This appears in the Monday March 1 edition of the Business Mirror.
The Field
words and pictures by rick olivares
The Sto. Niño Playgrounds in Sto. Niño, Marikina is where baseball dreams go to live and die.
The land on which the baseball and softball field belongs to a rich man who lent the grounds because he has nothing better to do with it. The man who manages the field drives around in a scooter organizing tournaments while early a fraction of a pittance to keep the game alive. The man who takes care of the field is paid four thousand smackers every month. There are hookers who make that amount and more in a night. It’s no way to live but if one lives frugally then he has everything he needs in the world.
The field has no history after all, it’s only been in existence for 13 years. At least not like the stadium located along Vito Cruz where guys like the Babe and the Iron Horse blasted dingers over the outfield porch. The field has so many prints from cleats and it’s just apt that they’ve come from the nameless and the faceless who live to play another country’s pastime.
The grass isn’t mowed and weeds sprout here, there, and everywhere. The dugout is enclosed by nylon mesh and in the bleachers that squats a stone’s throw away reeks of piss, beer, and a bad case of someone not being able to hold down their alcohol.
And speaking of piss when the players need to relieve themselves, there are portalets nearby that charge three to seven bucks. But you wonder if it’s a relief to enter one as it sits under a red-hot sun with suspect maintenance.
On game days, a play-by-play announcer uses a karaoke system to broadcast the game. It sounds ridiculous when his voice echoes with every spoken word. Is this AM radio?
Over the years, the various associations of the sport have engaged in a form of bitter internecine feuding over control, cash, and accusations of corruption. Here in Sto. Niño, they want no part of that. “Play ball!” is the watchword here.
Some outside group came over and offered to put up a local team to play Singapore’s best baseball players. The organizers were asking PhP 85,000 per child. Like these are kids from the rich enclaves. So parents borrowed money, pulled out their life’s savings, and borrowed some more just to send their kids abroad. When they got to Singapore, they were playing kids pulled out of God knows where wearing tee shirts. “We’ve been scammed!” were their collective thoughts. Another group organized a six-nation tournament. Except that the teams were from the Republic of Sto. Niño, the Republic of San Mateo and blah.
The former town mayor who is now running for the highest office in the land, all he does is make speeches. His sole contribution to the growth of baseball and softball is to paint the railings, the bleachers, the benches, and the fences pink. This is a baseball field. And give more speeches. One time, a team from Japan played an exhibition match against a collegiate team and before the game started, the former mayor showed up to give a speech. One Japanese player was so thrilled. He thought the guy talking to them was Mr. Bean.
One time, a generous sponsor donated over 300 baseball gloves so that the kids from Sto. Niño would learn to play the game. Instead, in the hands of some local officials, they were being hawked in the nearby markets.
A team of kids from Cavite came over here to stay overnight for a game. They brought tahong for lunch and more tahong for supper. Another team, this one from Tondo brought with them tuyo for lunch and more tuyo for dinner. The playgrounds’ managers took pity on them, took away those more tahong and more tuyo and replaced it with chicken, beef, and quick cook pancit canton. It’s ordinary fare for most folk but here it’s a feast. Said the manager, “You have to put some meat in those bones, boy. How are you going to be a baseball player when the bat is bigger than your arms?”
The field isn’t the best by any standard. The ground isn’t even and the grass is well, wild grass. If an infielder is not careful, that grounder that’s rolling towards him might just bounce up right into his kisser. And it doesn’t get any easier for the outfielders. The ground is uneven and one could trip all over himself. A routine flyout could turn into a base hit and an error.
Oh, the local folks love to watch a game of baseball or softball when it’s on but if you ask them what an RBI is they’ll probably tell you that they love eating Spare RIBS. A hit and a run? Means some unlucky dude got salvaged. The only thing the wags, oldtimers, and people who fill the stands understand is that when a batter hit the ball then he better run like hell lest he get thrown out. Anyone gets thrown out or strikes out, he’ll hear it from the crowd. Even some famous actor who is a long-time endorser of a local brand of shirts and briefs got it. “Amoy kang brief!” cackled one heckler. The actor smiled. The crowd laughed and applauded. Hey, it’s all in good fun.
The distance between the outfield wall and home plate is straight away 300 feet. Short by Major League Baseball standards. Not many players have hit one out of the field except for this American from one of the local international schools who nearly had one except it was a foot short. Nevertheless, the playgrounds’ management tell the nearby homeowners not to park their cars around the perimeter on game days just to be sure. There used to be safety nets in the outfield but as soon as they’re put up, it won’t be long before someone steals them.
The players also have to beware of twisters or ipo ipos from the dust parking lot. No one has an advantage because a base runner could miss stepping on a base, a pitcher could bean the umpire, or worse, the dust will muddy up the Coleman some fool forgot to cover.
The field is just beside the Marikina River that is a good twenty feet down. During Typhoon Ondoy, the waters swelled up to 30 feet deep. And by the time it cleared, it left mud on the field that was two feet deep. Volunteers, baseball players, and barangay tanods helped clear the field. Many sporting venues have seen great battles. Here in Sto. Niño, the field is battle-scarred and a survivor.
But still players come – college teams, Japanese teams, Australian teams, and Korean teams. Why do they play in a field that is so far from their own that it’s like descending into baseball hell?
Baseball for sure, isn’t the only game in town. The Marikina Sports Complex is nearby. The field here was in the scheming and gleaming eyes of real estate developers until Ondoy happened.
There’s a purity to it here. The community watches and has embraced the sport. Sure the rent is cheap and sometimes it’s even free. The people cheer, heckle, and enjoy the game making for a fiesta atmosphere.
And this is where baseball dreams live and die.
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