by Colin Hyde

I had set up the notes for this piece, for the softball nationals in late August, but you know this Belize, never a dull week, and something intruded and pushed it back. Some parts of this piece I’ve told before, but minus a few intriguing details.

I became involved in softball in my village in the 1990s after a young team had risen to dominance, and there was need to strengthen the management, and the traditional leadership mi di cut style. As we all know since PM Briceño baldly declared it, we are not overloaded with finished talent. There was a vacuum, and wherever there’s one of those around, I will step forward.

The manager of the club, my now deceased church sister, Mrs. Neal, had helped me greatly when I ran summer camps in the village. She needed a helping hand, and I was willing for whatever job needed to be done. She had a talented field staff, and I filled in whenever they were late for practice or didn’t show up, which was often. It takes some financing to run a team, especially if you are out to win, which we were, so the fundraising is another area where I helped out. The Perdomos of Belizean Rum and Duurly’s fame traditionally sponsored Camalote with uniforms, and a few gears, which were much appreciated, but it takes a lot more to make it through the season, and to make a splash in the annual national tournaments, the Nationals and the Sir Andie’s Cup.

In the late 1990s, softball was playing at the level it was in the glory days. Esperanza Wolverines, Camalote Esso Tigers, and Roaring Creek Grace Kennedy had won national championships in the early 1990s, and then Independence United came along and they would flat out dominate for three years. Belize City, led by the Hall of Fame’s Ray Lashley and Greg Moguel, weren’t about allowing the villages to dominate, so they had recruited and built formidable clubs. In the 1990s Belize didn’t have the kind of dominance it had in the 60s and 70s regionally, and I say that is because Central America had caught up with us, not because we had fallen off.

Our girls, Camalote Duurly’s Cristal, were doing very well; in fact, we were 8 and 0 in the local league and had clinched the title with two games left, when I approached the manager to suggest that since we were in such a dominant position, we could dictate some changes in the structure of the league for the benefit of all. I told the manager we should call for a 3-game playoff.

I didn’t have to make the suggestion twice. She absolutely knew she was taking a risk, but as a perennial softball manager Mrs. Neal knew firsthand the difficulty of raising funds to sponsor her teams, and I know she believed in her girls, that they were the best. The managements of the other clubs, with nothing to lose, readily agreed, and so the Cayo League had its very first playoff series.

We sailed to a 10 and 0 record, with RC Grace Kennedy coming in second. The runner-up was no pushover. They had an international-caliber pitcher, Josephine Meighan; an international-caliber left fielder who could tayr the stuffings out of the ball, Laura Davis; and some fine young talent that in a couple years would become All-Belize fixtures.

The first game was in Camalote, the home field advantage belonging to us. I wasn’t used to having discussions with the girls, but that afternoon I asked Mrs. Neal for a space to have my say. After I finished my very short exhortation, for them to blow out RC, well, some time ago I told you what happened next. Our shortstop, Bridgette Flowers Fuller, one of the best players Belize has ever produced, one of the world’s awesome talents, of any era, had the respect of her teammates and, and a very playful side. After I’d had my say, she stood up and sweetly declared that that blowout I had hoped for that afternoon wasn’t in the cards. No, Missa Kalin, she said, dis wahn be wahn bohnaz, one to nothing.

There’s paid-to-battle speeches to girls from boys. From the reception of Bridgette’s quip, I knew they were all in on that wicked, nerve-fraying plan. I don’t think they gave a thought to little old me, cared not that I was squirming, cared not for me after I had worked so hard for them.

Our team had no holes on defense, none, and our pitcher, Kenisha Sutherland, was in the midst of the most dominant three months of her sterling All-Belize career. They got their run very early. And they absolutely didn’t want to score more. That afternoon Kenisha had RC like taffi.

We had a tragedy in the village mid-week. Villages are clannish, a story about friends and family. All the girls were at the wake on Saturday night. We lost in RC on Sunday. I completely don’t remember the game.

So, we had asked for a best-of-three playoff series, and there would be a third game. The manager, her field coaches, and her girls seemed very confident going into that rubber match. But I was very uncomfortable. Momentum is a hell of a thing. No matter who you are, it cuts your spunk when you lose, and after their victory RC had gained confidence. I was especially nervous because I knew the fact that they were playing a third game for the title, when if not for the “manager” they would have already won, would prey on their minds and could even cause a fracture in their unity. If there were bad undercurrents before the third game I didn’t know, because I kept my corner after I had gotten cheeked off.

The third game was played before a packed crowd at the Denbeigh Fuller Stadium in Camalote. Our girls were on top of their game, but the breaks went RC’s way. Still, going into the top of the seventh inning we were ahead, 4-3. The three outs wouldn’t come easy. RC got a runner to third with two outs. If the batter at the plate scratched out any kind of hit, we would be tied. Should I describe what was going on with me at this time? I desperately needed a drink.

If the game had gone into extra innings, and we lost, my manager would have been on a very hot seat. I had prompted her, but she had to make the decision to go for the playoffs. I don’t need any cilice when I let down. I flat out don’t know how to forgive myself. Of course, it was a good financial and entertainment decision to seize the opportunity to introduce a playoff format—but in the moment no one cared about money or fun.

The batter hit a slow grounder toward the hole between short and third. Bridget charged and collected it. She had a rifle, and her aim was as true as David’s. The race between the ball and the fleet runner to first base was bang-bang, from my vantage and with my poor eyes a photo finish.

There’s a microscope on all umpires, and it’s at the highest magnification when he/she is from the home team. Umpiring is a labor of love, the pay being far from sufficient to salve the abuse that goes with the territory. If you’re going to be an arbiter you have to be like London, you have to be able to “take it.” Most of the umpires in the league were from Camalote, the sole reason for that being that the other villages didn’t provide any. The man behind the plate that afternoon was Mr. Westby, from Belmopan. All the other umpires were from Camalote.

In that moment, when the ball and the runner arrived at first base, every breath in the stadium froze, and every eye in the stadium was on the hands of the first base umpire, Trekka Casey. You can imagine the joy in a household when an incorrigible drunk parent finds Jesus and declares for Alcoholics Anonymous. Trekka’s right hand, with his fist clenched and his thumb sticking out, flew upward. Out! Game over! Whew!

Hey, there’s no “slow mo” replay to show if the pa-ya’s judgment was on, on that tension-filled afternoon. But I said he made the RIGHT call.