But that was an insouciant observation on our part, because baseball and poetry in Nicaragua have in common one very important element. The heart itself is best expressed by baseball and by verse. The two make the soul sing in that country, equally so, and they do not alternate. Both express the same emotional infusion of earth, water and light. Both bring forth the same artistic flower.

Our group played a game of baseball against an all-star team of farmhands in the town of Boaco. Our guys had played in college or, in a few instances, in the North American minor leagues. One, a fine first baseman by the name of Tim Hickerson, who was a home run hitter as well, had come close to going to the big leagues with the Chicago White Sox organization. So our team had some chops.

We lost that game 13 to 1. Afterwards we were honored at a fiesta on a ranch outside town. The farmhands had all been invited, and there was a smattering of dignitaries as well, including the nurse at the local clinic, who was holding a baseball in her hands when we met.  She explained that she had loved the game all her life, and was overjoyed that we had come all this way to play against her neighbors here in Boaco. At first John and I didn’t know that she was the local nurse, because when I asked her what she did, she replied, “Well, I’m a poet.” Only a few minutes later did we discover her medical leanings.

But I took the opportunity to tell her that many, many Nicaraguans had told me that they were poets. Did she know, I asked, why there were so many poets in her country?

“Of course, señor,” she replied. Her eyes fluttered. Her hands caressed the baseball. Smiling, she took in a hurried, excited breath. “It is because Nicaragua is a poem.”