By: Carlos Marcano (@camarcano)
In 1988, I was only ten years old. A small kid from Venezuela, one of the most difficult to explain countries in Latin America. I was struggling to find a way to watch or hear any broadcasting for that year’s World Series, due to the limited options back then.
You see, I had fallen for a particular green and gold team after watching them on the TV the previous year. I would watch the highlights during the sports segments on the evening news (yes kiddos, once upon a time we had to wait after the “real news” to know anything about the sports world). That was the season phenomenon Mark McGwire broke the home run record for rookie players, hitting 47 long balls. Since that moment, I was caught in the Oakland Athletics fandom for life.
Back to 1988, Oakland was relevant again after leading the American West and beating Boston for the AL title, ready for the World Series against the Los Angeles Dodgers. I’m not sure how, (although part of me thinks it was just to annoy me) but from the moment the Dodgers beat Oakland that year, my brother – who is two years younger than me – started being an LA fan.
I, meanwhile, stayed true to my team, enjoying the 1989 win in the World Series later-known as the “Earthquake Series”, listening to the games through a shortwave radio receiver from a station hundreds of miles away as I had no other way to watch or listen to the games at home. The following year, José Rijo, the Nasty Boys and the rest of the Reds would break my heart while sweeping my beloved A’s, who were supposed to be the big favorites to repeat the championship.
As you can see, baseball was a big part of my life from very early on, giving me joy and disappointment in equal parts, never leaving me indifferent. But it was the summers of 1991 and 1993 that made it one of the loves of my life.
During that time in Venezuela, people could still manage to save some money and take vacations out of the country, so my parents took us together with another family of friends, and we headed to the United States in July, during our summer vacations from school.
What would start as a 10-day road trip ended as a whole month of travel from Orlando, Florida to Lincoln, Nebraska to Denver, Colorado. Just imagine a van full of six kids from ages 5 to 15 years old and four adults, plus the luggage and every imaginable thing a group that large would need for such a long trip, mayhem and unlimited fun, to be honest.
The stops along the way provided the opportunity to do something that was the best part of the trips, even better than when we went to Disneyworld in Orlando, attending MLB baseball games. We saw Steve Avery on the mound for the Braves in the old Fulton County Stadium in Atlanta. We saw fellow Venezuelan players Carlos “Café” Martínez, and Ozzie Guillén play in Cleveland as the White Sox and Indians battled it out. They had to hear us cheering for them.
We visited the old Royals’ park and saw George Brett play in his final days. Then we finished our parks visits in Denver, where our childhood hero Andres Galarraga was having one of his best ever season while playing for the Rockies. Not only that, but we saw him play alongside with some of the guys that would later be known as the Blake Street Bombers. It was a glorious day.
https://www.mlb.com/video/galarraga-gets-first-rockies-hit-c26630275
But those were not the only highlights of my summers. What baseball did for me in an unforgettable and meaningful way was to form a special bond with my brother and dad beyond anything else. You see, I’m not a talker or a guy that let his feelings show too often. I’ve never been like that, neither has my brother or father. Baseball made us get into lengthy and interesting conversations where we shared a deep love for something in common that gives us a sense of belonging, something that we share beyond family or any other kind of relationship.
My father started sharing stories of the days when he was a young student in college, living in Caracas, the capital of Venezuela. He used to go to a lot of games during the Winter Leagues and he had the opportunity to enjoy watching old glories like Dave Parker, who played three years there with great success for one of the most beloved teams, the Navegantes del Magallanes. Which happened to be one of my dad’s favorite teams as well. I couldn’t get enough of his stories back then and almost 30 years later nothing has changed.
My father, brother and I now all live in different countries and to be honest, I’m not that great keeping in touch via video call or messaging. Any time we talk though you can be sure that baseball is an important part of any conversation. That’s what baseball means to me: a bonding feeling that is as strong as the love between us.