Outside Miami's Little Havana, it is difficult in America today to unearth anyone willing to forthrightly confess to having wholeheartedly supported the Vietnam War, but in the late 1960s the passionate issue had only begun to split the country down the middle. Back then, those of us who were opposed to the war were still in a minority.

In New York we had organised something called the "Angry Arts Against the War." On Saturday mornings we would hire a large, flatbed truck and drive it to what we considered strategic parts of the city, where for several hours often bewildered passers-by would be treated to agit-prop performances by poets, jazz musicians, and theatre troupes.

One morning we had set up shop on the outskirts of Spanish Harlem when a loud commotion erupted. I barely had time to take cognisance of the rabid mob of young men armed with baseball bats and speaking in tongues when I lost consciousness.

The melee had barely subsided by the time my compatriots revived me. We had been set upon by a gang of right-wing Cuban exiles (an exercise in redundancy if there ever was one; there is no other kind of Cuban exile), and had escaped with our lives only because a second mob, this one made up of left-leaning Puerto Ricans, had happened along to, at least temporarily, put the Cubans to flight. That was my first experience with the anti-Castro lot, who were widely described as "Gusanos" (worms) by their Spanish-speaking brethren. Fifteen years later I watched Alberto Salazar, a Cuban-born runner, who in 1982 won what was at the time the closest-ever Boston Marathon, collapse and go into shock at the conclusion of a road race. When he awoke from his dehydration-induced coma to find himself packed in ice, he leapt off the bed and began clawing the walls of the makeshift finish-line clinic, screaming incoherently that "the Communists" had poisoned him.

America's stultifying economic boycott of Cuba is now in its 40th year. Incredibly, in many parts of this country a man can legally buy a machine gun, but buying or selling Cuban cigar subjects him to a fine and imprisonment.

But over the four decades since Castro came to power, Cuba as a nation has managed to produce the world's best amateur baseball and boxing programs. Relations have thawed to the point that periodically the Cubans bring over a select boxing team. When that happens, three things can be reliably expected to occur.

One is that the Cubans will beat the Bejeezus out of their American counterparts. The second is that the Cuban exile community will protest the visit. And the third is that at least one of the visitors will turn up in the clutches of an American boxing promoter and announce that he is seeking political asylum.

The Cuban exile community had already been whipped into a frenzy by the ongoing saga of Elian Gonzalez even before US officials forcibly returned the 6-year-old boy to his father last Saturday.

Elian had long since become a symbolic trophy in this long-running battle of nerves, and the seizure of the lad at gunpoint from the home of his anti-Castro relatives came only after it had become clear that they weren't going to give him up any other way.

So last Tuesday the Cuban community in South Florida staged a symbolic general strike. That the work stoppage was being called to protest a legal action by the United States government does not appear to have entered into any analysis of the situation.

Around the Major Leagues over a dozen Cuban-born baseball players and coaches decided that they would support the protest by refusing to report for work.

Six of these players and two of the coaches happened to be in the employment of the hometown Florida Marlins. The clout of the refugee community was aptly demonstrated when the Marlins' front office not only accepted this decision, but appeared to encourage it.

Marlins general manager Dave Dombrowski gave team employees - including players - the option of taking the day off, with pay. And field manager John Boles said of the boycott: "I agree with it 100 per cent. It's the right thing to do. There are more important things than our game against San Francisco, and this is one of them."

Florida starting pitchers Alex Fernandez, Jesus Sanchez, and Vladimir Nunez were not in uniform Tuesday night, nor were outfielder Danny Bautista or closer Antonio Alfonseca. Third baseman Mike Lowell, who is of Cuban descent, also boycotted, as did coaches Tony Taylor and Fredi Gonzalez.

Over on the Giants' side, pitcher Livan Hernandez and catcher Bobby Estalella remained at the team hotel.

Around the Major Leagues, Tampa Bay slugger Jose Canseco and New York Yankees' pitcher Orlando Hernandez - Livan's brother - were the most prominent players to skip work. Mets' shortstop Rey Ordonez and third base coach Cookie Rojas stayed away from Shea Stadium Tuesday night.

"I'm always behind my players and coaches, and if they feel this is something they need to do, I'm with them," said Bobby Valentine, the Mets' manager. The Marlins, though, were the team at the centre of the maelstrom.

Having gone into their game against the Giants woefully shorthanded, they paid for it in the end. The contest went into extra innings, and by the 11th, Boles, having run out of position players, was even forced to pinch-hit for a pitcher with another pitcher. The Giants won 64. "(The boycott) affected us, but it affected them even more," said Giants manager Dusty Baker.

Remarkably, not a single team so much as threatened to fine the boycotting players for what was, by any standard, an act of political symbolism in violation of their contracts.

Further proof that the world had gone mad came when Baker confessed later that it was he who had urged Livan Hernandez and Estalla not to come to the ballpark Tuesday night, lest they subject themselves and their families to potential retaliation from the anti-Castro lobby for NOT boycotting.

"You're talking about life and death situations that supersede baseball," explained Baker. "A lot of us don't know the situation unless you live in Miami or you're from Miami. It's sad that politics have to go into baseball, but baseball is part of the world."