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Managua, of late, has gone in for sports.
The marines have taught the natives to box and to play baseball. In the latter game, the Nicaraguan boys invariably defeat their mentors. In boxing, they still have much to learn, but they are promising.
The newspapers write up the events with a Latin-American flavor. In the advertisement of a baseball match, the public is advised not to miss:
“A wonderful sporting event! Colossal stealing of bases! Lightning-light flight of ball from pitcher to catcher! Formidable blows of the bat! Thrilling to the emotions! Do not miss it! Do not miss it! To the field on Sunday at the ten of the morning! To the field!”
Baseball is firmly established. Boxing has long been opposed in Latin America as a brutal amusement suitable only to gringos, but it has gained much popularity since the advent of Firpo.
One Sunday afternoon I drifted out to the field to see the local champions. There was a rickety grand-stand, but the ring stood far away from it in the center of a bare pasture. If one wished a ringside seat, one could take a camp-chair and move it wherever he pleased. Every one started back in the shade of the stand, and edged his seat forward as the shadows lengthened, finally reaching the ring in time for the final bout.
The promoter acted as introducer and referee. He was a prominent local politician—a large, stout gentleman in a big leather sombrero. He commenced with two diminutive urchins, who knew nothing of boxing; they fought so gamely that they were fagged before the end of the first round, but they struggled through three of them, obtaining additional rest while the promoter explained that they must not kick or bite, and then returning to the fray to put both hands together and shove them toward the adversary’s face.
Next came two older boys. Then two full-grown men, one barefoot, one in shoes and silk shirt. The barefoot one, a wild-looking Indian with dark face and long hair, had evidently learned his strategy by watching game-cocks. He kept edging sidewise as though he did not see the other fellow. He would start his swing by winding up like a baseball pitcher. The other could always see it coming and leap aside, but it was an unwieldy swing, and the other invariably jumped into it, until his silk shirt was crimson. The spectators were delighted. They could not appreciate science, but they recognized blood when they saw it, and screamed their approval. The Indian won.
Then came the semi-finals and the finals. Here the participants were trained to some extent, but they were handicapped by Latin vanity. They were constantly posing before the crowd. Between the rounds, instead of resting, they would turn to their admirers to make a speech. “He got me by accident last time, but I’ll show you something when the bell rings.” If one were knocked to the floor, instead of taking his count of nine even when he sadly needed it, he would leap immediately to his feet, determined to redeem himself in the eyes of his followers. Or one of them, having backed the other against the ropes and pummeled him to a pulp, would forgo his advantage to listen to the applause.
But these men were fighters. The old phrase, “the fistless Latin,” is rapidly becoming obsolete. These scrappers never stalled or clinched to save themselves or to gain time. They fought harder than any American pugilist. And they had infinite courage. In the final bout one youth was greatly outweighed; his opponent cut his eye in the very first round so that he was almost blinded; even the Nicaraguan spectators, much as they loved gore, suggested that the battle should stop, but the little fellow insisted on continuing; he was beaten into a bloody mess, knocked down again and again, pounded until it became a torture, but he never wavered; the moment he regained his feet he rushed forward courageously for additional punishment with a fortitude that no Anglo-Saxon could surpass.
In many phases of life these people acquit themselves as poor sportsmen, especially in their politics, but they are learning. Sportsmanship, after all, is not a hereditary virtue, but one acquired through experience. What American can not recall the many squabbles that marked his earliest boyhood ventures into athletics? It is only by training that one learns to abide by the decision of an umpire. I was rather amazed to notice that not one of the Nicaraguan boxers contested the decision of the referee.