El Profe: What’s in a Name?

Today marks the beginning of Hispanic Heritage Month, a celebration that will run through Oct. 15. Established in 1968 as Hispanic Heritage Week under President Lyndon Johnson, and extended to 30 days in 1988 by President Ronald Reagan, it’s about recognizing and celebrating the cultural and historical contributions of Hispanics to this country.

But what does HHM mean to La Vida Baseball?

Since we launched on March 1, we have been all about Latinos and baseball, 24/7/365. Our whole reason for being is to look at the national pastime through a Latino perspective.

Our content, written and visual, aims to transform familiar stories as well as share lesser-known accounts of Latino figures, historical moments and cultural dynamics through what we call the La Vida twist. This sensibility drives our editorial decisions, informing the questions we ask, the videos we run and the stories we publish.

Over the course of the next 30 days, we will continue to concentrate on the culture of Latinos and baseball. Our coverage will always sharpen its focus on the journey of Latinos in baseball — on the field as players or umpires, working from the press box or clubhouse, or gathered in the stands to root for their favorite teams.

Latino Legends

The stories during HHM will continue to reflect the passion, pride and joy of baseball, and, we hope, illuminate previously hidden figures.

In researching the history of Latinos in baseball and in reflecting on my own experiences dating back to childhood, I became more fully aware of a history hidden in plain sight, one which reveals how baseball has long been about bonding over our families, communities and Latino cultures in ways that lie far beyond the box score.

This is a reality we at La Vida Baseball have witnessed time and again over the course of the past six months.

It’s evident in the hugs and friendly banter current Latino players greet each other with on the field during batting practice, even those on opposing teams. There is an extra thread that holds them together.

It’s in José Abreu sending Latino food to the Houston Astros clubhouse for fellow Cuban Yulieski Gurriel. The dinner fellow Colombians José Quintana and Julio Teherán shared in Chicago, although the former plays for the Cubs and the latter for the Braves.

It’s in hearing Red Sox pitcher Eduardo Rodríguez recount how much it meant to him as a Venezuelan during his rookie season that Mariners ace “King Félix” Hernández opened his Seattle home to host Rodríguez at dinner — and, of course, they made arepas.

We see it in the respect and reverence players extend to Orlando Cepeda, Tony Pérez, Juan Marichal, Luis Tiant and other Latino legends.

In fact, their actions turn the notion of what makes a legend on its head, revealing a whole other layer of meaning and history. One that is truly Latino baseball.

It’s in the Puerto Rican Cepeda bellowing out “Casanova!” from the All-Star FanFest Clubhouse stage in Miami in July when he saw the now-deceased Cuba native Paul Casanova entering the room.

It’s watching Roberto Alomar break protocol and leave the red carpet during Induction weekend’s Hall of Fame Parade when he realized one of the voices he heard shouting “Robbie” was that of his baseball hero, José “Cheo” Cruz, the former Houston Astros outfielder. Robbie had to pay his respect to Cheo.

Their actions reveal a knowledge of those outside the usual scope of baseball history and a need to honor those who often pass by unnoticed.

We all become aware of that Latino baseball history in different ways. And sometimes the imprint of history is hidden in plain sight.

Past Is Present

Reading the flipside of baseball cards as a kid exposed me to the different countries and various places in which players were born. This was my earliest exposure to history of Latinos in baseball, or so I thought.

My uncle Toño often tested my baseball knowledge. One of my fondest childhood memories involve him grilling me about who the Latino players were on different teams and about pioneering Latino players as we tossed the ball in my front yard in Florida.

It was during those sessions I remember hearing the names Hiram Bithorn, John Candelaria and Roberto Clemente mentioned along with Marichal, Pérez and David “Davey” Concepción.

Over the years, Toño and I bonded over our shared interests in baseball. This, plus his being my dad’s youngest brother and also the tallest in the family, about 6-foot-3, added to the mystique that he held in my young eyes.

Given the bond we shared, my parents made sure to schedule our family’s celebration of the completion of my first book, Playing America’s Game, at their home in central Georgia for a time when Toño could make the drive up from Sarasota, Fla.

Everyone in the family reveled in the fact I had successfully interwoven two of my passions into a career as a university professor whose research focused on Latinos in baseball. These were in part our stories, what had bonded us as a family, and a history we had shared over the years.

What’s in a Name?

At one moment during the celebration, I turned to my uncle and proudly shared a bit of knowledge I had acquired over my years of researching Latinos who played professionally in the United States.

Did you know there was a shortstop named José Antonio Burgos who played for the Birmingham Black Barons in the Negro Leagues and for the Leones de Ponce in Puerto Rico?

He smiled as he replied: Did you know your grandmother named me after him?

There it was, once again. Evidence of how much the history of Latinos in baseball had already been imprinted into the family history, literally: My paternal grandmother Petra Maldonado Burgos, who everyone called Doña Petra, was such a big baseball fan in the early 1950s that she named her youngest son after one of her favorite ballplayers.

So much of what I remember of my abuela became clearer:

The Tuesday dinners at her apartment after I had graduated high school, while I was in the Army, and during my first years in community college. These dinners were timed for evenings when the Yankees games were broadcast on Channel 11 (WPIX) in the New York City market.

On those evenings, we watched the ballgame as she and I sat over a delicious home-cooked Puerto Rican meal such as pollo guisado, or chicken casserole, along with white rice and red kidney beans. Our conversations rambled from my recent adventures in the Army and, after my enlistment was completed, my college studies.

What I realize now more than ever was that watching the Yankees games was not a pretext to getting me to visit regularly. My abuela was a true baseball fan; we were sharing our passion for the game.

Indeed, in our family, baseball was not a male-bonding thing. I never knew my grandfather Adrian, whose name my father and I both carry — he had died when my dad was 10 years old.

Rather, baseball fandom was a family tradition that was passed down from my abuelitas to the succeeding generations; and my uncle Toño carried the evidence of that in his name all along.

Featured Image: Kaitlin Southworth