Baseball and Nihal

Watching the baseball playoffs this weekend, I thought of Nihal.
Nihal was a tea-taster by profession and lived in Sri Lanka. And we took him to what was his first — and may have been his last — baseball game.
It was in the very early 1970s, when my wife and I were living in Indianapolis. She was working for the air pollution control division of the Indiana State Board of Health, a unit that would later be spun off to become part of the Indiana Department of Environmental Management. I was working on the periphery of journalism, getting published and getting feedback from readers but not really getting paid. A number of other writing projects were proving equally unpromising.
We lived in an odd downtown Indy apartment building that to movie buffs would be recognizable as a possible setting for “Rosemary’s Baby.” We were in our 20s. Everyone else on our floor — and maybe the entire building — was well over 70.
And one day my father called and asked if we could play host to Nihal.
He was part of a Rotary International exchange group and was staying with a Presbyterian pastor in Richmond. The pastor was traveling to Indianapolis for a conference and was taking Nihal along, but he had no idea how to keep his guest occupied while dealing with the conference.
Could we, my father asked, entertain Nihal for the evening?
Of course, we said yes.
It was summer, and we’d become big fans of minor league baseball, attending as many Indianapolis Indians games at Bush Stadium as we could afford.
The plan came together quickly: We’d take Nihal to an Indians game.
He was up for that, and he seemed delighted to be with people closer to his own age and interests than the 60-ish Presbyterian pastor he’d been staying with.
Today, the Indians are a pretty good draw in Indy. Not so much back in the 1970s at Bush. The crowd was usually small. The vendors practically knew you by name. And when you yelled at the players — guys like Ken Griffey, Ed Armbrister, Dan Driessen, and Junior Kennedy — they probably recognized your voice.
Cricket was Nihal’s game, but he was a quick learner. While we explained the rules of baseball, he explained what was involved in working as a tea-taster. We pretended to understand, and he pretended to understand.
But as the game unfolded, it seemed divinely designed to show every aspect of baseball to our guest.
It’s one thing to explain a double play. It’s another to have one unfold before your eyes.
It’s one thing to explain a home run, and something entirely different when it happens.
Called strike-outs. Walks. Balks. Crazy signals from third base coaches. This game had it all.
And just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, there was a disputed call at the plate.
The throw came in. Dust flew. And the umpire ruled the runner safe.
Then the catcher lost it.
Sonny Roberto was sure the runner was out. And he didn’t hesitate to make his opinion known.
As Nihal watched with wide eyes, Roberto argued and challenged and pushed his chest toward the umpire.
His manager, probably the late Vern Rapp, backed him up with vigor and was quickly ejected.
Roberto persisted, and within a few minutes he too was ejected.
Nihal was incredulous. The mix of rebellion and rule enforcement, the tension between freedom and order, was palpable.
We did our best to explain what was going on, but it was a little difficult to translate.
Then, things got crazier.
Roberto, sentenced to the dugout by the umpire for his protests, continued to protest.
Much to the delight of the fans, he began to toss his catcher’s equipment — the so-called tools of ignorance — out onto the field. Shin protectors. His mask. His chest protector. All were tossed out in protest against the umpire’s call.
The crowd loved it.
And Nihal? He went home to Sri Lanka with a better understanding of baseball — and perhaps a better understanding of America — than anyone could have imagined.[[In-content Ad]]