By Milena Silva
In the midst of a wave of escapes and requested casualties, the news reaches us that baseball is declared a Cultural Heritage of the Cuban Nation.
I don’t know if I felt like crying or laughing. From crying, so it’s obvious. And to laugh, so it is too.
A baseball, which we were taught in History (and even in a doll), which has its antecedents more than 500 years ago in the aborigines, has been officially authenticated as part of Cuban culture at its worst:
• When only a small percentage of the Cuban population talks about baseball.
• When on television we see more news, games, monitoring of international leagues, movies, and even spaces dedicated to children, who talk more about football than about baseball.
• When children and young people know the life and work of Messi, CR7, Lewandowski, Benzema,
• When in the street you stumble upon any device that serves as a goal and not with a set of 4 corners or a cue.
• When you hear that your neighbor sent for a Real Madrid shirt, or paid a pile of pesos for a Barça one, and he doesn’t know what color the Matanzas or Cienfuegos team are.
• When stadiums are not lit at night.
• When children and adolescents are practicing in the fields thinking of traveling to an academy in the Dominican Republic to try to be signed in Las Mayores, and not to try to reach the National Series to be like Linares, Pacheco, Kindelán or Bayiyo.
• When a remote control unit capable of transmitting live the act in which the sport of balls and strikes was declared Cuban Cultural Heritage did not appear.
• When every day these acts have less quality and aesthetic taste.
• When the glories of baseball who have already retired live for the most part in precarious conditions and in absolute oblivion.
• When the date of the last international tournament that Cuba won is getting farther and farther away.
Thus we receive such a declaration. I repeat … I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
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IN THE WORST TIME: Come in and sit down Mr. Heritage