in our...