For two years Manuel played shortstop for the Orioles in the Dominican Republic; then, without warning, he was released. “I don’t know what happened,” he said, his eyes almost tearing, fifteen years later. It was over. He never even made it off the island. “I had a dream,” he said. “I would play baseball in the major leagues and earn money for my family. They are poor people. My father can’t work. My mother has no work and I was going to buy them medicine and everything they needed.”
Manny Alexander was sent up and had a major-league career. He never became a superstar, but he could return to San Pedro an ex-major leaguer and a man of affluence. Manuel, on the other hand, cleaned machines at Porvenir for twenty pesos an hour, which was less than a dollar. Seeing the hopelessness of that, he worked for five years in the free zone as a quality-control inspector of blue jeans. He had gotten married and had two children to support, so he worked extra hours, but he could earn only about 900 pesos, which, as the peso declined against the dollar, ended up being around $30 a month. “I wasted five years of my life in that place,” he said.
He started working as a coach for José Canó, training teenage prospects for a share of their signing bonuses. He worked with them every morning and seemed to enjoy the work. But the brother who didn’t play baseball and worked as a mechanic seemed to be better off than the shortstops. One of their sisters managed to put her son through the local medical school. So there was hope.
“I’m still here,” said Manuel, still lean because he never got American-fed, but tall and fit. “I’m still alive. I have a life. And I have two sons who are going to be big.” His son Alexis, still small at thirteen—he hadn’t had his teenage growth spurt yet—already had a good swing and was developing his hands in the family trade: playing shortstop.
“Are you going to be a pro?” he was asked.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. Manuel and the entire family were hoping, but they knew that this was a dream that could vanish without warning in an instant. Manuel had come to see life differently. “They say a man who has no money is nothing, but I don’t believe that. If you are a good person and you work hard, you are not nothing.”
The Education of a Center Fielder
The highway east from Porvenir that goes out to the cane fields of La Romana is intersected by dirt roads. This is suburban sprawl Dominican style: a maze of uncharted, unpaved roads on which new houses—small concrete blocks with sheets of corrugated metal for roofs—have been built, painted turquoise or sky blue, with shrubs and gardens around them. An American might look at such a neighborhood of small blocks with tin roofs off dirt streets that turn muddy when it rains and think this is a slum. But in the Dominican Republic, a land that lacks a middle class, this is considered a middle-class neighborhood.
In one such neighborhood, Barrio Buenos Aires, there was a typical house, a bit better maintained than some of the neighbors’, with a motor scooter and a shiny SUV parked safely out front behind a steel gate on which the Cleveland Indians logo was carefully hand-painted. Both the SUV and the logo said that Major League Baseball had come to this home. This was the home of the Abreus.
Enrique was a construction worker. When he finished a project, he had to find another, and often there were weeks of unemployment in between. Senovia was the principal of a colegio, a private institution that offered grade school through high school. Despite the late-model SUV and large stereo equipment, theirs was a modest home with small rooms and a corrugated metal roof.
In 2007 their oldest son, Abner, a shortstop, signed with the Cleveland Indians for $350,000—more than an average bonus. The size of the bonus was important not only for the money but as a reflection of the organization’s commitment. A $350,000 signing bonus indicated that the Indians were excited about this young shortstop.
But the Abreu home, aside from the logo on the gate and the things they had bought, was not about baseball: it was about education. Their little windowless living room, cooled, when the electricity was working, by wall-mounted fans, proudly displayed pictures of their sons in caps and gowns for various graduations, rather than suited up for baseball. A place of pride went to a plaque awarded to Abner for his honors performance. In recognition of academic achievement, it said. Abner was studying at the Universidad Central del Este but dropped out to sign.
Major League Baseball was finding out that Dominican parents were upset that their sons were giving up their educations for baseball contracts. This was partly because the families had come to understand that even though their sons had signed, they were not likely to have major-league careers. Charlie Romero said, “Baseball is such a big thing here. A lot of kids don’t care about school if they can get signed. But their parents come here and say, ‘He doesn’t want to go to school anymore. He just wants to play baseball.’”
The Tampa Bay Rays started putting a clause in their contract stating that if a Dominican player was released, they would pay for his education through college. They could not afford the signing bonuses of the Red Sox and the Yankees, so this was a relatively low-cost way of making signing with them more attractive.
Enrique’s father was a chicken farmer who dispensed medical assistance in rural areas. Senovia’s father worked in the cane fields. Enrique and Senovia had bettered their lives and hoped their three sons would do the same.
But the sons loved baseball.
Enrique claimed that he was a good player, although he never signed anywhere. He played every position. “In my day you played everywhere,” he remarked.
The sons caught it from the father. They started playing at the age of six. Enrique said, “For them baseball is like food. They live baseball. We love baseball. We also know it can give a better life. But we also love it. It’s our life.”
But this was not their plan. “We thought our children would be doctors or engineers,” Enrique explained. “But they always wanted baseball.” He gave a smile of resignation, but Senovia looked worried. She was sorry that Abner had dropped out of school but shrugged: “It is his big dream.” She said she hoped he could still study. Enrique quickly added that while Abner was in Summer League in Boca Chica, he went every afternoon to Santo Domingo to study English. But this course was a required part of the Indians’ academy program.
Meanwhile they were watching the launching of their next son, Esdra, also a star student. He began playing at the age of five in the Escuela de Béisbol Menor de Santa Fe. No rolled socks or stick bats at the baseball school in Santa Fe. They started small boys off with real baseballs and bats and gloves, even uniforms. The school ran through age eighteen. Despite what Enrique and Senovia said about education, they would not have started Esdra at this school if they had not wanted him to be a baseball player. The school was run by Herman Martínez, who grew up behind the center-field wall of Tetelo Vargas Stadium and played in the minors for the Baltimore organization. Asked what the goal of the school was, Martínez replied without hesitation, “To get kids signed to Double A teams.”
He said of Esdra, “As soon as his parents told him to play, all he wanted to do was play baseball.” Martínez, who was a scout at various times for the Mets, the Detroit Tigers, the Cleveland Indians, the Montreal Expos, and the Atlanta Braves, regarded Esdra as his best prospect. “He comes from a good family, well-educated people,” he said. Only then did Martínez mention the strength of Esdra’s throwing arm.
Lean but over six feet tall, with long arms for throwing and long legs for running, Esdra played center field with a strong right arm and was a good hitter—although, like many fifteen-year-olds, impatience often caused him to strike out.
Once Esdra was fifteen he was moved to a more advanced program, where he held his own against sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. The program was called RBI, for Riviviendo el Béisbol en el Interior de Ciudades, Revitalizing Baseball in Inner Cities, a program devised in South Central Los Angeles in 1989 but sponsored in San Pedro by CEMEX. Having, on average, gotten two players signed a year since 2005, it was
considered one of the best programs. Their practice field was the Tetelo Vargas Stadium.
The head coach was the tough and fit Rogelio Candalario, whose pitching career ended in Double A with a broken arm. Their pitching coach had coached Pedro Martínez when he pitched for the Dodgers.
Increasingly in this and other programs, when teams rated players, they did it with money: rather than talking about the great arm, the fast and smart baserunning, the beautiful and natural swing of the bat, they talked of the signing bonus. To say a player received a $300,000 bonus was a way of saying he was a good player. Increasingly in San Pedro, a great ballplayer was one who signed for a lot of money. By extension, some would say of Esdra, “His brother signed for $350,000,” as though to say, “He has a good bonus in his genes.”
By the spring of 2008 a number of scouts were watching Esdra. He was going to qualify for July 2 bidding and it seemed certain that there would be a number of bidders. The date of July 2 only had to be mentioned and blood would rush to shy young Esdra’s face. Dany Santana was interested, but he scouted for Tampa Bay, a club that was famous for spending its money carefully. That year they were to make it into the World Series with their low-budget team. He said of Esdra, “He is fast but not as good as his brother Abner. He doesn’t practice enough. He only practices three days, because he is always going to school. It’s this July 2 he will be signing, but maybe not with us, because I think he may cost more than he’s worth.”
Santana was right. The highly organized system was driving up prices. On July 2 the Texas Rangers signed Esdra for $550,000. The Abreus, having already taken in $900,000 in signing bonuses, were on their way. But they still had one more card to play: their youngest son, Gabriel. Gabriel was a little beefier than his brothers—beefier than most Dominicans. Before he was even a teenager he had learned English, to be ready for playing in America. The young Macorisanos knew a great deal about what was needed to make it to the majors. It was a different world than just a few decades earlier when Rogelio Candalario signed with the Astros in 1986 without learning a word of English. “When the manager said something, I would watch the first person who did something and try to guess what the manager had said.” But they weren’t getting half-million-dollar signing bonuses in those days, either.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Curse of the Eastern Stars
It was January 2008. Going down the homestretch of the season, the Estrellas had won seven of their last nine games and were firmly in first place. But the other teams were not worried. Nor were Estrellas fans excited. This was San Pedro’s Estrellas Orientales, the Elephants, a team that had won only three championships in almost one hundred years—the last one in 1968, when they beat Santo Domingo’s Escogido.
They needed only three more wins to clinch the playoff. But, to no one’s surprise, they lost six games in a row. Now it was the final elimination match and it was on the home field, Tetelo Vargas Stadium. They had to win now or their season was over.
José Mercedes, a starting pitcher for Licey, said, “Don’t feel sorry for them. They do this every year.”
And in fact no one was giving them any sympathy. Tetelo Vargas Stadium was half empty. Many of those who were there were rooting for Santiago’s Águilas Cibaeñas. Alfredo Griffin had been general manager of the Estrellas for the past three years. He was still a fit shortstop, a calm, soft-spoken man with few pretensions for a multimillionaire in a small town. His one indulgence was the very bright gold-and-diamond bracelet on his wrist. During his major-league career he had returned every winter to play for the Estrellas, and now as a major-league coach he came home to manage. “I wanted to manage because they are my team,” he said. “I want them to win.”
Not all Macorisanos have this home team loyalty. They know baseball and they like winning teams, so many root for either Licey or the Águilas. Usually Licey or the Águilas win. The rest of the time it is Escogido. The La Romana team, Azucareros del Este, the Eastern Sugar Makers, have won only once: in 1995, when it was managed by Art Howe, an ex-infielder who had managed three major-league teams.
Macorisanos believed in winning, and if the Estrellas were not winning it was their own fault. Julio García, the Cubs’ academy pitching coach, complained, “Everybody here is a manager. They all consider themselves baseball experts.” Not that it was any different in his native Cuba, where a spot is reserved in Havana’s Parque Central for angrily tearing apart the mismanagement of yesterday’s games. The spot is called the esquina caliente, the hot corner. There is no such spot officially reserved in San Pedro’s Parque Central, but that doesn’t stop Macorisanos from having a lot to say.
Dominicans are great fatalists, believing that the future is sealed supernaturally and beyond anyone’s control. They talk a lot about the role of curses, what is called in the Dominican Republic a fukú. Americans are different, but American baseball fans understand. Everyone on the North Side of Chicago knows that the Cubs are cursed. That particular curse, the curse of the billy goat, stemming from the ejection of a smelly goat from Wrigley Field during the 1945 World Series, even sounds like a Dominican fukú. New Englanders knew well the curse of the Bambino that kept the Red Sox from winning a World Series for eighty-six years. And when it was revealed that a shirt of Red Sox slugger David Ortiz—it would have to be a Dominican player to make a good curse—was buried in the concrete of the new Yankee Stadium to curse them, the Yankees management took it seriously enough to pay thousands of dollars to weekend overtime workers to find it and dig it up.
Dominicans see curses at work everywhere. Trujillo used curses. Everyone dabbles in the supernatural. But not in baseball. The reverse of Americans, Dominicans see fatalistic, supernatural forces in life but only science in baseball. If the Estrellas kept losing, there was something wrong with management. Dominicans would not cling to their Indians, or Red Sox, or Cubs, and complain of Bambinos and goats. They just moved on to a team that knew how to win.
Bonny Castillo played twelve years for the Estrellas. “We find any way we can to lose,” he said. “In 1985 we were in the finals, beating Escogido 3 to 1. We lost the next three games. In 1982 we led the league in runs and batting. The team batting average was .305. We beat the Águilas and made the finals.” Then they went home to San Pedro to celebrate. The team’s two best starting pitchers were riding together, and on the bridge over the Higuama, entering San Pedro, they pulled out to pass a bus and hit an oncoming car. Both pitchers were through for the season.
Griffin, who had been having notable success with the Angels in California, was expected to turn things around in San Pedro. And he hadn’t. Griffin knew he was a disappointment. “The fans think that because I’m involved, we are going to win for sure,” he said.
The problem with the modern Dominican League was not that different from the problem in the great showdown of 1937. Then it was a question of who had the money to bring in the most Negro Leaguers and Cubans. In the modern Dominican League it was a question of who had enough money to bring in the most major leaguers. And the answer was clearly Licey, a team that tried to have fifteen or more major-league players on their roster.
José Mercedes, with his roots in San Pedro, explained why he liked pitching for Licey. “Licey pays more and they treat the players well,” he said. “They treat you as family. I always heard this, but this was my first season and it’s true. They clinched the playoffs and they sent me a bottle of champagne.”
Major League Baseball is not a stranger to such inequality. There are tremendous differences in what organizations can afford. In 2008 the highest-paid player was Alex Rodriguez for the New York Yankees. His $28 million salary was more money than the entire roster, disabled list included, of his hometown team, the Florida Marlins. But the Marlins had won two World Series, as have other low-budget teams. The consistency with which the money teams, Licey and Águilas, won the championship was difficult to ignore.
At the start of the new century the Dominican League began addressing this i
nequality. A draft, similar to the major-league draft, was initiated in which the losing team had the first pick of available players. Griffin was among the many who thought that this would even out the results. But in the first six years of the draft, either Águilas or Licey won every year.
It was growing harder to get major-league players. The major-league clubs did not like their multimillion-dollar properties risking injury in the Dominican Republic in the off-season. It had happened too many times. Everyone remembered 1971 when Rico Carty, at the height of his skills, was out for a year from an injury playing for Escogido. The clubs started limiting the participation of their players. “When I was in the majors,” Bonny Castillo complained, “they let us play. They’re probably protecting their money.” Attitudes change when a few million dollars have been invested in the player.
Griffin claimed that the reason the Estrellas went on a losing streak at the end of the season was that they had lost their best players, including two San Pedro natives, Daniel Cabrera and Robinson Canó. Griffin had to use Cabrera judiciously because the Orioles would only allow him to pitch five games for the Estrellas. Now, at the end of the season, his five games were used up. Canó, one of the Estrellas’ most reliable hitters, could no longer play because the Yankees had allowed him to play in only ten games.
To Macorisanos this was not an acceptable explanation for their six-game slide at the critical end of the season. “It’s just an excuse,” said José Canó. “One player doesn’t decide a team.” And it was true that there were numerous other major-league players on the Estrellas, including Fernando Tatis. Griffin, it was felt, had not done what he had to do to win, although there was some disagreement around town about just what that would have been. The general feeling was that he had failed to assemble a good enough team.
The Eastern Stars Page 19
