*This is a letter I tried to send to some choice analysts who head up ESPN's high quality programming. Apparently none of them accept email from common folk. Lame. If you happen to be on speaking terms with Rick Reilly, Tony Kornheiser, Michael Wilbon, Joe Lunardi, or the rest of the gang, pass it on.
It’s the month of March. At home, spring is springing, and the chosen teams – the best of this season – are preparing themselves for the tournament. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Here, in my second home, its hot season. In the afternoon, the temperature routinely reaches 120 degrees. The harmattan winds have blown in the dust for the past few months, and now they’re spewing Saharan heat. I sweat through every minute of the day. It’s unquestionably the least wonderful time of the year.
I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, serving in The Gambia, a tiny West African country. I’ve been here for nearly two years – through two Christmases sans snow, two Thanksgivings without turkey, two birthdays but no gifts. But the hardest month to be here is March.
Knowing the basketball fervor that is sweeping the nation – MY nation – makes it harder to be here. There’s no electricity, no running water, much less internet or TV to keep me updated on basketball – I probably own one of only four basketballs in my whole region.
During March, I go to bed under the stars, dreaming of upsets and buzzer beaters. I roll out of my hammock in the morning, already sweating, and turn on my phone, desperate for sympathetic souls in America, or lucky volunteers in the capital, who may have texted to quench my thirst for news of multiple overtimes, freshman phenoms, and the underdog prevailing. These texts of a few hundred characters hardly capture the glorious celebrations and heart breaking defeats that epitomize every weekend in March.
When these beatific texts come, I rush inside my hut, grab some chalk from its rightful place tucked within the thatch in my roof, and fill in my homemade 7 foot x 4 foot bracket, gleaming proudly from the wall of my mud hut.
I have seen exactly zero NCAA basketball games this season. I have read exactly one basketball related magazine – a preseason edition that I perused in early February.
When you have literally no intel, no insight into who’s hot and who’s not, you have to consider other things to make your picks. For example… I killed a gigantic hairy spider right on top of Syracuse’s spot in the bracket. Do I take this as a sign of lackluster defense, or crushing offensive firepower? There’s a pitifully wilting candle nailed into the wall in the elite eight (where last year Florida floundered against those mighty Bulldogs). Do I take this as a sign of that quadrant’s drooping chances at making the final four? Or maybe I should ignore it – everything melts during hot season.
I’ve heard the statistics on a perfect bracket. I have no way to look them up right now, but I know perfect brackets are rare – perhaps even only a legend that has never actually happened. I’m sure the chances of getting a perfect bracket are like one in 212 trillion. (Right before sending this email, I looked it up – one in 9.2 quintillion… Oof)
So - bracketologists, former college players, scouts, and experts in general - I have a proposition to make. If I – Abby Adams: rural literacy volunteer, teacher trainer, and die hard college basketball supporter – compose a perfect bracket, I want you to put ME on ESPN. Not as an expert, or an analyst, but as the voice of one girl who listens to her gut. For one year, I ask to be treated like a SportsCenter anchor – go to games, give my thoughts, predictions, and proclaim my biases and prejudices as truths. Because if, with no experience or knowledge, I create a perfect bracket: maybe it’s meant to be.
After all, what are the odds?
Thank you very dangerously (as they say in the Gambia),
Abby Adams
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Redefining Man
Throw out everything you knew about men, manliness, and the kingdom of manhood.
Meet the men among men of the Gambia – wrestlers.
While some men are muscle bound, tall men with chiseled arms, it’s not a necessity. There were tiny sixteen-year-old-looking twigs who commanded the same amount of respect as the mighty men.
Manly men wear flannel; they wear jeans; they wear something to show their chest hair. But not here in the Gambia. Here, the shorter your skirt, the skimpier the shorts, and the more colorful and shiny your spandex, the manlier you are.
When manly men want to fight, they glare at each other, perhaps shove each other, and maybe pass some gruff and angry words to their opponent. Here in the Gambia, to indicate you want to fight, you approach another man, grab his belt, and pull your loins together. Manly.
As a sign of the fight about to begin, boxers and wrestlers will shake hands or knock gloves. Here in the Gambia, you gaze at your opponents eyes, and walk purposefully and swiftly towards them. As soon as you get within reach, you bend down and dip your hands into the dust, never straying from your rival’s eyes. Then, hands full of dust, you gently stroke your dusty hands down the chest of the one you are about to fight. It’s on.
When manly men celebrate a win, they leap in the air, they pump their fists, they roar ferociously. Here in the Gambia, the manliest of men who wins a match gets his four traveling minstrels, and he slowly does a jig around the arena.
When a manly man gets in injury, as in a scorpion bite (which we actually witnessed), they screw up their faces, grimace, wrap it, and get back out to the field. Here in the Gambia, the men writhe on the ground, and call over the village marabout, who proceeds to rub the injury and chant prayers and spells over it, until he’s carried out of the arena.
Manly men drink Gatorade for the electrolytes. Here in the Gambia, they drink a tea made by boiling the roots of a magic tree.
Manly men proclaim their arrival to the arena with lights, clouds of smoke, screaming fans, intense concentration, and occasional a ripping off of their oversized warm ups. Here in the Gambia, they enter the arena accompanied by shrill whistles, walking proudly beneath a banner bearing no words, but made of a sheer pink fabric overlaid with shiny golden hearts.
Manly men play until one victor prevails. They will fight to the death, hoping to be the one remaining – the best of the best. Here in the Gambia, they don’t push it. They will battle as long as it pleases them, but as soon as someone says, “I’m tired” in their language of choice, the signal is given to everyone. It’s over.
Meet the men among men of the Gambia – wrestlers.
While some men are muscle bound, tall men with chiseled arms, it’s not a necessity. There were tiny sixteen-year-old-looking twigs who commanded the same amount of respect as the mighty men.
Manly men wear flannel; they wear jeans; they wear something to show their chest hair. But not here in the Gambia. Here, the shorter your skirt, the skimpier the shorts, and the more colorful and shiny your spandex, the manlier you are.
When manly men want to fight, they glare at each other, perhaps shove each other, and maybe pass some gruff and angry words to their opponent. Here in the Gambia, to indicate you want to fight, you approach another man, grab his belt, and pull your loins together. Manly.
As a sign of the fight about to begin, boxers and wrestlers will shake hands or knock gloves. Here in the Gambia, you gaze at your opponents eyes, and walk purposefully and swiftly towards them. As soon as you get within reach, you bend down and dip your hands into the dust, never straying from your rival’s eyes. Then, hands full of dust, you gently stroke your dusty hands down the chest of the one you are about to fight. It’s on.
When manly men celebrate a win, they leap in the air, they pump their fists, they roar ferociously. Here in the Gambia, the manliest of men who wins a match gets his four traveling minstrels, and he slowly does a jig around the arena.
When a manly man gets in injury, as in a scorpion bite (which we actually witnessed), they screw up their faces, grimace, wrap it, and get back out to the field. Here in the Gambia, the men writhe on the ground, and call over the village marabout, who proceeds to rub the injury and chant prayers and spells over it, until he’s carried out of the arena.
Manly men drink Gatorade for the electrolytes. Here in the Gambia, they drink a tea made by boiling the roots of a magic tree.
Manly men proclaim their arrival to the arena with lights, clouds of smoke, screaming fans, intense concentration, and occasional a ripping off of their oversized warm ups. Here in the Gambia, they enter the arena accompanied by shrill whistles, walking proudly beneath a banner bearing no words, but made of a sheer pink fabric overlaid with shiny golden hearts.
Manly men play until one victor prevails. They will fight to the death, hoping to be the one remaining – the best of the best. Here in the Gambia, they don’t push it. They will battle as long as it pleases them, but as soon as someone says, “I’m tired” in their language of choice, the signal is given to everyone. It’s over.
How a Village Celebrates a Birthday
When I first came to village, I asked my host grandma how old she was. She responded, “Oh, Abby… I’m at least 120.”
I then asked a grade nine student how old he thought she was, and he said, “Probably like 100.”
It’s an accomplishment here if you know the year you were born, much less the day and month. So, needless to say, birthdays are not seen as a very important day in the course of a year.
Last year, I told people it was my birthday, expecting some sort of reaction. They responded with either confusion that I would recognize such a day as different than any other, or apathy.
This year, I told no one about the anniversary of my birth. I decided to use it as a test to see if there’s some sort of benevolent birthday spirit out there whose job it is to make sure birthdays rock.
On the eve of my birthday, I got two pre-birthday delights. 1. They extended the traditional wrestling contest for another day, so I got to watch not two, but THREE days of wrestling. 2. We had domoda for dinner.
Maybe the birthday spirits got the days mixed up. The actual day of glory was not nearly as good as birthday eve. I arrived at school in the morning, to be greeted at the gate by a guard armed with a giant, antique looking rifle/machine gun. Turns out I was born on pay day, because the money truck was there to deliver the teachers their salaries. Armed guard surrounded by 400 young students – just another day in the Gambia!
I’d been planning a trip to Senegal with one of my friends. We were going to go to Dakar, stay with a family we knew there, eat ice cream and go to the beach, while we waited for our visas for our later trip to Ghana, Benin, and Togo. I got word at about ten in the morning that because of Senegalese election/demonstrations/corruption, all travel to Dakar is forbidden. Thus, my week break was also cancelled. Thus, and most devastatingly, our trip to Ghana and Benin may also be impossible.
To make up for this, the birthday spirits must have had some mercy on me, because they brought domoda for lunch… but this happens every Tuesday.
Mail run had come in the middle of February, and I had saved three packages for birthday presents. Because of this, I had cake and ice cream on my birthday (oreo cakesters and ice cream sandwich flavored snack packs). I got enough calories and sugar to last weeks and weeks and weeks. So basically, I had a birthday like every eight year old wishes for: Candy, cake, ice cream, and not much else.
I then asked a grade nine student how old he thought she was, and he said, “Probably like 100.”
It’s an accomplishment here if you know the year you were born, much less the day and month. So, needless to say, birthdays are not seen as a very important day in the course of a year.
Last year, I told people it was my birthday, expecting some sort of reaction. They responded with either confusion that I would recognize such a day as different than any other, or apathy.
This year, I told no one about the anniversary of my birth. I decided to use it as a test to see if there’s some sort of benevolent birthday spirit out there whose job it is to make sure birthdays rock.
On the eve of my birthday, I got two pre-birthday delights. 1. They extended the traditional wrestling contest for another day, so I got to watch not two, but THREE days of wrestling. 2. We had domoda for dinner.
Maybe the birthday spirits got the days mixed up. The actual day of glory was not nearly as good as birthday eve. I arrived at school in the morning, to be greeted at the gate by a guard armed with a giant, antique looking rifle/machine gun. Turns out I was born on pay day, because the money truck was there to deliver the teachers their salaries. Armed guard surrounded by 400 young students – just another day in the Gambia!
I’d been planning a trip to Senegal with one of my friends. We were going to go to Dakar, stay with a family we knew there, eat ice cream and go to the beach, while we waited for our visas for our later trip to Ghana, Benin, and Togo. I got word at about ten in the morning that because of Senegalese election/demonstrations/corruption, all travel to Dakar is forbidden. Thus, my week break was also cancelled. Thus, and most devastatingly, our trip to Ghana and Benin may also be impossible.
To make up for this, the birthday spirits must have had some mercy on me, because they brought domoda for lunch… but this happens every Tuesday.
Mail run had come in the middle of February, and I had saved three packages for birthday presents. Because of this, I had cake and ice cream on my birthday (oreo cakesters and ice cream sandwich flavored snack packs). I got enough calories and sugar to last weeks and weeks and weeks. So basically, I had a birthday like every eight year old wishes for: Candy, cake, ice cream, and not much else.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Soon Soon
The time is rapidly approaching when I will no longer call a hut my home.
The time is coming where I will not announce I have to go to the bathroom, and then walk outside of the house.
Soon I will habitually eat at a table… with a fork and a knife…
This is the last year in which my birthday will mean that hot season has reared its ugly, sweaty head.
In a mere five months, I will close my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer and start my career as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer.
But it’s not here yet. It’s probably safe to send packages for the next two months or so, but if you feel a great desire to show your love for me after that, you can shower me with gifts and or Chipotle when I get home. If you have things you’ve been LONGING to send me for a while but never got around to it, get around to it. Time is short.
So you’re probably asking, what does Abby need? And the answer is not much. Anything tangible that you send me I’ll probably either have to send back home after Peace Corps is finished and before I start my epic African trek, or I’ll have to put it in the notorious free pile in the transit house. Anything edible and delicious is welcome, but not necessary. Drink mixes are also welcome, but again, not necessary. If you feel you MUST send me something, what I’d really love is something to make me laugh REALLY hard.
Also, high paying, fun jobs in America are highly welcome.
The time is coming where I will not announce I have to go to the bathroom, and then walk outside of the house.
Soon I will habitually eat at a table… with a fork and a knife…
This is the last year in which my birthday will mean that hot season has reared its ugly, sweaty head.
In a mere five months, I will close my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer and start my career as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer.
But it’s not here yet. It’s probably safe to send packages for the next two months or so, but if you feel a great desire to show your love for me after that, you can shower me with gifts and or Chipotle when I get home. If you have things you’ve been LONGING to send me for a while but never got around to it, get around to it. Time is short.
So you’re probably asking, what does Abby need? And the answer is not much. Anything tangible that you send me I’ll probably either have to send back home after Peace Corps is finished and before I start my epic African trek, or I’ll have to put it in the notorious free pile in the transit house. Anything edible and delicious is welcome, but not necessary. Drink mixes are also welcome, but again, not necessary. If you feel you MUST send me something, what I’d really love is something to make me laugh REALLY hard.
Also, high paying, fun jobs in America are highly welcome.
Parents in the Gambia Mad Lib
When the Adams’ get together in a tiny West African country, you know there are going to be some stories. Obviously, where a story is to be had, a blog must be written. But how to comprehensively communicate two weeks of Adams antics into one blog post? I had to cull the information somehow, so I am mad-lib style picking and choosing.
I sat in a room of Peace Corps volunteers and asked each person for one adjective. For each adjective, I will describe a time when that adjective was epitomized. Like, “It was so _______________ when…”
Here we go.
It was so quality when my parents first approached my house. I’ve painted an alphabet on the wall and let kids draw all over it. Upon seeing the tiny one room hut, my mom first said, “Is that the school?” My dad approached the side of the house, where I’ve written the numbers in Mandinka, and started reading the numbers 1-10 phonetically. My host family’s first impression of my American family was my dad speaking Mandinka. Half of the women had their eyes pop from their head, and said, “YOUR DAD KNOWS MANDINKA?!?!” I loved that they assumed that, but I also think it’s so quality that the women in my village had no idea what reading even is. I’ve written their names for them before and they have copied them, but this was the first time they had ever seen reading in action. Quality.
It was so stupendous when I first heard the names of my parents’ chickens. I still am in shock and am STILL laughing at the pride they exhibited when telling me the tales of their seven adopted feathered children, named Rebound, Why Not, Cleo, Tony, Hester, Buffy, and Sheila. How things have changed… Stu-pen-dous.
It was so serendipitous when we were looking for three people to fill a sept plas, and then three weary Peace Corps volunteers from Burkina Faso arrived at the car park, sleep deprived, disoriented, and ready to jet to Basse. Because of this, there were no prayer stops, no people spitting out the window, no language confusion on whether the window should be up or down, no pungent fish sandwiches invading the car. Serendipitous.
It was so cold every night while my family was here. I slept outside in my hammock and allowed my parents the joy of sleeping in my sagging, flattened, bamboo and foam bed. Before bed every night, I would put on two long sleeved shirts, a sweater, and then bring every sheet and blanket from my home and snuggle against the harmattan winds of the West African cold season. Cold.
It was so slimy when I touched a hippo at Baboon Island.
I didn’t actually touch a hippo at Baboon Island, but I did see A LOT and if I did touch one, I bet it’d be slimy.
It was so jolly to see my dad at the WAIST softball tournament. Brought back old memories of the Bike Trek softball team in sixth grade, with dad yelling, “Get on your horse, Abby!” or “DUCKS ON THE POND!” Plus, one of my friends was talking about my dad umping the game, and said, “No one could be intimidated by him. He looks like Santa.” Jolly.
It was so fluffy when… this one is hard. I’ll come back to it.
It was so fortuitous when, after spending a night in a scary place with no light and only a creepy wooden bed in a room, the Medical Research Council had an available fully furnished apartment with hot water that could have been taken directly from toubabadou and transplanted to the Gambia. I took three hot showers in 24 hours, and mom and dad slept much better that night. Fortuitous.
It was so flamboyant the way my dad greeted people. In the Gambia, the greetings last forever. You just keep going - how’s your mom? How’s your body? Where are the children? How’s your step brother’s dog? Did you wake in peace? You woke up? You came outside? You’re standing? Despite their proclivity for over-greeting, my dad out-greeted them all. In Kombo, most people that greet white people are trying to get something from them and will probably be annoying (sorry, it’s cynical but it’s true). But dad took their greetings and then machine gunned twelve more back at them. A dude would say how are you, and the answer you should ALWAYS give is “fine”. But dad came back with, “oh, we’re doing pretty well this morning, hope your day is going well, we’re just headed over to Bakau to eat some food but we’re not sure where to eat, what do you think?” Even the Gambian was overwhelmed with the thorough-ness of his response. Flamboyant.
It was so hilarious when mom had the guy come and clean our room two times because she thought the splatters of concrete were poop, and the dude cleaning proclaimed, “That is not a poop.” It was also hilarious when I went up to dad at WAIST on the sidelines of an exciting game. He had his headphones on a la Steve Bartman, and I was pretty sure the consolation game for the competitive league of a tournament in Dakar didn’t have commentators. I asked him what he was listening to, and he said, “WHAT?” He was obviously listening to whatever it was very loudly. I took out one of his earbugs and asked again. He replied matter-of-factly, “Muslim chants.” I took the earbuds from him and put them in my own ears and sure enough – the blasting off pitch chants of a far away imam – “Alllaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar. Alllaaaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar.” HILARIOUS.
Back to fluffy. I felt all fluffy seeing my family again after a long hiatus, knowing they cared enough to come and see where i live and what i'm doing and they're willing to get out of their comfort zone, out of the adjacent zone, and then through to a zone of discomfort that doesn't even border their comfort zone. They're strong and I'm proud that they did it. Fluffy.
I sat in a room of Peace Corps volunteers and asked each person for one adjective. For each adjective, I will describe a time when that adjective was epitomized. Like, “It was so _______________ when…”
Here we go.
It was so quality when my parents first approached my house. I’ve painted an alphabet on the wall and let kids draw all over it. Upon seeing the tiny one room hut, my mom first said, “Is that the school?” My dad approached the side of the house, where I’ve written the numbers in Mandinka, and started reading the numbers 1-10 phonetically. My host family’s first impression of my American family was my dad speaking Mandinka. Half of the women had their eyes pop from their head, and said, “YOUR DAD KNOWS MANDINKA?!?!” I loved that they assumed that, but I also think it’s so quality that the women in my village had no idea what reading even is. I’ve written their names for them before and they have copied them, but this was the first time they had ever seen reading in action. Quality.
It was so stupendous when I first heard the names of my parents’ chickens. I still am in shock and am STILL laughing at the pride they exhibited when telling me the tales of their seven adopted feathered children, named Rebound, Why Not, Cleo, Tony, Hester, Buffy, and Sheila. How things have changed… Stu-pen-dous.
It was so serendipitous when we were looking for three people to fill a sept plas, and then three weary Peace Corps volunteers from Burkina Faso arrived at the car park, sleep deprived, disoriented, and ready to jet to Basse. Because of this, there were no prayer stops, no people spitting out the window, no language confusion on whether the window should be up or down, no pungent fish sandwiches invading the car. Serendipitous.
It was so cold every night while my family was here. I slept outside in my hammock and allowed my parents the joy of sleeping in my sagging, flattened, bamboo and foam bed. Before bed every night, I would put on two long sleeved shirts, a sweater, and then bring every sheet and blanket from my home and snuggle against the harmattan winds of the West African cold season. Cold.
It was so slimy when I touched a hippo at Baboon Island.
I didn’t actually touch a hippo at Baboon Island, but I did see A LOT and if I did touch one, I bet it’d be slimy.
It was so jolly to see my dad at the WAIST softball tournament. Brought back old memories of the Bike Trek softball team in sixth grade, with dad yelling, “Get on your horse, Abby!” or “DUCKS ON THE POND!” Plus, one of my friends was talking about my dad umping the game, and said, “No one could be intimidated by him. He looks like Santa.” Jolly.
It was so fluffy when… this one is hard. I’ll come back to it.
It was so fortuitous when, after spending a night in a scary place with no light and only a creepy wooden bed in a room, the Medical Research Council had an available fully furnished apartment with hot water that could have been taken directly from toubabadou and transplanted to the Gambia. I took three hot showers in 24 hours, and mom and dad slept much better that night. Fortuitous.
It was so flamboyant the way my dad greeted people. In the Gambia, the greetings last forever. You just keep going - how’s your mom? How’s your body? Where are the children? How’s your step brother’s dog? Did you wake in peace? You woke up? You came outside? You’re standing? Despite their proclivity for over-greeting, my dad out-greeted them all. In Kombo, most people that greet white people are trying to get something from them and will probably be annoying (sorry, it’s cynical but it’s true). But dad took their greetings and then machine gunned twelve more back at them. A dude would say how are you, and the answer you should ALWAYS give is “fine”. But dad came back with, “oh, we’re doing pretty well this morning, hope your day is going well, we’re just headed over to Bakau to eat some food but we’re not sure where to eat, what do you think?” Even the Gambian was overwhelmed with the thorough-ness of his response. Flamboyant.
It was so hilarious when mom had the guy come and clean our room two times because she thought the splatters of concrete were poop, and the dude cleaning proclaimed, “That is not a poop.” It was also hilarious when I went up to dad at WAIST on the sidelines of an exciting game. He had his headphones on a la Steve Bartman, and I was pretty sure the consolation game for the competitive league of a tournament in Dakar didn’t have commentators. I asked him what he was listening to, and he said, “WHAT?” He was obviously listening to whatever it was very loudly. I took out one of his earbugs and asked again. He replied matter-of-factly, “Muslim chants.” I took the earbuds from him and put them in my own ears and sure enough – the blasting off pitch chants of a far away imam – “Alllaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar. Alllaaaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar.” HILARIOUS.
Back to fluffy. I felt all fluffy seeing my family again after a long hiatus, knowing they cared enough to come and see where i live and what i'm doing and they're willing to get out of their comfort zone, out of the adjacent zone, and then through to a zone of discomfort that doesn't even border their comfort zone. They're strong and I'm proud that they did it. Fluffy.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
SOFTBALL IN SENEGAL? A guest blog by Ben Adams
I had a great seat at the finale of the West African International Softball Tournament (WAIST) organized by the Peace Corps volunteers. Teams from the individual countries, including my daughter Abby’s Gambian team, and other NGOs compete for honor and glory and try not to slice open a leg while running bases on a dusty cindery infield.
After the social league final in which Abby, in a losing effort, smashed a couple of RBI singles (yes I have photos!), I settled into a folding chair along the first base line to watch the grand finale of the most competitive league. The finalists were a team from the US Embassy staff and a team from Senegal. The US team was made up of 30-40 somethings, serious and sober, a little gray on the edges with a few guys sporting cleats and stirrupped pants from their old stateside softball leagues. Team Senegal was a group of very tall, athletic men who had clearly taken to America’s game. Their pitcher wore black rimmed glasses and serious demeanor looking very much like a young Malcolm X.
The game started with a bang as the USA big boppers flexed their muscles launching several high arching never-coming-back-to-earth blasts that gave them a large early lead. One blast deep into the right field corner, just shy of the fence, had a pair of Senegalese security guards scurrying out of the way none too happy having their naps interrupted.
Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.
In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.
The Senegalese showed great fielding skills – their shortstop/2nd base combo made plays that would make a Dominican scout nod in approval. There were some eccentricities: the first baseman would always flop to dirt on any throw from the infield leaving him seemingly followed by a low Pigpen-like dust cloud. The outfielders didn’t bother squaring up when handling a ground hit but used an unusual underhand submariner throwing motion to get the ball back to the infield – unorthodox but effective.
As the Muslim rhythms filled my head, it became clear that the game was tied and the Senegalese, batting last, needed one run to win! I silenced imam’s teachings and sat forward to let the drama unfold. Man on second, 2 outs!
I need to point out that in this type of softball, there are 2 home plates: one for the pitched ball and catcher, and a second one where runners make runs. I’m sure this is to prevent the consequences of home plate collisions that anyone of a certain age hearing the name Ray Fosse or Buster Posey will understand. Hey it is 2012 – just check YouTube for “Fosse Rose collision” or “Posey injury”.
So here we go – a line single to left center, running blazing around 3rd leaving a conical red trail of dust, a strong throw home, and the ump twists his hands together and yells “OUT!”
In this soccer crazed country, the protocol of protesting a bad call is set by what you seen at the World Cup – the entire Senegal bench launched out on the field, incredulous, arms flailed like a kid playing airplane, and then, surrounding the ump and each raising his index finger in a windshield wiper motion as if shouting “No Way”. The ump, who was another of these gray templed Yanks from the losing semifinal team, admirably held his ground and as fast as the fury of protest started – it stopped.
Play was resumed with the Yanks up to bat. Each player was dreaming of blasting the lead homer but the bodies were not willing – long deep flied to left, center, right all just short of reaching the black mesh netting that meant “homer”.
So the Senegalese dramatics were repeated – same scenario for the single hitters. But this time the runner scored from 2nd easily for the winning run. And the celebration began as the fans surround the players on the mound and the women broke into a dance and somewhere there was drumming. Congrats from the humbled Yanks and great goodwill preserved.
Next should have been a feast of cheeseburgers, corn-on-the-cob and beer swapping stories and comparing bruises - but I guess the Peace Corps budget can’t handle that. Instead, after trophies, everyone drifted off to various Dakar destinations. As I looked back on the field I could still see a cloud of dust, now orange in the late afternoon sun, hanging over the pitcher’s mound.
It was a good day for softball, for international understanding, a good day for all.
After the social league final in which Abby, in a losing effort, smashed a couple of RBI singles (yes I have photos!), I settled into a folding chair along the first base line to watch the grand finale of the most competitive league. The finalists were a team from the US Embassy staff and a team from Senegal. The US team was made up of 30-40 somethings, serious and sober, a little gray on the edges with a few guys sporting cleats and stirrupped pants from their old stateside softball leagues. Team Senegal was a group of very tall, athletic men who had clearly taken to America’s game. Their pitcher wore black rimmed glasses and serious demeanor looking very much like a young Malcolm X.
The game started with a bang as the USA big boppers flexed their muscles launching several high arching never-coming-back-to-earth blasts that gave them a large early lead. One blast deep into the right field corner, just shy of the fence, had a pair of Senegalese security guards scurrying out of the way none too happy having their naps interrupted.
Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.
In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.
The Senegalese showed great fielding skills – their shortstop/2nd base combo made plays that would make a Dominican scout nod in approval. There were some eccentricities: the first baseman would always flop to dirt on any throw from the infield leaving him seemingly followed by a low Pigpen-like dust cloud. The outfielders didn’t bother squaring up when handling a ground hit but used an unusual underhand submariner throwing motion to get the ball back to the infield – unorthodox but effective.
As the Muslim rhythms filled my head, it became clear that the game was tied and the Senegalese, batting last, needed one run to win! I silenced imam’s teachings and sat forward to let the drama unfold. Man on second, 2 outs!
I need to point out that in this type of softball, there are 2 home plates: one for the pitched ball and catcher, and a second one where runners make runs. I’m sure this is to prevent the consequences of home plate collisions that anyone of a certain age hearing the name Ray Fosse or Buster Posey will understand. Hey it is 2012 – just check YouTube for “Fosse Rose collision” or “Posey injury”.
So here we go – a line single to left center, running blazing around 3rd leaving a conical red trail of dust, a strong throw home, and the ump twists his hands together and yells “OUT!”
In this soccer crazed country, the protocol of protesting a bad call is set by what you seen at the World Cup – the entire Senegal bench launched out on the field, incredulous, arms flailed like a kid playing airplane, and then, surrounding the ump and each raising his index finger in a windshield wiper motion as if shouting “No Way”. The ump, who was another of these gray templed Yanks from the losing semifinal team, admirably held his ground and as fast as the fury of protest started – it stopped.
Play was resumed with the Yanks up to bat. Each player was dreaming of blasting the lead homer but the bodies were not willing – long deep flied to left, center, right all just short of reaching the black mesh netting that meant “homer”.
So the Senegalese dramatics were repeated – same scenario for the single hitters. But this time the runner scored from 2nd easily for the winning run. And the celebration began as the fans surround the players on the mound and the women broke into a dance and somewhere there was drumming. Congrats from the humbled Yanks and great goodwill preserved.
Next should have been a feast of cheeseburgers, corn-on-the-cob and beer swapping stories and comparing bruises - but I guess the Peace Corps budget can’t handle that. Instead, after trophies, everyone drifted off to various Dakar destinations. As I looked back on the field I could still see a cloud of dust, now orange in the late afternoon sun, hanging over the pitcher’s mound.
It was a good day for softball, for international understanding, a good day for all.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
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