I am very encouraged about President Obama’s recent remarks about purposeful travel to Cuba. The measures are designed to increase people-to-people contact – Americans to Cubans. I’ve long held the opinion that one of the best ways for the planet to heal is for people to meet people from other countries. Break down the assumptions and learn that – on the whole – they’re just like us.

On my first visit to Cuba, I’d watched two boys playing “marble” on a sidewalk.  While American boys obsess with their World Wrestling Rumblers Blast & Bash Battle Ring, Hot Wheels Video Racer and Micro Madnetics Turbo Tester, I watched these two young boys squatting on a cracked sidewalk playing intently with just two marbles – only one of which wasn’t chipped.  On another street, boys played stickball with a homemade beanbag as their “ball” and a piece of construction lumber for a bat.

I made a mental note . . . I knew what I’d bring with me on my next visit.  Which I hope, is soon.

The Baseball Boys of Havana

Four boys, probably 10 years old, play ball in a street in Old Havana on a steamy Saturday afternoon in early May. The centuries-old apartments where they live were once elegant and lovely. Now they are crowded and crumbling. Much like a Depression-era scene, the boys play stickball with a length of construction lumber and a “ball” fashioned from a dirty rag filled with rice – or possibly black beans – staples of the Cuban diet.

I watch from a distance, soaking in the scene and their unadulterated joy.

“Unadulterated.” What a revealing adjective for some of life’s most precious moments! But I digress.

 

Traffic doesn’t interrupt their street game. When the infrequent vehicle passes by, it’s either a classic American car from the 40s or 50s or a rattling, Russian relic. Old ladies look down from weathered balconies on upper floors. Men smoke fat cigars on steps in front of their buildings. Everywhere, laundry is hung from clotheslines, fluttering gently in the breeze.

I’m in no hurry. I have an hour or so before I must go back to the hotel to shower and change for dinner. Leaning against a building on the shady side of the street, I watch the boys play and wait for the opportune moment.

Taking turns, each boy takes a mighty swing at the beanbag lobbed by the pitcher. Predictably, the other two “fielders” don’t see much action. Finally, a hit! The bean-ball plops on the street just a few yards in front of me. A skinny, shirtless boy approaches to retrieve it. His wire-rimmed glasses are crooked and bent.

I make eye contact. “Hola. Como se llama?”  (Sadly, this is about the extent of my Spanish.)

Shyly, he replies, “Rodolfo.”

I reach into my bag and pull out a neon green tennis ball. I watch his expression change from puzzlement to delight as I hold it out toward him. He hesitates, but grabs the ball just before his friends arrive on the scene. Predictably, there is a scuffle.

They freeze at the sound of a stern male voice. From the doorway behind me, a man admonishes the boys in a universal tone that I understand – even if I don’t know the language.

I hold up my camera and they line up to pose for a photo. The bespectacled boy flashes an especially wide grin as he proudly holds the tennis ball like a trophy.

They crowd around me to see the image on my little digital screen.  Then they rush back to their game with fresh energy. No question – those fielders will see a lot more action from now on!