2023-08-12 19:32:26
The camera gets ready to freeze a scene. The diaphragm opens, expands on an imaginary axis and, as if nothing, closes with the burning of unspeakable speeds. Receive, by the powers of an instant, a vigorous light inscribed without a name. The shadows do their part, calibrate the setting, round off the speech that materializes by the will of many, by the character’s nobility. And of course, due to the talent of the author of this piece, he seeks to elevate a moment, draw with signs the lines of a symbolic man.
As in many other contests in his life, Fidel did not take off his olive green suit. With the passion that defines his actions, he faces the challenge. He wields the ardors of an upright bat, displaying himself observantly, declared a sidekick, ready to dethrone the ball and propel it beyond the confines of the stadium. A crowd waits for the moment of impact to make a complicit capture, a fielding of interwoven hands that seems, from a bird’s eye view, a hug.
The minutes seem legends. Time tastes like vigil and the verses of an overflowing orality shake expectantly. Fidel’s gaze points towards a precise objective, towards a drawn horizon where the sea and forests of crisscrossing cumulus nimbus inhabit. It is that irreverent sea that surrounds us, it is those royal palms that declare us.
The Commander strikes an anticipatory pose. He stands on his boots from many battles, stooping his back and lifting his chin, as the ball will come hard and the angle of the bat decides everything. He harnesses the power of his hands to gauge the length and reach of his arms. Everything is about to happen.
The time in this scene does not matter. His watch experiences the curved line of her gaze, a soliloquy of nouns left on the mound. The goal is to tip the ball towards where the legend lives.
The rumba drums shake the sounds of a deep room. The flight is about to unleash and the Commander is framed smiling, mischievous, defiant. A whole gesture gathered before a ball that is about to break into the home. The word defeat does not live on the shelves of his dictionary, the commitment is the verse of his life, the praxis of his metaphor.
The pitch occurs, the ball travels about sixty feet in the time of one buzz. Fidel paints a curved angle with his hands and the ball shakes the wind, the cumulus contained in the stadium’s surroundings. The voices of an inflamed crowd prepare to take flight that choir of many and the spell is produced, the embrace between all.
The sound of the impact marks another hour on the Commander’s watch. It is a time of parallels, of bitter curves that draw a ball determined to know itself beyond the possible limits. The lines are subverted, time stretches beyond all expectations. The dialogue is unleashed between two, between three, between many, the overflowing phraseology, the merriment for victory, the empathy before the impact of a ball, which is the strength of a moral man.
Taken from Cuba in Summary
Cover photo: 5th. Ball Series, Cerro Stadium / Liborio Noval (1977)
#Fidel #symphony #hands