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He laughs at this now, amid the luxury of the major leagues, laughs at the mule that bit him on the leg and the cow that dragged him all over because he was much too small to be trying to milk it. The family needed Vladimir working, though, so he missed a lot of classes before the fifth grade and didn't go to school at all after then, his mother saying now, "I feel guilty about that, but we had to eat. The storm didn't kill anybody in our town, but the hunger after it did." Didn't help, either, that the only school in the area was turned into a hurricane-relief homeless shelter for three years and that the bicycle the Guerrero family shared for transportation was being pulled in too many other directions to go searching for education elsewhere
The most anonymous superstar in sports may be the world's most
confident man in the batter's box, where he trusts his talent so
much he doesn't bother to study tape or read scouting reports and
usually doesn't even know the pitcher's name, but he's not nearly
as self-assured about his intelligence outside those chalked
confines. That may explain why he so disdains interviews. (He
declines most.) It may explain why he's so quiet that his nickname
since childhood has been El Mudo (The Mute). And it may explain
why he's so painfully shy, even around children, that he gets
mistaken for being aloof, moody and distant.
"If I hadn't been a big leaguer, I don't know where I'd be right
now," Guerrero says in Spanish. "I don't know how to do anything
else."
Guerrero is insecure, too, about never having learned English. But
now he's too comfortable to change that, despite prodding from
Expos management, because he likes his simple life the way it is --
tranquil, to use his word. Speaking only Spanish in a city of French
and English provides a shield for his shyness, the language barrier
becoming just that, a barrier between him and an excess of
attention. Fame? "Not interested," he says through a smile. "Brings
problems." Guerrero remains unknown, personally if not
professionally, at least partially because that's the way he wants it
and ...
Hold on a second. You don't get to choose how you get your fame,
as if it were a menu selection -- not in this culture, not when you
have transcendent athletic talent. No, fame is forced upon you,
intrusively if need be. Guererro, 26, has been in professional
baseball for a decade, so how, beyond the
grew-up-with-a-milk-carton-for-a-baseball-glove Dominican
clich? have the details of his life escaped the attention of the
monstrous sports myth-making machine? In this day and age?
When we learn of Allen Iverson's jailing and Stephon
Marbury's promise while they're still high schoolers? When 11th
graders are on national magazine covers and a world of Mel
Kipers are dissecting athletes who are still dissecting frogs in
biology class, all we get of Guerrero is limited to that batter's box?
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Guerrero put together three straight .300, 30-HR, 100-RBI
seasons before turning 25. Ken Griffey Jr. never did that.
Neither did A-Rod. Only Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams and
Jimmie Foxx did that. You can make a convincing argument that
Guerrero is today's most exciting baseball player and its best
all-around talent, too, without feeling the need to apologize to
Ichiro or A-Rod. But in the age of MTV Cribs, when we can see
for ourselves that an Outkast rapper has a stripper's pole in his
living room, how does something as large as a superstar's past
and present get misplaced like a set of car keys?
Of all the amazing parts of the Guerrero story -- the fifth-grade
education, the fact he still lives with his mother, the raw gifts that
make him unlike anyone else playing -- the most amazing part
might be that so few people have heard it. An anonymous sports
superstar in 2002?
You can't blame this all on Guerrero playing in floundering
Montreal, either. There have been famous Expos, from Rusty
Staub to Gary Carter to Andre Dawson to Tim Raines to
Larry Walker, but here are the only differences between them
and Guerrero: He's more talented than any of them, and not by a
little bit, either. And, of course, he speaks far less English.
Guerrero's feats of strength are impossibly outsized, teetering
toward tall tales, leaving even the likes of Sammy Sosa saying,
"Amazing. I don't know how he does it. I just want to know how."
There are the runners Guerrero throws out from the warning track
with an aaah-inspiring arm. There's the combination of speed and
power that turns sharp grounders between the shortstop and the
second base bag into triples. And there are the scorched doubles
on pitches in the dirt. Marlins manager Jeff Torborg predicts
Guerrero will one day homer on a pitch that bounces. Guerrero can
awe you with everything from his body of work to the way his
body works.
"He's one of the wonders of our world," says Expos catcher
Michael Barrett. "He leaves us all in complete amazement. He's
so natural, so pure. What he hits just isn't hittable to the rest of
us. He's one of the most unique players ever." A locker over, first
baseman Lee Stevens interjects, "You must be talking about
The Freak again. It's like he's made of rubber. He hits balls that
ain't even close to the strike zone harder than I've ever hit a
strike."
Guerrero never wears batting gloves and is aggressive beyond all
reason, swinging at everything between the on-deck circles while
rarely striking out. He explains his extraordinary ability to hit bad
pitches like he explains just about everything -- simply. He takes
two shoes out of his locker and places them on the floor a short
distance apart. As a kid, he played a mutant game of two-on-two
baseball between walls now represented by those shoes. Anyone
who hit the wall with the ball got a point. Defense was using your
bat to keep rolled balls, bouncing balls, hit balls, hard-thrown
balls, from hitting those walls.
"See?" he says. "It's easy."
Well, yeah, Vladimir, but you weren't hitting 94 mph Robb Nen
sliders back then or ... oh, never mind. You can't explain how this
kind of genius evolved from Guerrero's childhood any more than
you can explain Jackson Pollock's work by staring into a
bucket of his paint. Better to just sit back and marvel at the
finished product.
Guerrero might be the most impressive collection of raw talent
baseball has seen since Roberto Clemente's plane crashed --
or hasn't seen, to be more accurate. Even locally, only 53 Expos
games made it to television last season. In 2000, while Guerrero
was hitting .345 with 44 homers and 123 RBIs (despite being
injured for eight games and being intentionally walked more than
anyone in baseball), you could only find English language radio
broadcasts of his games on the Internet.
"If he played in a different market, they'd be talking about him
already as a sure-fire Hall of Famer and comparing him to the best
ever," says Montreal manager Frank Robinson, himself a Hall
of Famer. "Every day I find myself saying, 'I can't believe he just
did that.' He hits balls harder than anyone I've ever seen. Any
pitch that has air under it has a chance to leave the park. No
pitcher can ever feel safe or comfortable releasing the ball toward
him. He doesn't take a back seat to anyone I've ever seen play this
game. Ever."
Robinson guesses he has talked to Guerrero maybe six times this
season, always through a translator. That's been the extent of the
interaction between Montreal's manager and Montreal's best
player. By comparison, Robinson might talk to another Expo six
times during one batting practice. He fears too many important
things, like tone, get lost in translation to bother with it. Just
recently, for example, Guerrero made an errant throw and
Robinson wanted to discuss it with him between innings, just to
see what Guerrero was thinking, but he feared Guerrero might
think he was being reprimanded, so Robinson avoided him
altogether.
"I might do damage, so I leave it alone," Robinson says. "I can't
teach him anything this way. I can't help him with the mental parts
of the game -- slumps, approach, state of mind. It's awkward,
frustrating. He would feel better, and I would feel better, if I could
reach him, but I can't. He's on his own."
You know anything personally about him, Frank?
"No," Robinson says.
You ever read anything or seen anything on TV that gave you any
meaningful insight into him?
"No," Robinson says.
As someone who must know which buttons to push on a player to
motivate him, how do you remedy that?
"You don't," Robinson says.
Guerrero's manager spends every day with him and doesn't know
him.
So how can we?
***
Phillies closer Jos?Mesa is yelling. He is a big, loud man, and
he's telling the dozen reporters in his clubhouse through a mixture
of curses and Spanish and accented English that he has no use for
them, none, zero, ning?. His message is being conveyed clearly, his
troubles with the nuances of English notwithstanding, the language
barrier toppled by the sheer volume of his anger. These reporters
aren't talking to or about Mesa, but Mesa nonetheless sprays his
drive-by disgust at them on his way to get a new jockstrap.
Something about them being vultures who talk to players only
when something is wrong.
This is when you walk into his world. You have never met Mesa,
never spoken to him. Viewed from outside, this might not be the
best time to introduce yourself as a reporter, right? But you speak
his language. That can change everything with Hispanic ballplayers.
There doesn't have to be a "viewed from outside" if you hold the
keys to "viewed from inside," and merely speaking Spanish can
make you a locksmith in their world.
So you approach Mesa seconds after his rant. And you know what
happens? His response is almost Pavlovian, the way he reacts to
hearing Spanish. Those cold cages of media mistrust that have
clanged down around him over all these years lift in a way that is
obvious to the eye. This has happened to you with other Hispanic
players who have a reputation for being surly and unapproachable,
guys like Juan Gonzalez, Pudge Rodriguez, Manny
Ramirez, Benito Santiago and Orlando Hernandez. The
language sounds like a familiar song to them, a soothing one, and
they are so happy to hear it that it can drown out even something
as large as their mistrust, or at least build a bridge over it.
So Mesa doesn't merely smile and agree to be interviewed. He
stops, puts his arm around you, walks you back to his locker and
pulls out a nearby chair for your comfort.
"So you're writing about Guerrero?" he asks in Spanish. "About
time somebody did. Oye, Jos?... "
Mesa motions for middle reliever Jos?Santiago to come over.
"How would you pitch Vladimir tonight?" Mesa asks.
The very question makes them both dissolve into snorting
laughter.
"You throw it down the middle and then you just pray," Mesa
finally says. "Just tell him what's coming, fall to your knees on the
mound and pray. Because you can throw it in the dirt, and he'll hit
it hard. You can roll it up there or throw it over his head, and he'll
hit it hard. Every hitter has a hole but that guy. There's nobody
like him in this game."
Says Santiago, "You know what we do in our pitching meetings
before Montreal? We'll go over the weaknesses of the other
hitters, but then we'll come to Vladimir's name, and everyone
says, 'Next.' Just walk him. If he'll let you. There's no way to pitch
him. The pitches haven't been invented that get that guy out."
You rarely hear paid professionals in the testosterone-soaked
world of athletics articulate their awe quite so reverently. The
locker room's unwritten, ego-driven code demands you respect
your opponent without respecting him too much. Hispanic players,
though, talk about their game the same way they play it --
colorfully, richly, passionately. But you can no more hear the
music in their conversations without understanding their language
than you can feel the magic in salsa or merengue by staring at the
sheet music.
Very often, too often, Latin players are too uncomfortable with
either their own English or English-language reporters to offer up
anything more than one-day-a-time clich? in English. If they're as
outgoing as Sosa, maybe they'll give you a lot of smiling and a lot
of baseball-has-been-berry-berry-good-to-me, but either way,
we end up with only a skeletal sketch of their personalities.
Would you believe that, as far as anyone can remember, in the
18-year history of ESPN's Up Close and its various permutations,
in the place where those teary-eyed, get-to-know-the-real-you
interviews with athletes are most often conducted, there's never
once been one done with a Latin athlete in Spanish, using either a
translator or subtitles? Latin athletes are always expected to
stumble through their second language in interviews, which means
that colorful conversations like this one between Mesa and
Santiago are forever getting lost in this little corner of the
clubhouse, in this little corner of their world.
"Forget Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa and all their home runs,"
Mesa says to Santiago. "Vladimir and A-Rod are the two most
complete players in this game. You are obligated to put Vladimir in
the top two. Obligated. But A-Rod at least has help. Vladimir is all
by himself. You put Vladimir on the Yankees, and he's hitting 50,
60 homers and driving in 200 runs."
Says Santiago: "That guy is not from this planet. He's an
extraterrestrial."
Mesa laughs.
"I'm telling you," he says. "The devil himself would be afraid to
pitch to that guy."
***
The Expos are gathered around the clubhouse television, watching
a Martin Lawrence comedy routine. They are laughing
together, white, black, Hispanic, Australian and Japanese. But
Guerrero is in the dugout, sitting on the bench in uniform by
himself more than two hours before the game, silently watching
the Phillies take batting practice. He literally can't understand what
everyone inside is laughing about. So he remains on the outside.
"He's not social," Lee Stevens says. "We all like him -- he's a great
guy -- but he's reticent. The language makes it hard. When I
played in Japan, I always felt lost and alone even though they
always had two interpreters with me. When I came back, I had a
totally greater appreciation for what Latin players go through. I
had no idea."
One reason this part of Guerrero's story hasn't been told is
because the storytellers aren't really equipped to tell it. The
Expos, even with nine Latin-born players on their 25-man roster,
don't have any Spanish-speaking reporters covering them
regularly. Most major league teams don't -- odd considering that
about 25% of big leaguers are Hispanic.
Even something as absolute as acclaim seems to get lost in the
translation, an Hispanic player's greatness diluted by his inability
to discuss it and feed the fame machine. Did you know that
Oakland's Dominican-born shortstop Miguel Tejada is now, in
his third straight season, putting up far better home run and RBI
numbers than Derek Jeter? Or that Juan Gonzalez, Puerto
Rican, has won twice as many MVP awards as Ken Griffey Jr.? Or
that Orlando Hernandez, Cuban, has been far more dominant in the
postseason than Randy Johnson, Roger Clemens or Greg
Maddux? Or that Manny Ramirez, Dominican, has put up better
across-the-board numbers than Jason Giambi over the past
four years? If an Hispanic player wants the same PR as his
American equivalent, he had better learn that English is another
word for spin.
You say that if an Hispanic player wants to earn a living in this
country, he should learn this country's language? That's not quite
as easy as it sounds. Like Guerrero, many Hispanic players come
here young and uneducated, having never even finished high
school. There are difficulties in adapting to a new culture at 16, as
the Marlins' Lu? Castillo proved when he set off the fire alarm
in his minor league team's hotel because he thought it was a
shampoo dispenser.
So the priority for the young Hispanic player becomes getting
comfortable, or trying to, and focusing all efforts on reaching the
majors. That, not English, is what will help you feed your family
back home. The Hispanic minor leaguer gravitates toward those
who feel similarly lost -- namely, fellow Hispanics with whom he
can communicate -- and that's not going to help any of them learn
English. Even now, remembering how alone he once felt, Guerrero
will invite Hispanics from an opposing team to his apartment in
Montreal, where his mother, who lives with him during the season,
cooks big meals of arroz con frijoles. Those too timid to come
over to a stranger's house? He'll bring them Mom's food at the
ballpark.
"When I played in Albany [in the Class A Sally League], I cried,"
says Guerrero, who didn't know how to check out of a hotel by
himself upon arriving in the majors. "But once I got up here, I
wasn't afraid anymore. There were a lot of Hispanics with me. Four
Puerto Ricans, four Dominicans, one Colombian. I didn't have to
learn English. I think sometimes I should have."
If he played in New York (and who knows, he may wind up there if
the Expos disappear), or spoke with A-Rod's practiced polish,
would Guerrero be the game's most famous face? That's hard to
say. There's the problem of his personality, which Mesa describes
as "timid in any language." Guerrero doesn't like to talk, and
doesn't say much when he does. Even his mother says, "He's not
open." Guerrero is afraid of sounding or looking stupid, so he
might do things like ignore a bunch of kids hanging over a railing
even though he'll later sign baseballs for an hour in front of his
locker, where he can do it alone. Guerrero doesn't have any
endorsements beyond his shoe contract, and doesn't want any,
though his advisers keep telling him he's costing himself millions.
He thinks the spotlight scalds more than it provides warmth.
"I want to do this job right, and that's it," he says. "Just give me
health, this game and my family, and I'm tranquil. I want to stay
how I am. I'm with the same people I grew up with -- the same
friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. That's all I need."
Guerrero has a $28 million contract that expires after 2003, when
he is going to cash in as very few athletes ever have, but he
remains tied to humble roots. The house wrecked by that
hurricane? He had it fixed, and built two stories atop it so his
mother, Mar? Altagracia, could keep living there in the
off-season. She was gone 11 months of every year during his
childhood, working as a maid in Venezuela, sending most of her
money home along with pictures of herself so the kids wouldn't
forget what she looked like. Vladimir, who has a child, so likes to
have her nearby now that he built his own modest house in Nizao
Bani, a town without street signs, close enough that she just
shouts out the door in the off-season for him to come get dinner.
Guerrero remembers what it was like as a youngster in this
neighborhood, countless children having to share the nine gloves
former Giants shortstop Jos?Uribe brought them once. "My
town had too many kids and not enough major leaguers," he jokes.
So every off-season he and his mother return to Nizao Bani with
suitcases of clothes and equipment to give away. He was one of
those hungry kids once, arriving at the workout when the Expos
signed him for $2,100 wearing unmatched sneakers (a sock stuffed
into the one that was too large) because they were better than the
matching sneakers he had with no soles. Guerrero is building a
stadium for the kids there, where he'll do his own off-season
work. He'll do other work outside it, too.
"I still plant the onions when I'm home, just to remember what it
was like," Guerrero says. "Would you believe that old mule that bit
me is still around? I still do a lot of the things I did as a kid. At
least I don't have to drink from the puddles anymore."
The most anonymous superstar in sports walks through any U.S.
city without being recognized.
What was that Santiago was saying?
About Guerrero being an extraterrestrial?
From another world?
You know, he really might as well be.