Mexicali is about two-and-a-half hours from my apartment in Highland. I left at 9am in order to give myself plenty of time to get to the border and eventually to the ballpark. The drive there took me past a massive windfarm just east of here, the posh city of Palm Springs, sandy deserts surrounding the Salton Sea and the seedy border town of Calexico. With the flat terrain out of Palm Springs, it was easy to set the cruise control at about 75mph, plug in the iPhone for some tunes, and just drive. Considering some of the other trips I have taken where I have sat in traffic jams, it was a welcome relief.
I got to Calexico at about noon. I literally took the highway to the border where I found some parking in a mall lot just on the other side of the border about a mile from the crossing. What first struck me as significant was the mall, literally a stones throw from the 15-foot high border fence, had such stores as Nordstrom's, Macy's, Nike and other high-priced retailers. If you look on the other side of the fence, you see properties in Mexico proper that are basically slums. Can you imagine living there and seeing the corporate monikers of the mall separated by a huge fence every single day? Put things in stark reality.
Before I could cross the border, I stopped at a cambio and exchanged some US Dollars for Mexican Pesos. I knew that the exchange rate was going to be super inflated being this close to border, so I decided to keep half of the cash I had in USD. I also had my Visa card, so I figured that I would be set with equal amounts of both currencies. It was a decision that would later come back to haunt me.
Literally about two blocks from the cambio was the pedestrian crossing into Mexico. It is really nondescript and simply has a sign that says "To Mexico". You have to go through two massively robust rotating cages before you get to Mexico. Between the two gates, you can peer inside the windows to see the massive line going back through customs into the US and all the Border Security. Contrast that with when you first step into Mexico, there is a solitary policeman and nothing else. No checking of documents, no metal detectors, no nothing. I had to laugh at myself and think "Wow, it is so easy to get into this country!"
After traversing an underground tunnel, you open up into a chaotic street scene in Mexicali. It was here that I needed to make my way out to the ballpark. I noticed that there was public transportation in the form of buses, but I wasn't just going to jump on board a bus in a foreign country with no idea where it was heading. I did some research on the Internet about the possibility of taking public transportation, but the lack of information did not fill me with enough confidence to consider using it. Enter in the taxi situation. Dozens of drivers are trying to peddle you to take rides, so I walked about a block away from the main stand and hailed a cab.
My cab driver spoke no English, thus forcing me immediately to use my newly acquired Spanish skills. However, native Spanish speakers tend to speak very fast, so I was only able to catch every third or fourth word. I immediately recognized that I was going to have a tough time conversing, so I had to literally act out the motion of hitting a baseball and saying "estadio de beibol." I must've been successful in conveying my destination because we immediately jumped out into the street like a jackrabbit weaving in and out of traffic at a high rate of speed. It was only about a five minute cab ride to the ballpark, but along the way, I caught my first glimpse into the seedy-side of Mexico with dark alleys, chop shops, obvious slums, and standout red-light districts. I knew that all of Mexico couldn't be like this, but I would most definitely have to keep my wits about me after the game and after dark.
Estadio CasasGEO is part of a large sports complex that features a track and soccer stadium, American football stadium, and indoor arena. The entire complex looked to be fairly new and it seemed, based on the flyers and my rough translation of the phrases, that there was going to be some large Olympic-style event happening in the next few days. I found it ironic that the last time I was in a foreign country on a
Baseball Road Trip (Canada) there was massive preparation for the 2010 Winter Olympics.
As I went to get my ticket, I found it very difficult to communicate with the ticket seller. It then hit me that I am not in a major tourist attraction for Americans and that it would be that much more difficult to converse and interact. Add to that the park, for some reason, did not take American dollars, so I blew through my limited stash of Pesos just to get in. I didn't have Pesos to buy anything else, preventing me from buying my ballpark souvenir of a keychain, which was disappointing. However, with money at a ballpark, you usually buy food, which I wasn't too keen on as I'll explain in a bit.
The ballpark is rather large seating, I would estimate, about 20,000. However, it's kind of a dump. The seats are all rusting and falling apart, there are ugly unpainted concrete bleachers in the outfield, shoddy looking concession stands, and a field that looked really unappealing to play on with brown spots all over the outfield grass. I had seats in the second deck on the third base side, which were pretty cheap at about $8US. The second deck stretched from base-to-base while the lower deck went from foul pole-to-foul pole. The second deck, however, had half of it blocked off with yellow caution tape, which I assumed was because they had been condemned.
As the game started, I noticed a couple of things. First, it seemed like the concessionaires were all private individuals not affiliated with the organization. It looked like all their products were made by hand and that they were selling, literally, as a source of income. However, I was a little skeptical of bottled water being sold out of a metal bucket as being truly sanitary and clean. Second, and it relates to concessions, I noticed that all the grill cooks were wearing surgical masks when they cooked. Those two things combined to dissuade me from buying anything that potentially would have gone into my tummy.
So, what exactly is the Mexican Pacific League? From what I could garner, it is a league where journeyman Major Leaguers and up-and-coming Minor League talent come together for some off-season baseball. For example, in this particular game, former Seattle Mariner Russell Branyan, playing for Mexicali, uncorked on a fastball and driving it 400+ feet over the right field wall. I figured the talent level would be on par with a Double-A level. As for the final score, using the Branyan homer as inspiration, the Aguilas de Mexicali beat the Venados de Mazatlan 5-1.
The most incredible part of the baseball game was that despite the difficulties I was having in communicating, once the game started, the language became the same. The game itself wasn't too different from what we're used to here in the United States. The gameday experience, however, had some differences. The game was super quick as they didn't really have a whole lot of promotional stuff between innings. There was no 7th-Inning Stretch with Take Me Out To The Ballgame. It was weird to not hear the Star Spangled Banner before the game, but to hear that all the music played was American like Bryan Adams, Tom Petty, Black Eyed Peas and the Village People. Music is blared after each pitch and the atmosphere was almost a party, but, strangely, it didn't feel forced from the organization itself as in a lot of American Parks. It felt more community based. Another weird thing was that the jerseys of all the players had patches of all these different corporate sponsors. It reminded me of a NASCAR driver's uniform. The biggest difference, actually, was hearing the entire PA in Spanish. That was a real trip.
After the game, I didn't stick around for very long. It was already dark and I wasn't quite sure how I was going to get back to the border. In my head were these images from Dateline and 60 Minutes about drug violence after dark in Mexico, so I was in a super hurry to get back across the border and leave. On the cab ride in, we traversed a wide and busy boulevard about three blocks from the park, so I figured that I would be able to hail a cab from there. Key phrase is "I figured". I ended up waiting for almost a half hour on a Mexican street corner with my arm raised for a cab that seemingly never came. With each passing minute my anxiety and fear level got higher and higher. It wasn't exactly the safest security situation I could imagine. Thankfully, out of the blue, a cab pulled up and I got inside.
For the first time during the entire trip, I was able to have a somewhat doable conversation with an individual. The cabbie spoke fairly good English and was incredibly nice and jovial. It was a welcome relief to be able to talk to someone and gain that ever valuable insight into the community that I'm always seeking on Baseball Road Trips. He told me of the crime situation, the good places to eat around the ballpark, a couple Spanish phrases that would go a long way, his experiences in the United States, and, of course, baseball. Considering we were in a traffic jam for almost twenty minutes, it was that brief conversation that made my last Mexican experience worth it.
Then there is the border crossing. Ever since 9/11, it is required that you have a passport to enter the US from Mexico. I had a passport, but it was from the Peace Corps and I wasn't entirely sure if it would work going in. The line for pedestrians to cross stretched at least a mile and took me nearly three hours to get through. When I got to the Border Patrol agent, I was a little surprised that I was somewhat grilled by him. "What was your purpose for visiting Mexico?" "Where are you going in the United States?" "What's your date of birth?" "Where do you work?" The man grilled me for almost five minutes. For a second, I was almost worried that I wasn't going to be allowed back into the country. He finally asked me to smile, held up my passport and declared that I was who I said I was and let me through.
It was on my walk back to the car that I realized why I was grilled. Folks, I stuck out like a sore thumb in Mexicali. Whether it was at the game or at the border, it was obvious that I was an outsider. Mexicali isn't the tourist town that Tijuana is, so when I was standing in line or at the game, everybody around me was of Mexican heritage. People stared at me, whispered to their companions after looking at me, and steered clear of me. I actually felt alone and rather vulnerable. Especially standing in line, with my Baseball Road Trip backpack, Portland Beavers sweatshirt, and standing 6'3", I was obviously out of place. The Border Guard had every right to be suspicious about me and question me.
I tell you what, I immediately gained a greater appreciation for people in our country who have immigrated from somewhere else and have to deal with those actions and feelings of loneliness everyday. We, as Americans, sometimes are wary of outsiders and stare at them because they look different, dress funny, can't speak our language, don't understand our culture, or whatever. After being in that situation first-hand, I am advocating the embrace of our differences and diversity, the acceptance of others, and compassion for all. As I started off this post, no Baseball Road Trip has come close to this experience, and I hope I have conveyed to all of you why that is.
Baseball Extravaganza 2013 has come to a glorious end. It has come to an end, and what and end it has been to one helluva successful season. Look for my final, final summation in a few days.
Always take on a 3-0 pitch ;)
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