Three out of their four sons were shortstops with good arms, good hands, and considerable talent—three chances at salvation for the family. The first brother signed with the Oakland A’s and progressed to their Single A team in Canada, which released him. The second signed with the Diamondbacks and was released from their Single A team also. Neither one ever came home again. As José Canó observed, “They give you a plane ticket home and that’s it. Some Dominicans go to the airport and change the ticket for New York. Every Dominican has someone in New York.”
Isabel spoke of her sons in dry-eyed anguish: “I haven’t seen one of my sons in six years. The other I haven’t seen in five months. They can’t work. They are illegal but they stay. They say here there are no opportunities.”
“No opportunities,” Alcadio confirmed emphatically.
It was a painful reality for Dominican ballplaying families. The major-league infielder Fernando Tatis grew up in Miramar without his father, who had the same name. The father had signed with Houston when the son was too young to remember. He was released from Triple A but never came home; the son first saw his father in 1997 when he signed with the Texas Rangers and went to the United States. His father came to a game and introduced himself.
The Corporán family had one shortstop left to save them: Manuel. In 1989 the Baltimore Orioles signed him, along with Manny Alexander. They each got a $2,500 signing bonus, but while Alexander bought his bed, Manuel bought the expensive medicine his father needed, and used what was left over to buy food for the family. “I love my parents,” he said. “They gave me the best they could.”
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
I
t 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.