by Felipe Alou
“Sometimes the people who don’t crave attention are the ones who deserve it the most. That’s Felipe Alou. He is one of the best and most caring teammates I ever had. I learned from him what leadership is all about and what it means to be a man. I admired him greatly, first as a fan, then as a teammate, and now, most importantly, as a friend. Felipe has lived a Hall of Fame life, and in Alou you’ll learn why.”
—Joe Torre
“Felipe Alou played with Willie Mays and managed Barry Bonds. He played a Major League game in the same outfield with his two brothers, and then saw his son become a Major League star in his own right. He was the first Dominican born and raised to make it to the Major Leagues, opening the door for scores of others. Felipe Alou has a rich and vivid story to tell, and here it is.”
—Bob Costas
“It’s an honor to have Felipe Alou as my friend and especially to have him in my career and in my life as a mentor. He blazed a trail for Latin Americans that few men could’ve accomplished, and he did it with class and character. His story, and what he overcame and achieved, will embarrass and enlighten, sadden and inspire, anger and uplift. Felipe Alou is one of the best ambassadors for baseball and an even better ambassador for the human race.”
—Reggie Jackson
“If Alou was only about Felipe Alou’s legendary baseball career as a player and manager it would be an important read, but it’s much more. Alou not only captures an extraordinary life; it delivers compelling insights into life’s realities. As the first to go from the Dominican Republic to Major League Baseball—both as a player and a manager—Felipe Alou opened the way for his brothers Matty and Jesús, his fellow countrymen, and for scores of other Latin Americans. If you don’t know much about Felipe Alou, this book will convince you that he is as special as anyone who has ever worn a Major League uniform. For those of us who know and admire him, reading Alou makes us appreciate that he is even greater than we imagined.”
—Tony La Russa
“The big, sprawling, international baseball life of Felipe Alou is a grand story all its own. But Alou becomes much more than a baseball book in the hands of coauthor Peter Kerasotis. His storytelling skills give Alou the depth and cultural richness that take you beyond the diamond.”
—Tom Verducci, Sports Illustrated senior writer, three-time National Sportswriter of the Year, and best-selling author
“I was a Minor League manager when I heard the booming voice and felt the huge persona that is Felipe Alou, and I thought I was in the presence of a baseball god. Then I got to know this remarkable man, a man who made my path to managing in the Major Leagues easier when he didn’t have to.”
—Buck Showalter
Alou
Alou
My Baseball Journey
Felipe Alou
with Peter Kerasotis Foreword by Pedro Martínez
University of Nebraska Press | Lincoln & London
© 2018 by Felipe Alou and Peter Kerasotis
Foreword © 2018 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska
Cover designed by University of Nebraska Press; cover image © Steve Hathaway Photography.
Author photo courtesy of Peter Kerasotis.
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017958106
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For Lucie, who has been a gift from God. And for the eleven children Jehovah God allowed me to have—Felipe, Maria, José, Moisés, Christia, Cheri, Jennifer, Felipe José, Luis, Valerie, and Felipe Jr.
Felipe Alou
For Shelley, my treasure from heaven.
Peter Kerasotis
The rain that is going to fall doesn’t wet you.
—Dominican proverb
Contents
List of Illustrations
Foreword
Introduction
Part 1. 1935–1956
1. A Name
2. A Childhood
Part 2. 1956–1957
3. Coming to America
4. Just Give Me a Chance
5. Moving Up
Part 3. 1958–1963
6. The Rookie
7. Roberto Clemente
8. Beginning of the End
9. Dawn of a Decade
10. Dark Days
11. Death of a Dictator
12. The Road to the World Series
13. 1962 World Series
14. The Alous Said Hello; the Giants Said Goodbye
Part 4. 1964–1970s
15. Brave New World
16. Settling In
17. Trouble at Home
18. Hitting the Sweet Spot
19. Family Matters
20. Winding Down
Part 5. 1975–Today
21. The Transition
22. The Road Back
23. Big Time Again in the Big Leagues
24. A New Beginning
25. 1994
26. The Demise of the Expos and Me
27. It Ain’t Over till You’re Done
28. Managing Philosophy
29. You Can Go Home Again
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Chronology
Illustrations
1. The humble home where my father grew up
2. Painting of my parents’ home where I and five siblings grew up
3. With my older sister Maria Magdalena at my Catholic confirmation
4. My mother, Virginia Alou de Rojas, as a young woman
5. My father and my brother Matty sometime in the early 1960s
6. My firstborn daughter, Maria, and my firstborn son, Felipe
7. At my wedding to my first wife, Maria
8. Sitting on Haina Beach
9. Enjoying a special dinner
10. Sitting next to the baby carriage of my firstborn son, Felipe
11. As a proud young player for the San Francisco Giants
12. The photographer asked Matty and me to jump
13. Standing between Willie McCovey and Willie Mays
14. In the clubhouse with Willie Mays and Orlando Cepeda
15. Juan Marichal, me, Matty, and Jesús
16. In front of José Pagán’s 1958 Chevrolet Delray
17. My brothers and I with the Escogido Lions
18. It looks like I connected for a home run
19. With Hank Aaron and Joe Torre
20. At the news conference when the Montreal Expos announced me as their new manager
21. Engaging the media
22. With a string of trout and three of my Montreal Expos coaches
23. Posing with my son Moisés after Topps named him to their 1992 all-rookie team
24. Sitting in the dugout with Jim Tracy and Jerry Manuel
25. At the 1990 Caribbean Series with announcer Rafael “Felo” Ramírez
26. Holding a twenty-two-pound cobia at Lake Worth, Florida, sometime around 1990
27. Fishing on the Restigouche River in New Brunswick, Canada
28. The woman who grounded me, Lucie Alou
29. Billboard at Montreal’s Olympic Stadium after I managed my one thousandth game
30. With my brothers Matty and Jesús, sometime in the late ’80s or early ’90s
31. Sitting with my beloved mother, Virginia
32. Back to where it all began
33. Reunited in San Francisco with my son Moisés
34. With Barry Bonds when he was at 713 home runs
35. At a ceremony honoring my brothers and me
36. Standing in front of the Giants’ Felipe Alou Baseball Academy
Foreword
I love Felipe Alou.
F
elipe is a treasure in my country, in the game of baseball, and, most important, in my heart.
When I was growing up in the Dominican Republic our history books instructed us on the story of the Alou brothers, especially Felipe. He was the first to go directly from our country to Major League Baseball (MLB). There were others who followed him from our soil—Juan Marichal, Julián Javier, Manny Mota, and, of course, two other Alou brothers, Matty and Jesús. But Felipe was the first. He paved the way. For those of us who followed him from our small island to the big leagues, Felipe was the light at the end of the tunnel.
Although the Alou brothers are in our country’s history books, I didn’t need those books to know about them. I grew up hearing about the Alous from my parents, my uncles, and other grownups, about how three Dominican brothers occupied the same outfield for a Major League team. I also heard the stories about how my father played against Felipe when they were both young amateurs. The Alous are baseball royalty in my country. It started with them, with Felipe. If you trace the genes of baseball in the Dominican Republic, you will arrive at the name Alou.
Imagine, then, what I was thinking when I first got to know Felipe. Sometimes you meet somebody you’ve heard about your whole life and looked up to from a distance, and you’re disappointed. Felipe was different. Felipe exceeded my expectations. He still does.
I was a Minor League pitcher in the Los Angeles Dodgers organization when Felipe selected me to play for the Dominican Republic team he was managing in the 1992 Caribbean Series. It was an honor, and I was surprised because I didn’t even know he was aware of me, this scrawny kid who was trying to prove he belonged. Not only was Felipe aware of me, but he also saw in me the potential that would eventually take me to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. We were playing a game in Hermosillo, Mexico, during that Caribbean Series. I was pitching when there was a rain delay. It wasn’t too long, maybe forty-five minutes. When it stopped raining and I headed back to the mound to pitch, Felipe stopped me.
“No, no, no!” he shouted. “Wait a minute. I need to protect you. You’re too young. I’m not going to have you waiting a long time and then have you go back out there. We need to protect you. You’re a top prospect.”
I was stunned. It’s very rare when you find someone who cares about you without really exchanging a word with you. But that’s Felipe. That’s when I realized what kind of heart he has.
It was later when I learned what kind of head he has, when I had the privilege of playing for Felipe in the Major Leagues. It was a blessing I’ll never forget. I did not anticipate that Felipe would come back into my life, but he did, and it was at a time early in my career when I was struggling with two things—getting people to believe me and getting people to believe in me.
I was twenty-two years old and had pitched two years for the Dodgers when they traded me to the Montreal Expos before the 1994 season. I felt at the time, and still do now, that the Dodgers gave up on me. I also know that Felipe, who was managing the Expos, had something to do with Montreal acquiring me. With the Dodgers I had yo-yoed back and forth between being a starting pitcher and a reliever, and it was difficult. I wanted to be a starter, but I didn’t know what the Expos had in mind.
That first spring training, as soon as I got dressed in my uniform, I heard Felipe’s voice. “Hey, Pedro, come into my office.” Felipe was sitting at his desk, holding a baseball. “Hey, listen. You see this ball?” he said. “This ball is for you. You’re my number-four starter. My number-four starter!”
It startled me for a moment. “Does this mean I’m going to be a starting pitcher?” I stammered.
“Yeah, you are my number four.”
But he didn’t stop there. Not Felipe. He’s always explaining, expanding on what he’s thinking.
“Nobody is going to take you away from there, either,” he said. “This is my decision. If I go, you go. And I’m here to stay. They do what I say, and I say you are my number-four starter. And when I say number four, I say number four because there are people in front of you who have earned the respect to be named ahead of you. But in reality you are number one when your turn comes up. Because the number one, the number two, and the number three cannot pitch in your spot. So you are my number one that day. Never forget that. You are my number one whenever you take the ball.”
I could almost feel my chest expanding. With those few words Felipe built my confidence in a way I’ll never forget and I’ll forever appreciate. At the same time he taught me a lesson that never went away. From that day forward, whenever I took the ball on the pitcher’s mound, my mind-set was that I am the number-one starter.
There are so many other lessons, too. I found myself always trying to sit close to Felipe, listening, observing, trying to see what he saw, because Felipe saw so much more in the game of baseball than anyone else I’ve ever known. He’s like an encyclopedia, an encyclopedia that is always open to you, always sharing.
When I got to the Expos I already had a reputation as a headhunter. I’ve never apologized for pitching in, for challenging hitters inside. And while some criticisms of me have some merit, so much of it was unfair. Felipe was wise enough to see the difference.
My second year in Montreal I was still learning to pitch, still trying to harness my talent. But it had gotten to the point where it seemed like every time I pitched inside, it was perceived to be with intent. Already, early that season, there were a few incidents where guys charged the mound or glared at me threateningly—as if I, weighing only 164 pounds, was looking for a fight.
It reached a head in a May 29, 1995, game in Montreal against San Francisco. Darren Lewis was the Giants’ leadoff batter. My first pitch was up and away, ball one; the second pitch was low and in, ball two; and the third pitch was in again, ball three. Three pitches in the top of the first inning, and all of a sudden umpire Bruce Froemming was ripping off his mask, taking a few steps toward me, and with a pointed finger giving me a warning.
Felipe stormed out of the dugout, furious. Pulling at his hair, he got in Froemming’s face. “You see this gray hair?” he shouted. “I grew this gray hair in baseball! You’re not going to tell me what’s wrong and right! You guys are running to judgment early! Way too early! He’s thrown three pitches in this game, and you’re already chasing this kid! What’s wrong with you?”
Froemming tried to say something, but Felipe wasn’t done. “You should look at some of the positives this kid is doing instead of judging him!” he said. “He has Cy Young type of numbers! But you guys are not even noticing the positive things this kid is doing!” Once again, Felipe pulled at his hair. “I grew these gray hairs in this game! I know this game! And I’m telling you that what you are doing to this kid is not fair!”
It’s hard to describe the feeling you have for a man—much less your manager—who has your back like that. But that was Felipe. He had my back, and I was never far from his side, learning lessons.
Felipe was always ahead of the game, always seeing things before anybody else did. When everyone else was on step one, he was already on steps three and four. Felipe didn’t need sabermetrics. It was all in his head, beneath that gray hair.
I remember one time early in his son Moisés’s career, when Moisés came to the plate with the bases loaded. Moisés was a great first-ball hitter, and at the time he was hitting better than .500 on the first pitch. But there was Felipe, signaling to the third base coach to signal to Moisés to take the first pitch. Moisés, however, refused to look. He was up there to hack, and he was going to hack at that first pitch no matter what. Well, the first pitch was a slow roundhouse curve, and Moisés swung so hard that he corkscrewed himself as his helmet toppled off his head.
Felipe started laughing. “Hey, Mo! Hey, Mo!” he shouted from the dugout with a big grin on his face. “What do you think this is? This is the big leagues. Everybody knows you’re hitting five-something on the first pitch. What do you think they are going to do, throw you a cookie?”
By now, everybody
was laughing.
“Shut up, Papá,” Moisés muttered.
That was Felipe. He anticipated the game better than anybody I’ve ever been around. I would see him take out a left-hander and bring in a right-hander to pitch to Tony Gwynn—one of the greatest left-handed hitters of all time. It went against the book, and it would probably explode the heads of today’s sabermetrics geeks, but Felipe would have a feeling based on how he could analyze and assimilate even the smallest details. And then he would explain why he was doing what he was doing—always teaching. Through all those types of decisions—going against the book, going with his gut—I rarely saw Felipe fail.
It’s amazing how often I think about Felipe even now, as I work as a TV analyst. My way of watching baseball and looking at every detail comes from years of watching Felipe do his thing.
One of the things he used to tell me that I’ve never forgotten is this: “Follow the ball, and the ball should lead you. Don’t take your eyes off the ball, and you will learn everything you have to learn about the game. The ball dictates everything. It shows you what the pitcher does, what the catcher does, what the hitter does. You see what the body does to throw the ball, to hit the ball, to field the ball. You see so many things. If you follow the ball, you’ll learn a lot of things.”
And then there is the bat. Felipe taught me to follow the bat, too. He would tell me to watch what hitters do when they first step into the batter’s box, to take notice of the bat waggle, because he’s telegraphing to you where he wants the ball. “Once you see that,” Felipe instructed, “all you have to do is keep the ball away from where they want it.” I took that tidbit of wisdom with me and applied it to the rest of my career.
But the one thing I couldn’t take with me was Felipe. After I won my first Cy Young Award in 1997, and it was apparent that Montreal was not going to be able to afford to keep me, the Expos looked for trade partners. But I did not want to leave Felipe’s side. I went to our general manager (GM), Jim Beattie, and told him I was willing to take a big discount to stay in Montreal, to stay with Felipe. But even with the discount I was willing to take, the Expos still couldn’t afford me.
