Los Normans

Images of yesterday carousel around my saturated skull. I still can’t figure out how my dinghy managed to drive me home last night.
It all began as I sat with Freddy at his bar, Pichichi’s, on Saturday discussing his baseball team “Los Normans” after our weekly Gringos vs. Dominicana’s softball game. We had amassed a nice collection of empties when he invited me to their away game on Sunday.
Arriving politely on time the following morning, I stood alone outside his bar as sleepy-eyed players slowly migrated over to the dirt parking lot across the street. A while later. a bus pulled in. Next to the driver sat a tiny wisp of a woman wearing a ball cap.
“I’m Norma” she announced as we all piled in. “I sponsor the team”.
“Norma Norman?” I answered. “Were your parents alliteration addicts?”
We bounced south towards Santiago, picking up players and their girlfriends until the bus overflowed, while Norma explained. 

Freddie, Norma & Los Normans player

She had originally sponsored a kid’s team. Her Spanish wasn’t so good then. When the store owner asked her for the kids names to go on the backs of the jerseys, she thought they were asking her name. She answered “Norma”. A few weeks later, fifteen jerseys arrived with “Norman” printed on the back. The kids didn’t mind. They’d never had real jerseys before. The Dominicans thought it was a hoot. When Freddy asked her to sponsor his team there was no question as to it’s name. Hence, “Los Normans” was born.
We reached our destination up in the hills overlooking the industrial city of Santiago de Los Caballeros. Mountain breezes cooled us as Los Normans played the opposing team in a verdant field ringed with majestic palms. On the return leg, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch and beers, after which we stuffed ourselves back into the bus and I settled in for the ride home. Two blocks later, we pulled into a car wash.
“Now what?” I wondered. “Are we washing the bus?”
Everyone poured out. I followed. We snaked past worn tires and spray hoses then shot up a set of stairs where a huge bar sat. A long table loaded with cold liters of beer greeted us along with the team we had just played. When the beers were depleted, another batch appeared. Before they were gone, more materialized. I lost count at fifty. Hours slid by. The drinking continued. When I offered to buy a round Norma stopped me.
“We don’t pay” she counseled. “The other team does.”
This got me thinking. For the past two months I had looked at unpainted houses and unkempt yards with a critical eye. Now I understood. Once essentials are met, whatever pesos are left goes towards entertainment. Dominicans’ don’t desire to spend their weekends manicuring their lawns. They are at the bar where Merengue music blasts from the oversized speakers and everyone dances way past nightfall. 

Way there. Photos back were way too blurry

I reflected back to the Bahamas where visitors would remark, “If they just added some more tables” or “If they just opened earlier…...they’d make a killing.” Except they didn’t want to make a killing. They wanted time to go fishing. It’s the same here.
I stumbled back to the bus with that revelation happily swimming in my swirling head. We all screamed, sang and shouted on the return journey, piling out three more times for beers. We arrived in Luperon well after dark. An hour later after visiting friends, I staggered past Pichichi’s. Freddy and a few teammates were splayed across the chairs with a fresh round of drinks. The last thing I remember was being handed a glass.