We try to avoid profiles from say, The New Yorker, Esquire, The New York Times Magazine, and so on. It’s just too easy to find good stuff, and you’ve probably read it anyway. So here’s something well out of the mainstream (though not for long). Eric tells the story of a baseball player’s funeral. It’s also about the drug war in Mexico you probably haven’t paid much attention to:
They ran the bases for Jaime Irogoyen. His family, his friends, and his teammates were all there at Estadio Carta Blanca in Juarez, Mexico at 11:00 AM on January 17. I like to imagine they were still dressed up from the funeral; that they came straight from church. I like to imagine that they filed out of the dugout in their suits and lined up behind home plate like Little Leaguers.
In my version they all stand silently for a while, unsure of what to do. There is no pitcher to get things started. No base coach to windmill them around the diamond. They stand silently in the quiet sanctuary of the empty stadium. They scratch their heads and ponder life and death and the way a baseball field can make everything outside its lines or walls or fences disappear. Finally an old man (maybe a grandparent or a coach) grumbles impatiently; he knows death well. Let’s do something, he says. Vamanos.
Read the whole thing here.