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  Perhaps it is because we played “Cubans” that disturbed the Commissioner. Ever since 1920, Cuban teams have visited the Dominican Republic to play baseball. It is an honorable tradition in our countries, and it began long before Fidel Castro took over Cuba, and long before Ford Frick became Commissioner. It is a tradition sports fans in my country cherish, and it is unthinkable to many Dominicans that someone from a foreign country would tell other Dominicans who they can play ball with and who they can’t. It would be like a Dominican telling the United States Olympic team it must not compete in the 1964 Olympics, because it will have to face Russian athletes.

  Besides, this was a group of anti-Castro Cubans. They flew down from Florida—not Cuba—and they returned to Florida. The money they made did not go back to Cuba.

  It turns out now that Cuban ballplayers who are prevented from returning to their country because of Communist control are being prevented from playing in other Latin-American countries by Commissioner Frick.

  There is more. In February of 1963, the first elected president in over 30 years took over in the Dominican Republic. Before that we had dictators. General Rafael Trujillo ruled my country for 31 years. When he was assassinated in May, 1961, a military junta took over. Nobody respected the junta, because it was not elected. The people had no say. And the Communists in the Dominican Republic took advantage of all this, just as they always take advantage of situations where there is not much freedom. The Communist Party was very strong. In November, 1962, when the Cuban series was arranged, the Communists screamed. They did not want the Dominicans playing a team of anti-Castro Cubans. But the Communists are very smart. They knew all about the winter-league rule, and the Commissioner’s office. The Communists didn’t want us to play, and then if we didn’t play, the Communists would be able to say, “See, the American imperialists won’t let the Dominicans play baseball in their own country.”

  We had to play that Cuban series.

  You have to know all this before you can understand why I was so angered by the action of Mr. Frick. In the United States there is much industry and much employment. If a ballplayer wants to work in the United States in the winter, it is not difficult to find work. If you told a United States ballplayer—you will not be permitted to earn money playing ball in the winter—he would shrug his shoulders. He never has to play baseball in the winter to make money.

  In my country there is practically no industry, and very little work. We are ballplayers; it is the only thing we can do. Take away baseball from us in the winter, and you take money away from us.

  Not all the Dominicans who played in that Cuban series were major-leaguers. Oh, sure, we had Javier and Olivo and Marichal and myself, and the Cubans had Pascual, Ramos, Pena, Azcue, and one or two others. But many of the players were Class C and Class D players, who earn very little money in the summer. Most of them will never get to the majors. I did not badly need the money. They did. I was to receive $497 for the series. But in order to pay for the transportation of the Cuban players back to Florida, three Dominicans—Diomedes Olivo, Juan Marichal, and myself—agreed to pay $300 each, to charter a plane. That left me with $197 for the series. Out of that $197 I bought bats and other equipment. Maybe I made, all told, $150. The result was I made less money than the Class C and D players who were in the series. But that part is all right. I only mention it to let you know I did not play that seven-game series against the Cubans to make big money. Also I was very tired, and I wanted to rest.

  But I had to play.

  I am proud that I played that series. I am proud the Dominicans won the series, four games to three. I am also proud I was the leading hitter, with 16 hits in 26 at bats, for a .615 average. And when I received the telegram from Ford Frick saying I was fined $250, I could not believe I would have to pay. (Once before in the National League I had been fined. One day in 1959 in Cincinnati, I chatted a few minutes before the game with Cuban player Orlando Pena. League president Warren Giles was in the stands. He said I was “fraternizing,” and fined me $10. I said, “Maybe I’ll never see Pena again, what with Castro,” and I never paid the fine. Maybe the Giants paid it; I don’t know.)

  Then—two weeks after the first wire—I received a second telegram from Mr. Frick. As I recall, it said, “For not answering me, you must pay the fine before reporting to spring training. If you do not pay, stay home. You will not be allowed to put on a uniform.”

  I was in a rage. My wife, Maria, was furious. She is the one who saves the money in our family. She saw $250 flying out the window. We have been married four years. We had two children at the time; my wife was pregnant. Now we have three children. I receive a nice salary from the Giants, but I am not rich. I send money home to my mother and father. My father’s family is in bad shape. I have uncles, aunts, and cousins who are in terrible shape, out of work, no money. I help. Maybe not as much as I should. But I help. Maria and I need the money I earn. Maria said, “You know you are right. It is your own land where you played. They cannot tell you you can’t play.”

  But right or wrong, there was nothing I could do. I flew to Arizona a day before spring training officially began, and when I went to get my uniform, it was just the way the Commissioner had said. I was automatically suspended until the fine was paid. I spoke with Horace Stoneham, president of the Giants. I spoke with Al Dark. Everybody was very kind, very considerate. But nobody said, “Don’t pay.” They said, “Pay and forget it. You are right, but pay.”

  I am sure the Giants would have paid this fine for me, if I had asked. But it was not a question who would pay the fine. It was the fine that was wrong. If anyone had to pay, I would pay. And that was what happened. I paid. But I did not forget it.

  I guess the Commissioner heard how I felt. It was in the papers. He said he would come to Phoenix, and we would discuss the situation.

  I kept waiting and looking, but he never showed up. I’m still waiting. Mr. Ford Frick is the Commissioner of baseball—even in my country, although he has never set foot in my country.

  And that is the real problem. We need somebody to represent us who knows what goes on in the Latin-American countries. He does not have to be Latin. He does not have to speak Spanish. He does have to see the conditions of these countries, face to face. He has to understand the economic conditions, the poverty. When I was a boy, 13 or 14 years old, I worked on my uncle’s farm during the summer recess from school. I got up at midnight. I milked the cows and got the milk ready to be shipped to the city. At four in the morning, I went back to sleep. Then I got up at seven or eight, to begin my regular chores. Maybe I worked 17 or 18 hours a day. I do not think the Commissioner understands about such things: we need somebody to represent us to the Commissioner who does understand. For a while I worked in a concrete factory. I made $3 a day. That was not so bad. Manny Jimenez worked in a Dominican mill for three years, at $1.45 a day, so he could help support nine brothers and sisters. When I was young, my family—mother, father, four boys and two girls—lived in a wooden shack. We had to go a mile to the river for water. We had no car or truck. I carried water on my head and shoulders.

  I don’t think the Commissioner understands how Latin-American players must make money while we are young enough. If it means playing baseball summer and winter, that is how it ought to be. I think I understand why big-league teams do not want their players competing in the winter leagues. They are afraid we will get hurt, or we will burn ourselves out. Well, that is surely our problem, even more than it is the team’s, or the league’s, or the Commissioner’s. If we wear ourselves out, we are through. But the Giants will still exist, even without Felipe Alou. The Giants will find more and better players to replace us. As a matter of fact, even if we never play winter ball, if the Giants or any team can find players who are better, they will replace us. It is their business. They must field the best team they can. Otherwise they do not win, and if they do not win they will not make much money. That problem stares all players in the eye. We Latin Americans try t
o solve this problem by making extra money while we are young and strong, and while our names command some attention.

  Nor is that all. Latin-American players who earn money in the United States fall under this country’s income-tax law. That is fair enough. But what is not fair—and which I do not understand—is that I, married, and with three children, must pay taxes as a single man. I cannot claim my wife and my children as dependents on my income tax. I bring my wife to this country with me, and my children, and we live in the city of San Francisco, which has just about the highest cost-of-living of any big city in the world. I pay $200 a month rent. We buy food and clothes and everything else, but I am not permitted by law to claim my wife and children as dependents. You know what an enormous difference there is in the tax of a single man, as compared with a married man with four dependents. Yet I cannot take advantage of this difference. You can. I can’t. I do not think this is fair, and there is nobody to take this up, either, with the Commissioner or with the government.

  People ask me: “Why don’t you become an American citizen? Then you can have all the advantage enjoyed by all Americans.”

  For a while I thought of becoming an American citizen. Under Trujillo, it was very bad in my country. Under the military junta, it was a little better, but still bad. The people were unable to speak out. In America, there is freedom. It is a wonderful country. It would have been logical to become an American. But I do not think logic is all that counts. No matter what, I love my country. You have a slogan: “My country, right or wrong.” Well, my country, right or wrong. I am a Dominican. It is my country. And I love it. Things are a little better now, and I think they will get still better. Our new president is a good man, and he will help the poor people. We live under a democracy. The Communists are now very weak. There is very little for them to yell about. They are very quiet. But I think if things were still terrible, I would remain a Dominican. It is my home.

  Citizenship is not the only answer to the problems facing Latin-American ballplayers in the United States. My best friend on the Giants is Jose Pagan. Jose comes from Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico is part of the United States. Jose is an American citizen. Yet he is treated the same way as any Latin who is not an American citizen. This means that the Puerto Ricans find themselves closer to other Latins than to Stateside players. It makes foreigners out of a country’s citizens.

  This is not to criticize Americans. Latins are different in many ways from Americans. We speak Spanish; you speak English. Some Latin players find it difficult to learn any English. I had a terrible time, and I still speak poorly. Some Latins find it so difficult, they just give up, and speak only Spanish. This creates a barrier.

  Perhaps there are a few San Francisco Giants who don’t like it when we get together and speak Spanish. They don’t know what’s going on, and they think we are talking about them. Well, when American players come to my country, or to Venezuela or to Puerto Rico, for winter ball, most of them don’t bother to learn any Spanish, and many Latins wonder what they’re talking about. It works both ways, and I am pleased that many of my teammates on the San Francisco Giants have picked up a little Spanish, just as I have picked up some English. It helps all around.

  Not being able to speak English hurts Latin players in advancing their career. Felix Torres came to this country many times to play professional baseball, but each time he became lonely and discouraged because he could not speak English, and there was nobody to speak with. He would go back to Puerto Rico. Now he plays for the Los Angeles Angels, and he is doing very well, but he lost many years because he could not speak English. When Roman Mejias broke into professional baseball in this country, he said, “It is very hard for me. I not expect to be so lonely. I speak no English at all.”

  But far worse than the language barrier are the insults thrown in the faces of Latin ballplayers. It is said that Latin players “don’t care.” That Latin players “don’t hustle.” Latin players “are lazy.” Or—this is the worst—Latins have “no guts.”

  These are insults, and they grow out of ignorance of the Latin temperament. The Latin people laugh more, smile a lot. Does that mean we don’t care? We don’t go around saying, “I feel this defeat very badly.” But nobody knows how we take it, inside. Sometimes you laugh because you suffer. You laugh, to cover it up.

  Roberto Clemente once said:

  “In Puerto Rico we like to laugh and talk before a game. Then we go play as hard as we can to win. Afterward, we laugh and talk again. But in America baseball is much more a business. Play well and you get a pat on the back and congratulations. Play bad, no pats, and maybe nobody talks to you.”

  That is true. In the Dominican Republic if you lose a game, it is still a game, and afterward there is laughing, singing, whistling in the clubhouse. Here, if a man whistles in the Giant clubhouse, Alvin Dark will say, “That man doesn’t care, he doesn’t really want to win.” Even if he got four hits.

  But I think a man must not be judged in the clubhouse, but on the playing field. It is said Orlando Cepeda had a bad year in 1962, that he did not come through when it counted. That he did not hustle. That he did not care. That he did not really want to win. The Giants even tried to cut his salary after the season.

  I say Orlando Cepeda had a great year in 1962. He hit over .300, he had 35 home runs, he drove in 114 runs. He was very tired, but he missed only three games all year. He did all this the same year the Giants won the pennant, so you cannot say it is the case of a man getting four hits and whistling, but the team losing. Cepeda had his bad days, but so did Willie and everyone else. I feel bad when they talk about Cepeda having a bad year. If Cepeda didn’t have a good year last year, I’ll never have a good year.

  But the worst is this business of “no guts.” Look at the playoff games against the Dodgers in 1962. That playoff showed if the Latins had guts or not. My brother Matty hit the pinch single that began the ninth-inning rally that won the third playoff game. Orlando Cepeda drove in the tying run in that ninth inning. Pagan had six hits in 13 times at bat. Does that look as if the Latin players folded up, and were cowards when it counted?

  I think it is foolish and dangerous to label any people or any nation or any race as having more or less courage, or more or less desire to excel than any other group. They used to say the Giants couldn’t win because they had too many Negroes, and that Negroes “choked up.” Yet, in the playoff Willie Mays had five hits, including two home runs, in eleven times at bat, plus three walks. It was Willie who made the key hit in the ninth-inning rally.

  It just doesn’t work. It isn’t true. For every Latin who doesn’t hustle, I’ll show you five who do hustle. For every Negro who doesn’t care, I’ll show you five who do care.

  I hope this labeling is not discrimination. I think it is only misunderstanding. But even if it is misunderstanding, it is about time somebody spoke up and explained the Latin temperament in a way that is not insulting to the Latin.

  Not that there isn’t some discrimination, as well. When I was signed by the Giants in 1956, I was sent to a Class-D team in Lake Charles, Louisiana, in the Evangeline League. It was the first time I was in the United States, and I guess I should have learned more about conditions in the South, especially if you have a dark skin. There is discrimination of some sort all over the world. There is a little bit—not much, but some—in my own country. But I was not prepared for what happened in Louisiana.

  At Lake Charles, I lived with a ballplayer named Ralph Crosby. Crosby was from Harlem. He and I were the only Negroes on the team. I did not know a single word of English. I followed Crosby all over. We had played five games, when one day they told me I had to leave, and they put me on a Greyhound bus, and shipped me to Cocoa, Florida. Just like that. Without a word. It turned out there’d been a meeting of a representative of each team in the league, with the president of the league. It was decided they didn’t want Negroes in the league. Later I heard it was the governor, Earl Long, who sent word down to Lake Charles. “Get t
hem out of here,” he said.

  Crosby was sent to Visalia in the California League, but pretty soon he quit baseball.

  It was better in Cocoa, in the Florida State League. I had a good season. I hit .380. The people in Cocoa treated me very nicely. Some white people invited me to their homes. But it was not perfect. One night the team went to a restaurant in West Palm Beach. All the white players went inside and ate. There were three Negroes—Chuck Howard, who was later released, Jim Miller, who got up to Triple A before he quit, and me. We had to wait outside the restaurant until the white players had finished and brought us our food. A waitress came outside and wanted to help us. She said, “I’ll serve you out here.” But the owner came out, and he got sore at the waitress, and at us. “You can’t eat out here,” he said. “You can’t wait here in the parking lot. Get out!”

  The other two went across the street, to wait there. They wanted me to go with them, but I was tired, and I did not understand what was going on. So I got into the team station wagon in the parking lot, and I figured I would wait there.

  Well, the police came, to get me, because I was still in the parking lot. They were going to take me to jail, but the white players came out, and the manager, Buddy Kerr, and he explained that I didn’t understand English or the local laws. The white players felt bad and very sorry for us, but that was how things were.

  It is not only in the South. One night in 1959, in Pittsburgh, Orlando Cepeda and I went to a downtown restaurant after a game. We were dressed very well, I think. The headwaiter came up and said, “You looking for a job? We have nothing for you.” We told him we wanted to eat. He wouldn’t let us inside.

  These are the things that happen to Latin players in this country. Something should be done about it. But there is nobody to do anything.