Baseball is not my favorite sport to watch or play. I enjoy
like nothing else on television the brilliant Shakespeare-quoting commentary of
Vin Scully, and a game of 16-inch softball with friends on a Sunday afternoon
brings much joy to my life. But without Vin, baseball conjures memories of my
Little League failure, when the manager deliberately cheated so that he wouldn’t
have to send me up to bat, I was so bad.
Softball at least is more democratic, the ball easier to hit, my
weaknesses easier to conceal.
My brother, on the
other hand, played Varsity baseball in high school. He was almost always one of
the top players on his team, and if he hadn’t hurt his hip badly in his youth,
he might have been able to play in college. His bat speed and eye are both
excellent, but because of his injury he only swings with his arms, which
dramatically reduces his potential power. Even so, he can clobber the ball to
all parts of the field, and his defense behind the plate or at first base is
good. He gives up a little bit defensively in the outfield, as he runs slowly
now because of his hip.
I introduce his quality of play because he is now a member
of the Diablos Rojos de Mazatlan, Oaxaca. (Diablos Rojos means “Red Devils” in
Spanish) This does not mean that he plays baseball in Mexico. Though some might
suggest that the diamonds in South Central LA are best described as being
located in Mexico, nobody would mistake immaculately manicured Mar Vista Rec
Center, (Home Field of the Diablos Rojos) with its legions of little children
perfectly adorned in miniature basketball jerseys and its packs of soccer moms
in Range Rovers for anywhere but the fanciest colonias just north of
Chapultepec Park.
The Diablos Rojos are, however, proudly from the pueblito of
Mazatlan, on the northern border of Oaxaca state in Mexico, a five to seven
hour bus ride from Mexico City. This incongruity between their proud, if
humble, home and their relatively posh home field, with real bleachers and a
verdant outfield grass in an upper middle class neighborhood in Los Angeles is explained,
like most things in that fair city, by adaptations to new lifeways by migrant
communities. The Diablos Rojos team was founded by migrants from the pueblito
of Mazatlan who have made their way to Los Angeles. They play in a mid-level
division of Liga Unidos de Béisbol (The ungramaticallity of “Liga” and “Unidos”
is based in the fact that Unidos refers to Estados Unidos, the United States)
in LA.
The team is composed almost exclusively of men from their
late 20’s to their early 40’s, who come from the town or its more rural
environs. They’ve all moved to Los Angeles to pursue work in a variety of
trades. One, the team manager, (Rica, named not as a shortening of his name but
a reference to his wealth) works in food distribution and drives a shiny car.
Several others have substantially less glamorous jobs. All but two players are from that little
Oaxacan town.
One of those two players is my brother, the other is his
friend Tristan, who also played Varsity baseball in High School. How my brother
ended up on the team I’m still not sure, but I do know that he’s thoroughly
enjoyed his time there. My brother doesn’t drink on the sidelines like many of the rest
of the players, and he doesn’t speak any but the most basic and the most
profane Spanish. He’s the only player on the team who doesn’t speak any, many
players are monolingual Spanish speakers, a couple speak Spanish and an
indigenous language of Oaxaca, a majority have least some English. But despite these fundamental differences, and the fact that he grew up in Venice, (about as far, in all of its incarnations from hippie to hipster, culturally as it is possible to be from a small Oaxacan village) Preston has become a full part of the team.
My brother’s time with the Diablos has been eventful, the
team has been successful and is eyeing promotion to the next division. Some
time ago, I went to one of their games, at my brother's invitation. It was the most fun I’ve had at the
ballpark since Juan Pierre came in for Manny the night I had my JuanPierreWood
shirt on at Dodger Stadium. There is
nothing like a beautiful spring day in a Los Angeles park, and to have it helped along by a baseball game is only the better.
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