Leyba, 34, has lived his entire life in San Pedro de Macorís, a city in the Dominican Republic that produces more professional athletes (in this case major league baseball players) per capita than anywhere in the world. I first met him a year ago, during a brief visit to San Pedro. Though he is about the same height and weight as me, Leyba seemed to have a mystique or aura about him. When he demonstrated the proper pitching or hitting technique, all of his adolescent players listened. You could see it in their eyes. My initial impression was that he was intense. I liked it, but I was also a little intimidated. He didn’t speak any English. We spoke briefly and I left.
When I returned to San Pedro this year things were a bit different. Although when I arrived it seemed as if nothing had changed. Leyba still had the same Astros hat and was pitching balls to players taking batting practice just as he had when I left. I wasn’t sure what to expect upon my return. I loved Feliberto Pena Stadium because of a unique golden glow that radiated on the players before sunset. It was photography paradise. For some reason the lighting was always perfect. Most of the players lived in the poor neighborhood surrounding the field. Some moved from as far as Santo Domingo to play baseball here. They were young and hungry. As soon as I walked onto the field, Leyba smiled and seemed happy I had returned. At the end of batting practice, before fielding drills, he pitched a few to me. I told him I hadn’t played in a couple years, but Leyba still threw hard. Letting up wasn’t his style. As you can see from the photos below, I was probably the worst batter there….
Years ago Leyba had pitched for the New York Yankees summer league in Santo Domingo. This is why I was surprised he was such a good hitting instructor. The more I hung out with him the more he knew about the game. During a break in the action, I asked him who his best player was. “They are all good players,” he said, pointing to the field as they did hitting and fielding drills on their own. In many ways, he was the Dominican version of my Grandpa Dan; the players loved him for changing their lives and he felt the same about them. As it grew dark and mosquitoes preyed on my neck, Leyba kept hitting pop-flies and grounders. I couldn’t even see the ball, but somehow the players caught each one. This was an evening ritual.
He gave me a ride on his motorcycle a few blocks to his apartment. He was divorced and lived alone. There were no photos or paintings on his walls. He showed me his bathroom. The toilet had no flush; he had to fill a pail with water and pour it down. He had no hot water. Next to his tiny washer and drier, was his closest. He grabbed a Detroit Tigers jersey with “LEYBA” sown on the back. I asked him why he had a Detroit jersey and who gave it to him? “I don’t know,” he said with a smile. He told me that the jersey was a gift. I tried to refuse but he insisted. I felt bad I had nothing to give him in return, and promised next time I visit I’d bring photos for his bare walls. He also gave me a book titled Macorisanos at Bat, written in English and Spanish about the San Pedro players who had become big leaguers. The more we talked, the more English he spoke. I felt guilty he had given me almost everything he had. He didn’t have much, but money wasn’t important to him. His only other possessions were a cell phone, television, and fishing pole. He didn’t drink. His weekday evenings and Saturday mornings revolved around teaching baseball. Then he would fish in a nearby river during his free time.
Posts
