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Miguel Tejada and the
Dominican Dream
by Dave
Hudgens
Driving from the airport
in Santo Domingo to the outskirts of the Oakland A’s complex in La Victoria
requires a tremendous amount of faith. The road is dangerous and full of
potholes. Natives would rather use their car horns then their common sense to
operate their vehicles. Danger aside, the scene outside is enough to make even
the toughest skinned individual melt. Mud shacks, sewer lined streets, poor half
clothed children begging for money or food - all a part of the everyday life in
the Dominican Republic barrios. This is a far cry from the beautiful Caribbean
beach scenes we so often view on TV. This is survival.
Unlike the land of
opportunity that we live in, there is only one hope, one dream, to take someone
out of this life of destitution and poverty - baseball. Young American boys
dream of being the next Derek Jeter - to become rich and famous. The Dominican
boys dream as well. They dream of becoming the next Pedro Martinez or the next
Miguel Tejada. The difference in those dreams is that the Dominicans’ dream
might give them a house, a car, perhaps indoor plumbing. It might give them
hope.
The Dominican programs of
major league teams have a spring training, summer, and instructional league.
They house the players, feed them, and care for their medical needs. The players
don’t mind leaving their families and living at the team complex because in
doing so they are guaranteed a bed and food. Most of the players are
malnourished and require medical attention.
Growing pains are real and
it helps to know that they are universal to all who play the game. Although it
is tough to go through a coach’s prejudice or striking out in the bottom of the
9th with the bases loaded, it is nothing in comparison to what these Third World
players go through. The following excerpts are from the book, Away Games,
by Marcos Breton and Jose Luis Villegas. I think you’ll find the stories about
Miguel Tejada’s growing pains touching.
(1987) By the age of
eleven, Miguel had stopped going altogether (to school). Instead, he worked at a
garment factory in Bani, washing clothes and ironing pants and shirts by the
dozen, pressing garments until he grew woozy from the smell of starch and steam.
During this period, Miguel would rise early in the morning, work, and then
return to playing baseball by the afternoon, never missing a chance to take a
few swings.
(1989) Mora Tejada
(Miguel’s mother) died on December 21st at the age of forty-nine, passing away
in her sleep. Miguel has very few recollections of those days, except praying on
his knees to her every night before he went to sleep. For a time, he went back
to the way he was as a child refugee - he simply lived, existed. His life had no
direction and was filled with only the obligation to make money - a feeling
heightened by the fact his father left to look for work in another town. So did
Juansito, who was five years older than Miguel. Other family members scattered
as well, leaving thirteen-year old Miguel and sixteen-year old Denio to fend for
themselves. Often, the Tejada boys would rely on neighbors to eat. Of all the
hardships Miguel had endured, this was the worst. He readily admits now that he
all but gave up once she was gone. He stopped playing baseball for a short time.
(1993) Taking the field on
his first day at shortstop, Miguel was feeling cocky, feeling he could handle
any line drive hit his direction. And in the very first inning, Miguel got his
first test. A teenager from the neighborhood hit a hard grounder that took one,
a second, and then a third bounce before reaching him. Steadying his feet,
Miguel planted himself and - following the ball with his eyes- positioned his
hands at chest level. But on that last bounce, the ball jumped hard off a rock
and shot straight up, crashing into his lips and front teeth and spilling blood
all over his shirt. Laughter rang out across the diamond as Miguel fell backward
and rolled over, clutching his mouth with his hands. With tears in his eyes and
blood on his hands, Miguel picked up the ball, but it was far too late to get
the runner at first. Miguel was disoriented, and he felt his face throbbing as
his lips swelled and the blood dried on the front of his shirt. But the game
kept going and more balls came at him, bouncing off his chest, his arms, his
shins. Barefoot and hurting from his first taste as a shortstop, Miguel turned
away from the others and did what he often did after a game. He ran toward home
wondering what he was going to eat that night, wondering whether he would ever
escape Los Barrancones. For weeks after his 17th birthday, when no professional
team showed a real interest in him, Miguel felt as he had on that first day he
played shortstop. He felt totally and completely alone.
Miguel did not go
unnoticed. The A’s ended up signing Miguel and sending him to the states for his
first spring training in 1995. I have had the pleasure of working with him since
1996. As a minor league player, he was one of the most determined and talented
young ball players I had ever seen. He could throw, run, and hit for power. He
was young and had no clue what he was doing. He had to be developed from square
one, but he had a determination that allowed him to figure out how to get things
done.
As a young kid he used to
allow his anger to get the best of him because he wanted to make it to the big
leagues so quickly and so badly. Once he realized that the anger not only wasn’t
helping him, but in fact was actually hurting him, he turned that anger into
focus and started learning how to work to attain his goals. He improved every
year. He was small when he signed and ended up growing to his current height of
5’9. What he lacks in height, he makes up for in heart. I don’t know of a harder
worker. After three and a half years in the minor leagues, Miguel realized his
dream, and he was called up to the Major Leagues in 1998.
As Americans, we are able
to provide so much to these young hopefuls. We bring them out of poverty and
give them an opportunity for a new life. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t
mention the things they teach us. Either before or after their street games of
baseball are over, these young men go to work. Most Dominican boys start working
around the age of five or six. This is a land where Nintendos, Play Stations,
and Game Boys don’t exist. The intangibles are obvious - hope, courage,
longsuffering. The baseball aptitude is a little less obvious, but there none
the less. The Dominican players play the game.
During a workout, the A’s
Farm Director, Keith Lieppman, and I were talking about hitting. They noticed
that few, if any, of the Dominican players have long swings. They may have other
problems, but a long swing is not one of them. Then they were able to put it
together – it is because Dominicans never swing an aluminum bat.
Generally speaking, they
swing old broken bats or sticks. That’s one of the reasons why they are so good
- they have to figure out how to hit the ball with what they have, which is not
much. Their playing fields are dirt and weeds. They have learned to field and
catch without gloves. Baseball and survival is their life. Dreams sometimes do
come true. The next time I make that treacherous drive from the airport to the
complex and peer into the faces of the young boys playing on the streets, I
can’t help but wonder which one will be the next one to have his dream come
true. As an American, I’m grateful to be a part, even an insignificant part, of
it.
- Dave Hudgens
has been involved with the best of baseball for
over 30 years. He
is currently the Minor League Hitting Coordinator for the
Cleveland Indians. Prior to that he was
a longtime
hitting coach in the Oakland Athletics' organization.
Be sure to check out Coach Hudgens'
Hitting for Excellence DVD Series: |
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