Sitting in the grandstands at Pro Player Stadium during a rainy June 9 game between the Marlins and Orioles, Betancourt holds forth on a panoply of subjects: the void left in baseball by the revolution, his days in the game, and the steps to becoming a good pitcher. It's the first game he has attended since Cuba beat the Orioles at Camden Yards. He says it's also the first time since childhood that he has sat in the stands, just another spectator among fans. "Being here means so much to me, it stirs up my desire to play," he tells a reporter, never letting his eyes leave the field.
photo courtesy Rigoberto Betancourt
Betancourt is in a constant state of desperation and melancholy
Lissette Corsa
Betancourt is in a constant state of desperation and melancholy
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Dressed to impress and showered in cologne, Betancourt is fascinated by the vendors selling beer, popcorn, and Coke. The high-tech scoreboard and overwhelming size of the stadium intimidates him, he says. A swirl of smells from sweet cotton candy to roasted peanuts, hollering vendors by the dozens, and screaming kids are nothing like the desultory stands on the island. Cuban grandstands lack ambiance and fans, he contends. American zeal for the game is reminiscent of Cuban enthusiasm of long ago. "None of this exists in Cuba today; there is no baseball atmosphere," Betancourt comments.
Bjarkman's view of the differences between Cuban and American baseball seems to indicate that exuberance is in the eye of the beholder. "Baseball on the island is delightful to watch," he says. "These guys are obviously playing for the love of the game and for national pride. The fans are the greatest in the world. It's very much like stepping back into American baseball in the Forties. It has all the innocence that's been lost here."
For all the talk of American baseball's greatness, Betancourt can't help but feel pride for Cuba's gamesmanship. He hopes the young players he once drilled will someday be able to realize their potential. "I had prestige," he says. "I was born with a ball in hand and I struggled incessantly to be recognized. I think every player dreams of playing in the big leagues. I hope I live to see a Cuban team fulfill that dream."
As Marlins hurler Dennis Springer takes the mound, Betancourt's attention turns to the veteran's pitching. "He looks down too much before delivering the ball," he says. "That's not good. From the moment a pitcher takes his position he should never lose sight of his target." According to Betancourt, concentration makes or breaks a pitcher. Control, focus, and dominance over the ball are elements of success. "A man who concentrates is surrounded by silence. He doesn't even hear the roar of a crowd."
On a Thursday morning in June, Betancourt arrives at Charles Monfort's front door in Westchester. He's never met Miami's top collector of Cuban baseball paraphernalia and is a little nervous. Monfort opens the door, introduces himself, shakes Betancourt's hand, and hugs him. "Come, come this way," Monfort says warmly. Shuffling past a Victorian-style living room, Monfort solemnly leads Betancourt to an office he calls "mini-Cooperstown." In fact Monfort has hundreds of astounding autographed black-and-white photos of America's best players. Mounted on plaques, each one is emblazoned with the player's name, the seasons he played, and his achievements. From Satchel Paige, "baseball's ageless wonder," to Johnny Vander Meer, who "pitched the only consecutive no-hitters in baseball history," to Martin Dihigo, the only Cuban inducted into Cooperstown, New York's National Baseball Hall of Fame. Monfort's collection is a multiethnic treasure trove. A 1932 photo shows a young Joe DiMaggio at the kitchen table eating as his mother hovers over him clad in a white apron with a wooden spatula in hand.
Betancourt is awestruck; he's never seen anything like it. "I've been working on my collection since I was ten years old," the 69-year-old Monfort says. "I'm truly impressed," Betancourt replies.
Baseball talk a lo cubano ensues over cigarettes and syrup-thick Cuban coffee. The Cuban coach poses for pictures and autographs Spalding baseballs, and Monfort gives Betancourt a copy of his hitting and fielding statistics compiled for the occasion. "Do you know anything about Chiquitin Cabrera?" Monfort asks. "Chiquitin died," Betancourt replies matter-of-factly.
"He died?"
"Yeah, he was a good friend of mine."
"Mine, too," Monfort says. "How about Tomas Soto?"
"Haven't seen him in a long time," Betancourt responds. "He's from another province."
Monfort asks Betancourt if he has any memorabilia, perhaps an old uniform, to contribute to the collection. "I'll have you sign it and then mount it on the wall," Monfort says.
"I gave my old uniforms away in Cuba and you know that in Cuba people don't save things, they use them," Betancourt says.
Betancourt stares blankly at the hundreds of snapshots of his heroes. Then he begins to talk about hard times. "Sometimes I ask myself why I didn't return to Cuba," he says, slumping in his chair. "I feel so lost, like a cosmonaut who was dropped on foreign ground. I thought I would be working right away, but everything has been an obstacle. There seems to be no way out. If I would have known that this is how it was going to be, I would have never stayed."
"You would have made it to the major leagues," Monfort offers, "if only you had gotten here sooner."
