Molina Page 13
“That was for the batting title,” he said.
“It was always my favorite.”
Pai laughed. “You don’t know what I had to go through to win that thing.”
I waited for him to elaborate. But he rose and fiddled with the rabbit ears on the TV.
“Did scouts ever talk to you?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. They were around.”
He walked into the kitchen and asked Mai what was for dinner. The conversation was over.
AS SOON AS I saw her, I couldn’t pull my eyes away.
It was the first week of spring training in 1999. We were jogging backward in a running drill. Leaning against the railing just beyond first base stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
“Who’s that?” I asked my teammate Omar Olivares.
“If you want to get shot down, go ahead and ask her out,” he said. He told me her name was Jamie, and she was a stage manager and feature producer for KCAL, the TV station that carried the Angels’ games. “She’s really nice, but she doesn’t date players. Believe me, guys have tried.”
I had no intention of asking her out. I was married. But I couldn’t deny I was mesmerized. I found myself weaving through the ragged line of jogging players to get a better look. I stared at her as I jogged backward into center field, then sprinted forward with the rest of my teammates toward the right-field line. Back and forth we jogged, and I never took my eyes off her. There was such a sense of familiarity about her that I almost expected her to wave at me. Instead she turned away.
Throughout spring training, I watched her interview players. She was comfortable among the guys, like she was everybody’s sister, like she didn’t know she was beautiful. She didn’t interview me because I was a nobody, a minor leaguer. But I plotted in great detail what I’d say to her and what she’d say back, as if I were in seventh grade. But I couldn’t bring myself to even say hello.
At the end of camp, I was summoned into Terry Collins’s office. I knew what he was going to say. And he said it.
“We’re sending you to Triple A Edmonton.”
Back to the minors for the seventh straight season. I was disappointed—you always held out hope—but I wasn’t surprised. Todd Greene was still Collins’s golden boy, even though he had barely been behind the plate all spring because of his troublesome shoulder. Matt Walbeck was named the Opening Day starter, and Greene was the backup, at least until his shoulder was back to 100 percent.
I rose to leave, stepping toward Collins’s desk to shake his hand. But the manager wasn’t finished.
“I don’t think we’re going to see you at all this year. Maybe next year, if you work hard.”
I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. He didn’t expect to see me this season? What if Greene’s shoulder never got better? What if Walbeck got hurt?
And if I work hard? Who worked harder?
I felt my jaw tighten. I wanted to lunge over the desk. Whatever shred of respect I still had for Collins disappeared in that moment. The words registered for what they were: a bully’s playground taunt meant to diminish his target.
Now Collins stood, indicating the conversation was over. I kept my arms at my side. I couldn’t shake this jerk’s hand, I didn’t care what Pai taught me. I turned without a word, walked out, and sat at my locker, my back to the clubhouse. I wanted to punch a wall. Kick a chair. That guy, for whatever mysterious reason, was going to keep me in the minors until I was considered too old to get a shot.
“Did you talk to the man?” Pai asked when I called him that night.
“I was right in front of him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“Listen, you got to keep battling. Your chance will come.”
Right, I thought, like yours did?
During the 1999 season when I played in Edmonton, rumors circulated that Collins was in trouble. The newspapers carried stories about the infighting and splintered factions in the clubhouse. Collins had lost control. The players, led by veteran star Mo Vaughn, reportedly had signed a petition calling for Collins’s ouster. General manager Bill Bavasi told reporters Collins was staying put.
Greene’s shoulder continued to be a problem. And Walbeck was struggling. Collins brought in Steve Decker, Charlie O’Brien, and Hemphill, and all had fallen short of expectations.
Late one night in August, there was a pounding on my door. I tiptoed up to the eye-hole. It was my Triple A manager Carney Lansford and first-base coach Leon Durham. Were they there to send me down? I got back into bed, hoping they’d go away.
“Hey, you idiot, open the freakin’ door! You’re going to the big leagues!”
I waited a second or two, then opened the door, trying to make it look like I hadn’t heard them.
“You’re going to Anaheim,” Carney said. “Congratulations!”
This was the real thing. Not a fill-in for a suspension. Not a September call-up.
Of course, I called Pai.
“I’m going to The Show, Pai. For real this time.”
“You worked hard for this.”
He didn’t say he was proud of me. He didn’t say it when I went to college and learned English. He didn’t say it when I signed with the Angels. He didn’t say it when I won a championship ring in Single A or when my winter team in Mayaguez won the Caribbean World Series.
I had mentioned this once to Mai awhile back.
“Oh, he says it to me. He tells me how proud he is and how happy he is for you.”
“Why can’t he say it to me?”
“That’s just the way he is.”
So I didn’t expect him to say it now. But I waited anyway. I was going to the Majors, probably as a starter—accomplishing something he had dreamed of all his life.
“You better get some sleep,” he said.
COLLINS BARELY SPOKE to me even though I was his starting catcher, at least for the moment. As much as I disliked him, I knew my fate was in his hands. I stayed away from the clubhouse drama, careful never to say a negative word about Collins. I didn’t know if Troy Percival was trying to make up for Collins’s treatment of me, but he became my cheerleader. “He’s not afraid,” he told reporters soon after my arrival. “And there’s no hiding that arm.”
With my promotion to the Majors, I began earning the league minimum, which was $109,000 a season, prorated for the weeks I was there. With each paycheck, I sent gifts home for the girls: dresses, shoes, a toy xylophone, a doll house, a Dora the Explorer doll, Woody from Toy Story. I called five days a week. I sent money to my wife through Western Union. I wanted to buy a car, but I didn’t know how long I’d stay in the Majors, given Collins’s opinion of me. I didn’t want to spend money I didn’t yet have.
On September 3, with less than a month remaining in the 1999 season, GM Bill Bavasi walked into the clubhouse before a game. We knew there had to be big news. Collins had resigned. Who would have thought, back in spring, that by season’s end I’d be on the team and Collins wouldn’t?
In December, I was back with Mayaguez. Mai and Pai were in the stands. I saw the ball coming in. A fastball. I couldn’t get out of the way. The pitch hit my batting helmet on the left temple. My head snapped back. A piece of the helmet went flying, which I later found out Mai thought was my ear. “His ear! His ear! Get his ear!” Mai had screamed. I don’t remember falling. I know I tried to get up but couldn’t. The catcher for Caguas, Javier Valentin, whom I knew from Little League, cradled my head and neck in his arms. He told me to stay calm and not move. They’re coming, he said. Then there was a crowd around me.
“Get me up, man. Get me up,” I kept saying.
At some point they got me on my feet and walked me to the clubhouse. One of the clubhouse boys carried the helmet, and I saw the hole. The trainer didn’t want me to lie down. He asked me what year it was and questions like that. My head and neck hurt. Someone drove me to the hospital for X-rays. Everything looked fine. Pai and Mai drove me home.
The first pitch to me was a curve. I flinched. A curve looks like it’s coming right at you then breaks toward the plate. Strike. Another curveball. Flinch. Strike two. Yet another curve. Flinch. Strike three. I struck out without ever swinging the bat.
Two innings later, I was in the on-deck circle when I heard Pai’s voice behind me.
“Hey! Hey! Bengie!”
Pai was leaning over the front-row railing.
“Hey, are you scared?”
“What?”
People in the lower rows were now watching and listening.
“Do you want to play baseball or do you want to go to the house? What do you want to do?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You looked scared. They know you got hit. So they’re going to keep throwing curves. You know it’s coming. So wait for it. No way they’re going to throw you fastballs. Just sit on the curve.”
He was right on both counts: I had been flinching without realizing it, and I could now use that to my advantage. I sat on the curve and got two hits in my next two at-bats.
It didn’t bother me one bit that he yelled at me in front of other people. He said what I needed to hear. He had my back. I thought later about how harsh he had been when I cried after striking out in Little League. I remembered longing for his arm around my shoulders. But he had my back then, too. Benjamín Molina would raise strong sons. He knew the world chewed up the soft ones.
“WHY DON’T YOU come?” Pai asked.
It was late afternoon. I was watching TV in the living room with Kyshly on my lap. Mayaguez had an off day. Pai was heading to Junior Diaz’s. Mai offered to help my wife watch the girls. Money had loosened up a little with my two months in the Major Leagues. We could have afforded to pay for our own place during the winter season this time, but Mai and Pai wanted us with them. I was certain they weren’t pleased about the constant bickering between my wife and me, but they loved us, and they adored their granddaughters.
When Pai and I walked into Junior Diaz’s, men looked up from their dominoes games and broke into big smiles. I thought they were for Pai. But the smiles were for me.
“Big leaguer!” one of the men said, standing to shake my hand.
Junior Diaz emerged from behind the counter. “Congratulations!” He shook my hand, too. “What’ll it be? On the house.”
Junior Diaz clapped Pai on the shoulder.
“Your boy!”
Then he turned back to me and squeezed my bicep.
“What are they feeding you over there?”
Pai allowed himself the slightest smile, as if a full smile might give someone the wrong idea, like he had a big head. When neighbors had stopped me on the street or in the market since I had returned home that winter, almost every one said the same thing: “I had to see it in the paper for myself. Your father said nothing!”
Junior Diaz left and returned with two cans of Coors Light. Pai was already at the dominoes table, where, over his objections, someone vacated a chair for him. One of the neighborhood men offered me his seat.
“No, no,” I said, embarrassed.
I leaned against the low wall behind the table, the way I did as a kid. Everyone wanted to know what it was like in the big leagues. How much money did I make? How were the fields? How did I deal with the fans? How big were the stadiums? How was my English? How was the food? Did I go to a restaurant every day? How were the people? Were they racist? What kinds of cars did the players drive? Did I see movie stars in California? How was the game different?
I told them the big leagues were even better than I imagined. Every ballpark was like a jewel. They cut the grass every single day. The dirt was so smooth and clean. The clubhouses were huge, twice as big as in the minor leagues. There were TVs everywhere. You got fresh towels every day. Every clubhouse had a dining room, so you didn’t have to worry about food. There were freezers filled with ice cream and shelves lined with candy. You could take handfuls, as much as you wanted. I patted my belly. “I have to watch it!”
A few neighborhood boys wandered in and bought Cokes at the counter. They hung by the entrance, far enough away to avoid attention, close enough to hear.
I described the different states and cities I visited. Mostly they knew just about New York and Florida. I said I hadn’t seen a movie star yet. I said the people were educated but humble and friendly. They weren’t racist. I said big stars like Mo Vaughn were nice; he had even taken me out to dinner. I said the game was a lot faster than it looked on television. But at the same time, it’s not so different from playing on our field. I told them about the chartered planes and how every player pretty much had a row to himself. I said on my off days I got to go to Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm with my daughters. It was like a dream, I said. Better than anything.
The dominoes were scattered on the tables untouched. I kept talking. I had never talked so much. It was exhilarating to command the attention of the men at Junior Diaz’s.
Then I caught a glimpse of Pai. He was listening, too, but his face was closed. His look suggested it was time to dial it down, that I might have a fancy job in California but I should be humble, remember who I was and where I was from.
It occurred to me for the first time that maybe his feelings about me making it to the Major Leagues were complicated. I wondered if he truly was okay with me surpassing him in baseball and money. Was he mad at me in some way?
I was still figuring out the rules to Pai’s world.
I wrapped up my story as Pai slid the tiles around the table with both hands, mixing them for a new game. No sooner had I uttered my last word than Pai was asking one of the men about his children. Wasn’t one of them working at Kmart? Didn’t another just have a baby?
Pai drank a half dozen Coors Lights. He talked and laughed more as the cans piled up. He told stories I had never heard. He told of calling Mai from the police station late one evening. He had been arrested for driving drunk after a night out with Vitin.
“So I told her, ‘I just wanted to let you know where I am and I’m fine. Whatever you do, don’t tell Vitin, Joel, and especially Eliu. He’s the mother of gossip.’ ”
In Pai’s telling, Mai promptly called Vitin, who called Eliu, who called his brother Miguelito, who was a police sergeant. Miguelito and Vitin went to the station, where they found Pai laughing and chatting with the police officers. Miguelito brokered a deal. Pai could go home as long as Vitin drove.
At Junior Diaz’s, Pai leaned forward to deliver the punch line.
“So I say to Miguelito. ‘What? I’m not driving home with Vitin! He’s drunker than I am!’ ”
Everyone howled.
I watched Pai slapping domino tiles with the other leather-faced men who worked hard and drank hard, whose lives began in Dorado and likely would end there, too. Was that enough for Pai, who by all accounts had had big dreams? With two of his sons playing baseball in the States, and another sure to follow, I wondered if his beloved Dorado suddenly seemed small.
I BEGAN TO dread going home after games. My girls were asleep by the time I drove across the island. My wife was awake. Every conversation became a battle and an indictment. I had failed her again in some way. She was suspicious of every female fan who spoke to me. She became more possessive, wanting me to account for my time. Among family and friends, I barely talked to her. She retaliated by contradicting everything I said with snide remarks, jumping into conversations to say I didn’t know what I was talking about and retelling my version of a story. In private, I told her it embarrassed me to be upbraided in front of other people. She said it embarrassed her to be ignored. Soon we’d be yelling.
In retrospect, I should have been more sensitive and tried to understand how difficult it must have been for her. I was gone all the time. I came home exhausted, often in pain. I wasn’t great company. For her part, she couldn’t put h
erself in my shoes and see that I was doing the best I could.
My $109,000 salary wasn’t exactly lotto money, but it meant that soon I could move my family out of my in-laws’ house and buy a home of our own. Not that I expected this would stop the arguments. I’d beat myself up for being drawn into these fights. I hated yelling in front of the girls—and I hated being yelled at in front of the girls. I felt weak and petty, the opposite of my father. I didn’t like who I had become. I worried about the effect on our daughters. What were they learning about how to treat people when they saw their mother and father behaving with such disrespect for each other?
We tried to put up a good front with Mai and Pai. But the marriage disintegrated day by day, word by word. My wife and I were combatants in a war we couldn’t remember starting and had no clue how to end.
Mayaguez won the winter league championship for the third year in a row, and Mai, Pai, and my brothers were waiting when I emerged from the clubhouse after the deciding game. Among the well-wishers was a Puerto Rican scout who had dismissed me every time I tried out. I still resented him.
“I want to congratulate you,” the scout said, reaching out to shake my hand. I brushed past him, leaving his hand hanging in the air.
When we got into the car, Pai exploded. He was angrier with me than I had ever seen.
“You do that in front of me? Act like a man!”
“He tried to keep me out of professional baseball, and you want me to be nice?”
“He’s an older man and you disrespected him! I taught you better than that.”
“Okay, Pai. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
I felt terrible that I had embarrassed him. But I didn’t feel bad about snubbing the scout. That felt good.
Mayaguez made it to another Caribbean World Series, and it was held at Bithorn Stadium in San Juan. I hit a grand slam to help us win the first game against Mexico. I was whisked to a press tent for the first time. Yadier tagged along and advised me to wear my hat backward. “Cooler that way,” he said. (I’ve worn my hats that way ever since.) There were more cameras and microphones than I had ever seen. All the Caribbean media was there. My legs shook. I took a breath and thought about all the times Mrs. El-Khayyat made me speak in class.