He fled before another shower of scenery, and Frijolita fled after him. Managua carried the little Maestro out upon its shoulders, and treated him to champagne, delighted at the unanticipated entertainment he had offered.
But the next day the local papers did not mention the incident. Perhaps the editors felt that they must maintain appearances, and that Managua’s semi-annual outburst of culture should pass off—in the press at least—with éclat. Or perhaps they had already composed their poems, and could not deny themselves the satisfaction of publishing them. For the verses appeared, neatly boxed on the first page, eulogizing the performance of the incomparable artiste, Frijolita.
X
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.