The Journey Home

by Jorge Posada

  Before that first game I was issued my Calhoun uniform, and I was so proud I laid it out on the bed and took a photo of it. We had Nike uniforms, Turfs, an equipment bag, and our own individual aluminum bat. My dad said that I could use it in the games, but I still needed to hit with wooden bats during batting practice. The first time I felt that sweet sensation of an aluminum bat after having been away from them for so long, I thought that I was really going to be able to do some damage with it. As it turned out, I was pretty good at predicting the future.

  In that first fall game against Alabama, I homered in my first at-bat. I was surprised by that, especially because the difference between guys playing for a high-quality Division I school and the guys I faced in our intrasquad games at Calhoun was substantial. This isn’t a knock on them; it’s just the way it is. The guys at Alabama were all heavily recruited, had probably been the top players on their high school or junior college teams, and were among the best in every league in which they had played. I had no doubt that I could catch up to any fastball, but it was going to be hard to stay disciplined enough to not go chasing after breaking balls and changeups outside the strike zone. Belting that home run right away gave me a shot of confidence, and also caught the attention of the Alabama coaches. Down the line, I signed a letter of intent to play for Alabama, but I never got a chance to compete for them.

  I liked seeing other parts of Alabama besides Calhoun, so those trips to Tuscaloosa, Birmingham (where the University of Alabama–Birmingham was located), and Florence (home to the University of North Alabama) were fun adventures. Packing up the vans and hanging out with the guys was all a part of the experience, and my teammates helped take my mind off how homesick I was. Over time, as my English got better, I enjoyed the trips even more and was able to laugh and joke with the guys, participating in more of their conversations and arguments about what was the better band or movie comedy and whose feet and farts smelled the worst. That was all an important part of my education and prepared me well for my future life in the minor and major leagues.

  Coach Frickie selected all my classes for me, and for the first time in my academic career I didn’t really struggle at all. My math class was relatively easy, and I took a low-level English class that I managed to do okay in, mostly because I was more motivated than before out of necessity—I didn’t want to have any more “shits” incidents, and it was no fun going out to eat and not getting what I thought I’d ordered. I also took a Spanish class, which, unsurprisingly, was very easy. I ended up being an unofficial teaching assistant since the instructor, who helped me a lot with my English, allowed me to help out by demonstrating the more everyday ways of speaking Spanish than the “book” Spanish that was taught. I was also fortunate that Coach Frickie’s neighbor and fellow church member, Mrs. Mary Faulkner, the one who helped him on those early phone calls, was willing to help me with my English.

  I can’t say enough good things about Mrs. Faulkner and Coach Frickie. He really helped me out a lot, driving me places and also letting me live with him when I was “asked” to stop living at the Cabanas for a while. I was in college and away from home for the first time, and as much as I missed Puerto Rico, I still wanted to have some fun. Sometimes, though, having fun meant doing things that I later regretted—or at least regretted getting caught at.

  I wasn’t completely reckless. The first time I went out with the guys to a party, I did consume alcohol for the first time. I didn’t really enjoy the taste, but I was feeling pretty good—until the next morning. After that, I still drank, but not as much. I did not want to experience a hangover again, and I learned what my limits were pretty quickly.

  I had a fake ID from Puerto Rico, and that helped me supply beer for the parties. I could have gone out every night, but I didn’t. I only went to parties on weekends, and I also only went to parties where I was confident that I knew most of the people who would be there. That meant other athletes for the most part. I had a couple of incidents where people said things to me about my background, and I wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation like that. Mostly, though, I was cautious and shy. I didn’t like meeting new people and feeling awkward or like I was sticking out because I wasn’t from the area.

  We did some cool things like driving away from Decatur into the fields and woods that surrounded the city. It was fun to be able to just relax, stand near a bonfire—I was surprised when it got so cold that fall—drink a few beers, and hear people laughing and enjoying themselves. Eventually my English improved to the point where I was pretty sure that if I said something funny, people were laughing because of what I said and not because of how I said it or how I mangled the language. Of course, they also wanted me to teach them Spanish swear words, and I was happy to do that.

  Sometimes we’d party in the cotton field that was beyond the outfield fences. A railroad line bisected the field and the freight trains slowed down there because they were coming up to the river crossing and either bridges or a terminal. We made a game of hopping on the trains and riding them for a while. That sounds more dangerous than it really was, but it felt like a very American thing to be doing—sitting in a box car drinking beer and watching cotton fields roll by. I was still in transition, though: the mornings after those parties, I’d wake up and wander down to the pay phone to call my parents. I spoke to my mom more often because my dad was working. When we had a game, though, I’d call him every time to let him know how I’d done, a habit that continued for many years after that.

  Looking back on this time now, I can’t help but think of how lucky I was to get used to life in the United States, to get used to the idea of having American teammates, with American jokes and American humor. It wasn’t that Alabama was so different from Puerto Rico, but living there prepared me to deal with the differences in language and all of the confusion that could come with life in the United States. I learned more than just words in English—I learned how to use them. So many Latin players don’t have the time to get more comfortable with the language and with themselves before being thrown into professional ball. For me, my time at Calhoun was as much about becoming comfortable in a new country as it was about becoming more comfortable on the baseball field.

  When Thanksgiving rolled around and most everyone left for a few days on break, I stayed behind. There were a few of us on the team who didn’t go home, and we kept up the usual routine. By then it had gotten too cold to practice outside, so we practiced in the gym doing running and base-stealing drills, taking ground balls, hitting in the batting cage, and working out.

  We had a strength and conditioning coach who worked with us, and for the first time I started to lift weights. We did circuit training, which emphasized speed over muscle mass. We also did light weights and lots of repetitions. The weights helped me put on a few pounds, and Mother Nature contributed with another growth spurt that increased my height by a couple of inches. I came into the summer after high school standing a little under five-ten, and by the time I went back to Puerto Rico for Christmas I was just shy of six feet tall.

  I remember how my dad reacted when he saw me. He said, “Whatever they have you doing over there, keep doing it.” It was great to be home, and I dug into my mom’s home cooking, knowing it was going to be a long time before I could eat anything like it again. I was looking forward to the season coming up, but it was hard to be home knowing that I would have to leave everything that was so comfortable and familiar again.

  It was also going to be hard to leave knowing that back at school I’d have to stop basking in the warm glow of being a conquering hero. I think my dad and I waited maybe one day before we went out to the garage to play table tennis. I’d been playing nearly every day while I was gone, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I let my dad serve, and he hit a low hard one to my backhand, always my weakness in the past. I rifled a winner past him going cross-table.

  I caught him sneaking a look at me out of the corner of his eye, assessing me. He then hit a slow spinning serve
to change the pace, and I hammered that one past him. I served a winner, and then we got into a long rally, with both of us switching from attacking to defending. He won that point, but he didn’t win too many more the rest of the game or that match.

  “You’ve been practicing. That’s good,” he said at one point.

  “Not good for you,” I responded, grinning until my face hurt.

  I whipped him pretty badly that night, and most nights after that, and took every opportunity to remind him, taunting him when he asked if I wanted to play again: “Are you sure you want to do that to yourself?” He took it well, but the intensity of those games heated up quite a bit.

  There was something different now about how we competed. At that point, it seemed to be more about the game, about the competition itself, and less about him trying to teach me some lesson about life and me being frustrated and resistant to being more of a pupil than an opponent. Now we were two guys playing a game, both of us loving to win and hating to lose, but with no other kind of psychological overtones to it. We were engaged in a grudgeless match.

  Some of how I felt about those battles with my dad had to do with him writing to me while I was away. Even if they’d been boring “how’s the weather?” letters, I was pleased to get them. But they were more than that. Like me, my dad’s a very emotional guy, and growing up, I mostly saw the negative side of that. In those letters, though, he told me how much he missed me. I didn’t expect to hear that. I sat in my room in the Cabanas, reading his letters, and at first felt a little bit stunned, but that feeling was edged aside by a feeling of warmth and affection that I didn’t always associate with my dad. I loved him, but this guy was someone I liked, someone who wasn’t up there while I was down here. The funny thing was, that other guy, my dad with a capital D, was still present in those letters. He’d provide me with warnings and guidance and make me feel like a little kid in a way, but then there were those other sections where he’d share his feelings and fill me in on some of what was going on in his work. The shift was subtle, but it meant a lot to me.

  Still, he never told me how proud he was of me for what I’d accomplished to that point. He kept urging me to work harder and keep achieving more. He wanted me never to be satisfied. So things between us remained complicated. I reported back to him after every game, and fortunately I had a very strong freshman year. At the end of the season and the school year, I went right back home. I knew that the Yankees still held the rights to me, and I liked having that option available to me, even if my dad wasn’t thrilled about the idea of me going to the Yankees.

  “No es bueno,” my dad would say about the Yankees. He’d worked for them very early on in his scouting career, and he knew the organization was a very good one, but he was troubled by a couple of different aspects of it. The Yankees hadn’t really signed that many players out of Latin America for whatever reason. My dad knew who was getting drafted by whom, and he wanted me to go to a team where I’d have more Latin players around me. He was aware that I’d adapted well to playing in Alabama, but he also knew that the transition to pro ball would be even tougher. I’d been homesick and had complained to my mom, and he didn’t want those kinds of distractions to hurt my chances. He believed that a happy, comfortable player does well on the field and ultimately that’s all that matters. Still, the reality was that, no matter the circumstances, if I didn’t produce, I’d be gone.

  So when the Yankees drafted me again in 1990, this time in the 24th round, my dad and I had to talk about the Yankees again. He stood firm. He wanted me to go back to Alabama to play for Calhoun. They’d given me an opportunity, I’d taken advantage of it, the program was good, and I’d been drafted twice by one of the best organizations in all of sports. I was likely to get even more attention from other teams. If the Yankees wanted me, they were going to have to pay for me. They would have my rights until just before the draft in 1991. If I had a good year at Calhoun, the price would go up.

  This wasn’t just a bargaining ploy. He really felt that it was in my interest to go to another organization. His concern wasn’t just about what he perceived as a relatively low number of Latin players in the Yankees system. At that point in Yankees history they had also shown a willingness to trade younger players in their minor league system for veterans. My dad believed in loyalty, and while you could look at a trade in two ways—someone wanted you, but someone else wanted to get rid of you—he believed that I’d be better off staying within the organization that drafted me. You have to remember that he was a scout, and he was very loyal to his guys, the ones he drafted. He didn’t like seeing them shipped off to another team where he would no longer be one of the guys looking after their career.

  In the end, I don’t know if his strong sense of loyalty, his desire to have control, and his deep concern for me as his son got all jumbled up in his mind. Or maybe he saw my opportunity more as the shot at playing pro ball that he’d wanted for himself at my age. Regardless, I trusted his experience to help me make the right decision. The problem was, I really wanted to be a New York Yankee.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Moving On

  I was happy to be able to take a bit of Puerto Rico back to Alabama with me for the 1990–1991 season. Wilson Ronda was one of the better pitchers I faced in American Legion ball back home, and Coach Frickie was glad to have him join us. Wilson moved into the same cabana I was in, and it was good to have a familiar face around the dorm and on the team. I wanted to help Ney (the nickname he went by) adjust, so the two of us pooled our money, about $300, and went out and bought a car—a 1970 Chevy Nova. The Nova is a classic example of a product being given a bad name. In North America, among English speakers, it’s no big deal—Nova. But in Latin American or other Spanish-speaking countries, Nova sounds like no-va, which means “no go.” Well, our Nova went. It wasn’t the best-looking car, or in the best condition, but it got the two of us around.

  I don’t know if it was having Ney around or what it was, but that Nova didn’t satisfy completely our need to get around on four wheels. Next door to the Cabanas sat a small manufacturing plant that had a semitrailer truck parked on a crushed-gravel area. Most of the time it was just the cab that sat there, without a trailer. One Sunday when no one was around the Cabanas and the whole campus seemed empty, Ney and I decided to check out that truck. As you know, I didn’t have the best history when it came to two-wheeled vehicles—though I still would have loved to have owned a scooter or a motorcycle—but I have always loved cars and trucks of all kinds.

  Climbing up into the truck’s cab, we immediately noticed the keys in the ignition. I looked around. The area was still empty. I could hear one song leaking out of the far end of the most distant cabana. I squinted my eyes to listen and could just barely make out Technotronic’s “Pump Up the Jam.”

  I knew how to drive a stick shift, so if we were going to do this thing, I needed to be behind the wheel. Scattering papers and soda bottles, Ney settled into the passenger seat.

  I got the engine going, and then as I eased the clutch out carefully while giving it just enough gas, we edged forward. I knew better than to take the truck too far. But the thrill of just creeping along wasn’t going to be enough, so I drove it down one of the two-lane roads that bordered the campus. I got it to shift a couple of times, but we didn’t get up to more than 15 or 20 miles an hour. Still, we couldn’t stop laughing at how the thing bumped along and made the loudest racket, with every bit of the interior rattling, shaking, and vibrating. It was more like being on an amusement park ride than in a vehicle.

  In the end, our little joy ride onto campus lasted only about 20 minutes, but it felt like we’d gone cross-country in the thing. I steered it back toward the factory.

  “Oh, shit,” I heard Ney shout. He was staring at the monster side-view mirrors on the truck. All I could see was dust and I thought he was overreacting. Then I took another glance at the driver’s-side mirror and saw what he was panicking about. A golf cart was following us. It wou
ld have been funny seeing a chase between a semi and a golf cart, but I knew who was in the golf cart—some of the campus security guards. They were following us—and gaining on us. A semi isn’t exactly very good at accelerating, but I floored it.

  We both ducked down low so that the guards couldn’t see us in the mirrors. I guess if one of the other guys on the team had been telling the story instead of me living it, I would have found the whole situation funny, but I was starting to panic as well. I felt bad for Ney, since all he’d meant to do was sit in the truck and start it—it was completely my idea to drive it. I decided I’d get him back to our cabana and drop him off. The golf cart was now a little dot behind us. I got him there, and he jumped out of the truck as I slowed to a crawl.

  After parking the truck, I felt that thrill every kid does of having avoided getting caught—a high that’s greater than whatever action made you have to hide out in the first place. The following days were quiet, but then the security guards started to go from room to room, questioning people about the truck and asking if anyone had seen anything. All we said was that we didn’t see anything, and that seemed to be it.

  Then the whole situation evolved into a kind of family drama. After the dean eventually got involved, he said that somebody at the Cabanas had to have seen something, known something, or done something. Since none of us kids were willing to rat on the others, he was going to have to punish every one of us by taking away our living privileges—unless, of course, somebody stepped forward and confessed. That same day I saw local police outside the truck, and they were dusting it for fingerprints. I knew that the next step was for them to fingerprint everybody in the entire Cabanas, and they’d eventually get Ney and me.