Published: May 14, 2006
THE pelota went screaming down the sidewall and seemingly out of reach when Adolfo Elizegi, the fiery backcourter, fuming and down on points, dove headfirst into the fronton's cold granite floor, scooped the goatskin ball deep in the belly of his cesta and twisting in one fast, desperate motion, fired the rock-hard sphere against the front wall with a sound of shattered glass. Winner!
The crowd of a hundred or so sitting at the historic fronton in Gernika, Spain, the Basque town Picasso made famous with his massacre-inspired abstractions, responded with a clamor of claps and hoots.
Mucho! Mucho! (Nice shot.)
Venga! Venga! (Come on, let's go!)
If you want to watch pure jai alai, the speedy, acrobatic attraction promoters once called "the game of dodging death" and "ballet with bullets," you have to make the trip back to its birthplace: Basque country. It was here during the 1850's that a lazy farmer in the French town of St. Pée-sur-Nivelle learned he could hurl potatoes faster and longer with a narrow, scooped-out basket. A century and a half later, those baskets are called cestas and, strapped to the hand of a professional jai alai player, can wing a pelota (a rock-hard ball made with a rubber core and wrapped in goatskin) as fast as 180 miles per hour and shatter bulletproof glass.
Once an international obsession during the early part of the 20th century, when hundreds of Basque peloteros (players) played the tricky, handball-like game on frontons (courts) in China, Egypt, Cuba, Spain, Italy, Brazil, Macao, Indonesia, Australia, Argentina, Colombia and other places, jai alai is now flirting with extinction. In the United States, only two frontons remain open full time: Miami and Dania Beach. These South Florida courts are often empty, dingy destinations inhabited by wayward gamblers who feast on promotions like hot dogs and cups of beer that cost only a quarter.
But in summer, the action shifts to the north of Spain, where the most talented players in the world return to visit their families and compete in feisty head-to-head matches. "What you see here is the sport as it's meant to be played, and played in the same way that it's always been," said Inigo Calzacorta, a former professional who now promotes matches in Basque country.
From June to August, partidos (matches) can be found virtually every night of the week in a dozen eclectic frontons located along the northern tip of Spain and the southwest corner of France. Finding all the games can be a challenge (partidos are often poorly advertised), but the hunt will take you through the best of the Basque region: medieval fishing villages and surf towns like Getaria, where the surviving sailors of Magellan's famed voyage landed in 1522; rustic mountain hamlets like Tolosa, famous for its hearty red beans; seaside resort towns like Biarritz and St. Jean de Luz; and San Sebastián, with its Belle Époque boulevards, ornate bridges and postcard-perfect beaches.
The tournaments, which can span several weeks, draw a varied crowd: families, wrinkled-face farmers, courting couples, retired players, politicians and an ever-present mob of loud-mouthed gamblers who suck on cheap cigars and flood the court with a sweet, smoky haze.
Here, partidos are grueling contests. The hypnotizing volleys can rage on back and forth for an hour or more. The players' jerseys become drenched with sweat. Drama builds. There is — as Ernest Hemingwat said when he passed through here so many years ago to chase bullfighters — afición.
In comparison, the games in Florida frontons are fleeting 15-minute teases intended to raise the total amount wagered. Played to 7 points or so, the players all compete against each other as in a horse race in as many as 15 games a night. The goal is to create many numerical combinations that give a gambler more options to bet. 1,7; 3, 2; 5, 6. Names become irrelevant.
"In America, the jai alai is sick," said Alex Rekalde, the nimble frontcourt player. "You say to yourself, 'What is the point?' "
Mr. Rekalde spends most of the year in Miami and the summer partido season in Markina (population 4,752) a mountain town considered the home of jai alai.
The best way to get there from San Sebastián is to follow the water. Drive along N-634, the dizzying pass that runs along the Cantabrian coast with craggy cliffs that end on pristine beaches, and surfside restaurants that serve up grilled sardines and squid. The vista quickly changes from endless sea to Alpine mountains: sloping hills dotted with slashing pines and stone cottages trimmed in dark red paint, color once taken from cattle blood.
WINDING along these roads, it is easy to see why the Basques have been so aggressive about keeping this picturesque land their own. Reminders of the Basque separatism are everywhere, not just in the spray-painted slogans along the roads. In small villages, the sidrerias, old-world restaurants that barrel a young and tart hard apple cider, use recipes for a codfish omelet that date to the days when Basques were known as whale hunters.
In the tavernas in the town squares, often next to the frontons, men wear the traditional Basque berets, drink gritty coffee and feast on slices of ham hide that dangle from the ceiling by the hoof. They speak only in Basque, using tongue-twisting words — words whose origins seem as mysterious and unknown as the Basques themselves.
Egunon degizula jainkoak! (Translation: Hope you all have a good day, God willing.) The sports here are tough-knuckled pastimes that demand the grit and raw display of machismo that is central to the Basque national mystique. Boulder lifting, grass cutting, log chopping and tug-of-war, all are important contests in summer festivals. Of the Basque games that involve a pelota, jai alai (called pelota vasca here) is one of at least 23 variations that require a medley of sticks, paddles and gloves. The most popular pelota game here now is the oldest, cheapest and most injury-prone: mano, where only the hand is used to swat the pelota against the fronton wall. (Imagine hitting a major league off-speed pitch with your palm!)
"There was a time when going to a jai alai match was like going to the finest bullfight in Madrid or going to the opera," said Gonzalo Beaskoetxea, a former world champion and author of "Historia de la Cesta Punta," a self-published book that is perhaps the sport's most complete history. To drum up new interest, some entrepreneurs are also trying to make jai alai more accessible to play for young players and a draw for tourists. Mr. Calzacorta, for instance, is exploring the manufacturing of a cesta made from plastic synthetics that can be sold for $60 or so. (The current cestas, made from Spanish chestnut and reeds, take about a year to make and cost several hundred dollars.)
Mr. Calzacorta is also seeking support from private investors and government officials in the hopes of building the first jai alai museum, in Markina. If so, among its holdings would be sepia-toned photographs showing the first peloteros donning old-style berets and riverboat mustaches and noble snow-white uniforms colored with sashes wrapped around their waists, along with shots of the fashionable old frontons, circa 1887, in San Sebastián, or circa 1895, in Bilbao.
The crowds were standing-room-only then, thickets of fine tailored suits and dresses, top hats and bonnets and parasols. Included, too, would be photographs of Hemingway, who romanticized the game and all its innate contradictions: skill and speed, courage and danger, grace and violence.
"It is a grand sport," Hemingway said.
So many years later, traces of the grandeur remain. You have to look hard and far to find them. But if you listen close, they are not hard to hear.
Mucho! Mucho!
Venga! Venga!
