The Fight of Their Lives

by John Rosengren

  Bob August, sports editor of the Lake County News-Herald in Ohio, wrote that he had voted for Marichal both years but thought the pitcher’s fight with Roseboro could permanently deprive him of his “deserved place” in the Hall. August also noted the sentiment against Latinos that lingered in America during the early 1980s, when states resisted educating the children of illegal aliens even though many of their parents worked in the United States: “He’s from the Dominican Republic, and Latin ballplayers are always reminding us that they do not get proper recognition in this country. It’s an uphill battle for Marichal.”

  Coming closer offered little consolation to ultimately being denied again. This time, the results angered Juan. “I hear that some writers when the Hall of Fame election is coming up, that they only write about the Roseboro incident,” he said on a visit to San Francisco in March. He knew that he had more career wins than 32 of the 42 pitchers already enshrined. “I think that after everything I did in baseball, I deserve to be in there.” He said he thought he would make it in the following year, but that if he didn’t, he would refuse to accept his induction. In other words, he would give the BBWAA members one more chance to make things right, but if they failed him again, he would snub them as they had him.

  Marichal had not campaigned on his own behalf. He had simply waited to see how the writers voted, but as the year 1982 wore on, he decided he might be able to influence the outcome. So he called John Roseboro at Fouch Roseboro & Associates.

  Roseboro’s comments at the old-timers’ game seven years earlier and what he had written in his book made Juan think it might be possible for the longtime Dodgers catcher to clear Juan’s name.

  “Johnny, I need your help,” Juan said.

  Johnny knew how Juan had suffered at the hands of the press in the immediate aftermath of their fight and still now 17 years later with every article written about that day and every vote withheld by the BBWAA members. That bothered him. The guilt he felt for his part had never completely left him. Here was his chance to let Juan know he wasn’t angry at him any longer. His own personal nightmare had convinced him that everybody deserved a second chance.

  “Okay,” he said.

  They came up with the idea that Johnny would play in Juan’s charity golf tournament in the Dominican Republic. The public gesture would provide opportunities for press coverage in the Caribbean and the United States. Johnny and Barbara agreed to conduct their most heartfelt public relations campaign.

  In December Johnny, Barbara, and 10-year-old Nikki flew to the Dominican Republic. The Marichals welcomed them warmly to their Santo Domingo home. They served meals with food so bountiful that Nikki thought it must be Thanksgiving. The Marichal girls absorbed her into their activities, swimming in the backyard pool, hiking through the neighborhood, and visiting the island’s beaches. She bonded especially with Ursula, closest in age to her, only two years older. Day after day for a week, they splashed and explored and laughed together. “We had the best time,” Nikki said.

  The adults also bonded. Barbara and Alma liked one another right off. They talked about their common interests, their children, and food. Johnny and Juan, who had competed against each other and twice occupied the same clubhouse at All-Star Games, had never really talked to one another meaningfully. Over meals and poolside the two ex-ballplayers who seemed so different on the surface—one Latin, the other American; one an extrovert, the other an introvert; one a devout Catholic with six children, the other a remarried divorcé with a stepdaughter—had much in common. They shared an abiding love of baseball, competitive spirits, and an appetite for laughter. They both came from humble beginnings, had endured racism, and had experienced success. And, surprise of surprises, they enjoyed one another’s company.

  Johnny, who had picked up the game during his days in Los Angeles, played in Juan’s golf tournament at Puerto Plata, which was a success.* They gave a press conference and posed for photos. They said that the sportswriters had made too much of their altercation in 1965, that it had simply been a game that had gone bad and that they were not enemies. Johnny pointedly said that that day should be forgotten and advocated for Marichal’s election into the Hall of Fame. The Dominican papers recorded their remarks and published the photos. The message back to the United States in general and the BBWAA members in particular was clear: We’re friends now. You can’t hold the past against us any longer.

  * Juan had also learned to golf during his playing days and became proficient at it, boasting a 5 handicap. He has twice won the Hall of Famers’ annual golf tournament at the Otesaga Resort during induction weekend in Cooperstown.

  But those seven days in the Dominican Republic proved far more significant than a choreographed publicity stunt. Juan had finally delivered a personal apology to Johnny, and Johnny had deliberately forgiven Juan. Their interaction relieved both men of the weight that had burdened them for 17 years. “Johnny and his wife and daughter, they really forgave me,” Juan said. “That took a big load from my body. I knew I had made a mistake, and it had been hard for me to live with that on my conscience. When Johnny forgave me, I was so happy.”

  While members of the BBWAA filled out their ballots in December, Juan’s chances to reach the 75 percent threshold required for election into the Hall of Fame remained uncertain. Despite the PR campaign in the Dominican and the fact that Marichal remained the leading candidate among pitchers on the ballot, he could not be assured that the voting members would approve him. In late December Bob August of the Lake County News-Herald expressed doubt that Marichal would be able to overcome the blemish of the Roseboro incident. “I’m not sure he’ll ever be enshrined,” August wrote.

  All that magnified the joy Juan Marichal experienced the day he received a phone call from Jack Lang, the BBWAA’s national secretary. Juan was in New York at the time to film a commercial for Gillette. “Congratulations,” Lang said. Marichal had received 83.6 percent of the vote. He became the first living Latin ballplayer to be elected to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. “I don’t think any person on earth now is happier than I am,” he said.

  Juan thanked God for giving him his talent and the chance to display it during his baseball career. He was so excited he immediately called Alma back in the Dominican to tell her the news. He also called Johnny Roseboro.

  “I’m going to Cooperstown,” he said and choked up. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Both men cried.

  The National Baseball Hall of Fame officially announced on January 12, 1983, that Juan Marichal and Brooks Robinson, the Baltimore Orioles third baseman with the magical glove, had been elected by the members of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America for induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame.* The Veterans Committee also selected former Dodgers manager Walt Alston and George Kell, the strong-hitting and good-fielding third baseman, to join them in the Hall.

  * Robinson received 92 percent of the vote in his first year of eligibility.

  Juan’s joy resonated throughout the Caribbean. He received congratulations from Venezuela, Mexico, and Puerto Rico, where the press and people rejoiced that a fellow Latino had been so honored. The joy was particularly acute in his homeland. “Marichal’s election to the Hall of Fame, hailed as one of the great events in Dominican history, brought unconfined joy to his friends and present Dominican players,”* the New York Times reported. “‘Somebody will go to Cooperstown one day, see Juan Marichal’s plaque and wonder where he came from,’ said Damaso Garcia, a second baseman for the Toronto Blue Jays [and fellow Dominican]. ‘His election put us on the map.’” That statement would prove prophetic with the Dominican stars that followed the original Dominican Dandy to the major leagues in later decades.

  * They included at the time Joaquin Andujar, St. Louis Cardinals; Damaso Garcia, Toronto Blue Jays; Mario Sota, Cincinnati Reds; Pedro Guerrero, Los Angeles Dodgers; and Tony Peña, Pittsburgh Pirates.

>   His election also affirmed the legitimacy of the Latin players, so long dismissed and denied by organized baseball, so routinely denigrated by American society. To have the most venerable institution of the national pastime include Marichal confirmed that Latinos had established themselves. They were no longer third-class citizens in their host country; they had integrated the realm of heroes.

  When Juan flew home from the press conference in New York, a crowd of several thousand fans, friends, reporters, and relatives greeted his plane at the airport. They made him stop on the stairway to the tarmac so they could take pictures. He told them, “Many Latinos have written beautiful pages in major league history, and I am sure that my arrival will open the door for others.” Tears of happiness underscored the emotion of his words.

  President Jorge Blanco received Marichal at the Presidential Palace to offer his congratulations. The mayor of Santo Domingo recognized Marichal’s accomplishment. Wherever Marichal went, his fellow Dominicans saluted him. Juan reigned that day as the Dominican Republic’s favorite son.

  Juan Marichal called July 31, 1983, “the greatest day of my baseball career.” That was the day the National Baseball Hall of Fame hung his plaque, which read: “High-kicking right-hander from Dominican Republic won 243 games and lost only 142 over 16 seasons. Won 20 games six times and no-hit Houston in 1963. Led N.L. in complete games and shutouts twice and in ERA with 2.10 in 1969. Completed 244 games during career, striking out 2,303 and finishing with 2.89 ERA.” It was significant that the plaque recognized his Dominican heritage because that became the theme of his day.

  When his turn came, after “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the Dominican national anthem played, he stood at the podium on the Hall of Fame’s library porch overlooking the east lawn and statue of James Fenimore Cooper. Amid the crowd of 10,000 people, he spotted the familiar rojo, azul, and blanco of the Dominican Republic flag waving among hundreds of Dominicans who had made the trip to the remote village in New York’s Leatherstocking region. He smiled at Alma and the children seated in the front row. His mother was not there—she was still afraid of flying—but he knew Doña Natividad watched the national broadcast of the ceremony on Channel 7 along with hundreds of thousands more of his countrymen.

  The 45-year-old Marichal looked dapper, as always, in his silver suit and striped tie, his head full of curly black hair and his thick mustache punctuating his smiling face. The day hot and humid, he felt the sweat drizzle his back. He was nervous, worse than facing Hank Aaron or Roberto Clemente. Behind him sat legends like Joe DiMaggio, Bob Feller, Cool Papa Bell, Monte Irvin, Sandy Koufax, and dozens more who had marched before him into the illustrious pantheon. He took several deep breaths, began his acceptance speech in English, then switched to Spanish and repeated, “I accept the honor conferred on me today in the name of my family; my country, the Dominican Republic; and all those who helped me make my baseball career a reality.” The first inductee to speak in a language other than English, he continued in Spanish after thanking several others, “I wish to give special thanks to those who are with me here today from the Dominican Republic.” He thanked them for the sacrifice they made to be there and acknowledged all of his fellow countrymen who could not make the trip: “I know that in spirit, they are here with me.” The crowd applauded, perhaps none prouder than the Dominicans present.

  Later, when speaking to reporters, Juan said he hoped that his selection would mean that “others from my country will make it someday.” He explained in his book My Journey from the Dominican Republic to Cooperstown, “Although I am very proud of my country, I always felt I was representing more than just the Dominican.” And indeed, so it seemed with his Spanish acceptance speech as the first living Latin American player to be enshrined in the National Baseball Hall of Fame that he had become the standard bearer for Latin American ballplayers.

  The reporters inevitably asked about Roseboro. Had it delayed this day, kept him out the first two years of eligibility? He did not flinch. “Johnny and I have become friends,” Juan said. “I’m just very happy, very proud, and very honored.” And he thanked Johnny for his forgiveness and support. Once again, the day belonged to both of them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Man behind the Mask

  Years passed. People still approached Juan in restaurants, at card shows, at the ballpark, even on the streets of Cooperstown when he returned for induction days—always wanting to talk about the battle at Candlestick. Same with Johnny. Seems everywhere they went, that was the first thing people brought up. The incident stood out in the public’s memory and they wanted to ask the participants about it, even though the two men had forgiven one another.

  The year after Marichal was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, the BBWAA elected another living Latino legend. Luis Aparicio, the base-stealing and groundball-gobbling shortstop from Venezuela,* received the most votes, 341, or 85 percent, of all candidates and was elected along with Twins slugger Harmon Killebrew and Marichal’s Dodgers nemesis, Don Drysdale. Orlando Cepeda, the pride of Puerto Rico along with Roberto Clemente, and Tony Oliva, Killebrew’s Cuban teammate, also finished in the top 10, though Cepeda would have to wait until 1999 to be selected by the Veterans Committee and Oliva would run through his 15 years of eligibility without ever reaching the 75 percent threshold required for induction. Juan had opened the door to other living Latin players for inclusion in organized baseball’s most exclusive club. Over the next two decades, Cepeda, Rod Carew, Tony Perez, and Roberto Alomar would follow Marichal into the Hall of Fame.

  * Aparicio led the American League in stolen bases his first nine seasons, 1956–1964, and won nine Gold Gloves.

  Marichal, Clemente, and Aparicio, along with the other Latin pioneers, inspired a generation of future stars. In the Dominican Republic and beyond, young boys listened to the radio broadcasts of the games Marichal pitched, watched on television his induction into the Hall of Fame, and fashioned their own dreams to play professional baseball in America. Whereas Juan’s vision had been to play for the country’s national team, he had stretched those boys’ imaginations to see themselves starring for the Giants or the Red Sox or even the Dodgers. His desire to be the best had made them realize what was possible: not simply to get there but to be able to dominate.

  That’s what Pedro Martinez did when his turn came. Born in Santo Domingo too late to watch Marichal pitch, Martinez knew who he was: the nation’s Hall of Famer who held the record for most major league strikeouts by a Dominican pitcher. In his 18 seasons in the majors, Martinez posted some individual season statistics even better than Marichal’s—a .852 winning percentage in 1999 and 1.90 ERA in 1997, for example—and outdid Marichal’s career strikeouts with 3,154 of his own. But Marichal still won more major league games, 243 to 219. Early on, Juan befriended the young pitcher, who calls him “Papa.” Whether it’s Martinez, Sammy Sosa, Albert Pujols, David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, Jose Reyes, Vladimir Guerrero, Miguel Tejada, Tony Peña, or a number of other All-Star players, the generation that followed Marichal is beholden to him, not only for letting them know what was possible but for providing the opportunity by alerting Major League Baseball to the possibilities in the Dominican Republic.

  Marichal’s success, along with that of fellow Latin stars of the 1960s and ’70s, sparked a revolution in major league scouting throughout the Caribbean. The scouts were drawn particularly to the Dominican, which presented a rich vein of talent playing the country’s national obsession. Major league clubs wanted to be the first to discover the next Marichal or Alou. The rush led to Juan’s next job. He had been working as president of Turideportes, a company that provided travel and broadcasting services, when he received a phone call from the Oakland Athletics in 1984. Sandy Alderson, the Oakland general manager, wanted Juan to direct the A’s scouting initiative in Latin America. It wasn’t the Giants calling, but it was a means back into the game. Juan accepted.

  Juan spent t
he next 14 years working for the A’s. He began by signing prospects from the Dominican Republic and soon realized that the team needed a baseball academy in the country. The Toronto Blue Jays and Los Angeles Dodgers had already built their own facilities where they were able to develop talent rather than ship the 16- and 17-year-old boys they signed to the United States. The academies allowed those boys to mature at home in their own culture, speaking their own language, and eating familiar food, rather than endure the culture shock that Marichal had experienced as a young man in a foreign country. In 1994 Marichal convinced the A’s to construct their academy about an hour northeast of Santo Domingo.* Soon, just about every major league team, seeing how efficiently the academies developed players, opened its own.

  * Today, the facility is named after Marichal.

  Juan had a network of scouts working for him, but the competition to sign prospects had intensified. Sometimes his scouts called upon Marichal to visit a prospect’s home. The Hall of Famer in the family’s living room made a significant impression. Several prospects, such as Adrian Beltre and Raul Mondesi, got away, but Juan was proud that 34 of the first 100 players he signed made it to the majors, including Miguel Tejada, Luis Polonia, Tony Batista, and Miguel Olivo. The hardest part came when he had to let a prospect know that the team did not think he had the talent to make it. Sometimes those boys pleaded for another chance or simply sobbed. He knew some of them had nothing at home and little hope for the future. “I worried about them, and it was hard to send them away,” he wrote. “That’s the sad part of the job.”