It's Not Who You Know

Berto and Jim Rice

About twelve years ago I had the privilege of going to a San Francisco Giants game as a guest of a guest of the person playing the national anthem. This meant we got access to a catered luxury box and everything that comes with it. The game was notable for being the major league debut of future Twins All-Star closer Joe Nathan who began his career as a starter for the Giants. The box was full of people I didn't know which I was used to with these types of events but being an out going type I chatted with the people around me about the game and baseball in general.

When we left my host asked "So, did you get an autograph?"

"From who?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Tony Perez. The guy sitting next to you."
"Like, Big Red Machine? Tony Perez?"
"Yeah. The guy you were talking to."
"No. No one told me that was Tony Perez."
"So I guess you didn't meet Cepeda either."
"Orlando Cepeda?"
"Yeah, with the hat."
"I met him. We talked. I didn't get his name. Dude, you have got to tell me these things."

So there it was. I had just spent four hours talking baseball with a couple hall of famers and didn't even know it. Looking back it was probably a good thing I didn't know. I wasn't intimidated or over awed. I probably said somethings that made me look stupid in regards to baseball but I was myself. When I remember that day I don't dwell on the missed opportunity to get autographs and take pictures. I think of the rare chance to sit with legends on an equal footing. They didn't look at me and shake their heads at this kid who thought he knew the game. They engaged me in conversation. What I didn't know that day gave me a rich and treasured experience.

Ten years later I had another rare baseball opportunity. I was hired to work at the boston Red Sox fantasy camp . The camp was staffed by a mix of former Red Sox like Spaceman Lee, Oil can Boyd, and others who didn't have cool nicknames with appearances by current Red Sox coaches, hall of famer Carl Yastrzemski, and future hall of famer Jim Rice. Everyone (except Yaz who was only there for one day) did a great job of integrating the campers, men between the ages of 30 and 75, with the former players. Again here was a group of former big leaguers treating everyone around them as equals. Maybe this shouldn't be such a big deal, but in an age of pampered stars it was refreshing.

The main difference between the camp experience and the luxury box experience is that I knew who most of the players were. I had a chance to read a little bit about them and their careers before I arrived, they were introduced the first day, we spent a week hanging out and playing ball ten hours/day. We got a chance to get to know them. At one point Jim Rice asked me about my mismatched uniform (white home jersey/grey away pants):


"They didn't give me a uniform Jim. I had to put this together myself."
"Aw c'mon it's not what you know, it's who you know. If you had come to us we could have hooked you up."
"I didn't know I knew you Jim."

One of my favorite guys was Luis Tiant. El Tiante was a good guy. Sox fans love Luis Tiant. I was not a Sox fan so all I knew about Tiant, other than him pitching in the 1975 World Series, is what I learned by talking to him. I knew he was from Cuba. I learned that he likes cigars and he's a jovial joking, kind hearted man. I left camp with a fond impression of El Tiante. It turns out I had only scratched the surface. I if I had known then what I've learned since I would have stood in awe of him.

ESPN recently premiered "The Lost Son of Havana" a film about Luis Tiant's first trip back to Cuba in 46 years. Luis Tiant was playing pro ball in Mexico when the Bay of Pigs Invasion occurred. At that time cuban athletes playing abroad were told to either come home and play amateur baseball or be exiled. Tiant, whose father had played in the Negro Leagues, chose Major League Baseball and exile. I won't recount his entire career here except to mention that Luis began playing in the US under Jim Crow, came back from injury, perception and age several times, and turned in one of the great World Series pitching performances of all time albeit in a losing cause. The crowning moment for Tiant was 1975 when Fidel Castro allowed Tiant's parents to leave cuba to watch their son pitch for the Red Sox. They hadn't seen each other in 14 years. El Tiante's father Luis Tiant Sr. who had pitched the New York Cubans to their only Negro League title was finally allowed to take the mound in a major league park when he threw out the first pitch at Fenway prior to his son's game. A year later both of Luis Tiant's parents passed away within a few hours of each other, his father of cancer and his mother of a ruptured aorta.

The legacy of Luis Tiant is that of a man who gave up everything to follow his dream. He gave up his family, and he gave up his homeland. His desire to test himself at the highest level and to fulfill the dream his father was never able to attain turned him into a permanent sojourner. He faced discrimination here and a mixture of scorn and admiration at home. Luis Tiant is a symbol of strength and perseverance. He is also part of the enduring legacy of Jackie Robinson.

It may seem like a leap to go from Luis Tiant to Jackie Robinson but follow me for a moment. There has been a lot of talk over the past few years about the dwindling impact of Jackie Robinson's legacy. People point to the decreasing numbers of African Americans in the majors as though it's a slap in the face of all the Robinson endured. The claims often indicate that baseball is not doing enough to attract African Americans to the sport and is thereby disrespecting Robinson in the process. This analysis in itself diminishes the impact of Robinson's legacy by overlooking dark skinned Latin American players.

Luis Tiant Sr. was not African American but he was barred from playing major league baseball because of his skin color. Jackie Robinson did not just break the color barrier for African Americans, he broke it for all players of color. Without Jackie Robinson there would have been no El Tiante in Boston, we would never have seen Manny Being Manny, no Pedro striking out six in the all star game. Without Robinson there is no Clemente. Without Robinson there is no Tony Perez or Orlando Cepeda for me to lead off this article with. Without Jackie Robinson there is no Mpho Ngoepe. Haven't heard of him?

Mpho Ngoepe is a Pirates minor leaguer and the subject of a recent Sports Illustrated article. Mpho, or "Gift" is trying to become the first ever African player in the Major Leagues. People who focus on the number of African American players in the major leagues as the sole measure of Jackie Robinson's legacy are doing a disservice to both Robinson and to all of the dark skinned Latino players who have come into the league since 1947. They are also marginalizing players like Gift who will come into the league in future years.

In the end it isn't about who you know. It's what you know about them. Orlando Cepeda, Tony Perez, and Jim Rice are all in the Hall of Fame. Meeting them was a thrill, even if only in hindsight. But everything I know about them begins and ends with their credentials. It's Tiant that I will always remember the most. Thinking about this jovial little butterball that I joked with and drank with for a week one spring, how I saw him then, and everything I've learned about him since will stick with me as one of the most cherished experiences of my life. Knowing that this man who had been through so much, dealt with so much pain, could keep on smiling is something I hope I can carry into my own life. When I sit down to teach my son about baseball I'll teach him about Rickey and Campy, and Manny. But I'll take extra time to teach him about Jackie, and Clemete, and Tiant, the man who gave up everything, and kept on laughing.

My Son's First Game/Rickey Henderson Day

Taking Buddy Buddy to this game was special for me because it bookended a chapter of my life. When I was a little kid my dad used to take me to A's games and as a three or four year old kid I immediately latched on to my favorite player. He could run, hit, steal bases, and made great plays in the outfield. That player was Dwayne Murphy. Later on I learned to appreciate, then love a new guy named Rickey Henderson. Going to those games are the best memories I have of my father. Baseball is the one thing he gave me, other than my name, that has lasted and I love him for it.

Eventually Rickey replaced Dwayne as my favorite player. When Rickey went to New York I joined my Bronx based family in rooting for the Yankees. (I know, it's a hard thing for me to admit.) When Rickey came back to Oakland in 1998 I was thrilled. The main reason for my excitement was that I was now able to take my eight year old brother to see Rickey. His dad traveled a lot for work so I had the privilege of providing my brother with his baseball education. We'd been going to games for a couple years but taking hm to see Rickey helped me gain some closure with my experience of my father.

Rickey was drafted nine months before I was born. Thirty-three years later I got to bring my three month old son to his first A's game, the day we closed the book on Rickey's career. Number twenty-four has been retired in Oakland. I would have loved to have brought my dad. He passed away almost exactly a year ago. He never knew he was going to be a grandfather.

Having been there for the start of Rickey's career and having my son there for the end means more to me than I can express in print. So I'll close by saying thanks Rickey, for the memories, for the endless entertainment, and for being a constant for all those years. Thanks dad. Your failings were what they were but you tried in your own way and you gave me the gift of baseball.

This video has some typos and the camera work is shaky at best. That's what happens when I hold my son while taping on my cheap little snap shot camera then rush home to put together a video at 12:00am. Anyway, enjoy it for what it is.

Ryu's First Ball Game (Rickey Henderson Day)
So bear with me, I made this after 12:00am last night. I was so excited to get Ryu's first game out there.If you're not a baseball fan you can skip Rickey's speech, but it's pretty good.
Posted by Roberto Santiago on Sunday, August 2, 2009

Happy Opening Day!

I love opening day. That may not come as surprise, but I'll say it again for effect. I love opening day. It hasn't really seemed real for the past two years, but as I sit here, on the cusp of so many changes and so much uncertainty, I know this one thing for sure, I love opening day and opening day will always be there for me.

My first memory of baseball is going to the Oakland Coliseum with my dad. I must have been about four years old. The A's had a hot young left fielder named Rickey Henderson but I was stuck on Dwane Murphy. I loved the way his hat flew off when he chased balls in the outfield. Growing up, one of my treasured possessions was a Henderson signed Billy Ball. Basically, the only real positive memories I have of my father revolve around baseball and, while I swore to be a good brother to my little bro in every way I could, it was baseball that I really strove to pass on to him.

I brought my brother out to our first game on opening day 1997. We went for his birthday, which is always within a week of the season's first game. Until I moved to LA in 1999 my bro and I went to about 40 games a year. We did other things too, but baseball was our thing. It was our brother's day out; away from the world, away from the craziness of our family and our friends. It was time when he and I could bond. We could talk about anything, we were as much two guys going to a game as we were brothers separated by 13 years and a world of experiences. Baseball kept us close.

I think baseball helped me internalize (if you teach it, you gotta live it.), and pass on some of my values and traditions, as well as invent some new ones. For example, I got to teach my brother the nuances of the game by pointing out the moves the games greatest player (we can debate that later). We got to see Rickey play in his last stint in Oakland. I got to teach my bro about the beauty of "The Rickey Run." For those who don't know, a "Rickey Run" is a lead off walk, steal second, steal third, and come in on a single to right. I got to point out the subtlety of the shift, the fact that a triple is three times as exciting as a home run, that the splitter was the pitch of the 90s, and that yelling "Daaaar-yl Daaaar-yl" could get into a grown man's head. Together, we decided that the fourth inning was the nacho inning and that this sacred rite must never be broken, even in Anaheim where the nachos suck.

Through baseball I taught him that you never give up, you never leave a game early. No matter how far behind your team is, you never leave; because in baseball, more than in any other sport, anything can happen. You never know when you may see something you'll never see again. My brother and I were in the stands, with our grandmother attending her first game in over 20 years, for Derek Jeter's amazing backhanded toss to nail a not sliding Jeremy Giambi in game three of the ALDS. We saw Eric Chavez's first career dinger. He was there for "The Bunt Heard Round the World" to beat the Sox in game one last year. Now he's getting into that teenage phase, he wants to be cool. He doesn't hang out with the family as much. But when I came home two weeks ago, the first time since my marriage dissolved, he was there for me everyday. Our bond is strong, in part because of the countless hours we spent around baseball, going to games, listening to games, playing catch in the yard.

After I moved to LA I still made it to three more opening days in Oakland. Last year was the first one I had missed since '97. Still, I made sure that someone took my brother. This year I'm still in DC, I'm still in school, but I made sure he was going. He still calls me from the games. Thanks to him I was there for Giambi's first visit to Okaland as a member of The Evil Empire. I was there as the winning run crossed the plate in last year's ALDS game one. And I'll be there tonight, for the national anthem, and the seventh inning stretch (where they'll sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" like they should), but best of all I'll be there with my bro, like always.

Baseball is forever. Baseball is timeless. Ignore for a moment that juiced balls and juiced players belie my basic premise, the fact is that when you bring a kid to a ball game it's the same for them as it was for us when we were kids (even if it is costing you a week's wages). The smell of the grass, the call of the hot dog guy, seeing 20,000 people wearing the same shirt, it's magic. Baseball is fathers and sons, brothers, friends, its generations connecting. I can argue pitch selection with old men, I can turn to the complete stranger next to me and tell him that David Cone just pitched a perfect game, and he'll care. I can look behind me and know, from voice alone, that the kid behind me is the one that calls the post game show every night. Baseball is a community event and we can all be a part of it. It starts today, the Devil Rays and Orioles are tied for first. Happy Opening day.