III.
How does all this involve my father you ask? Ah yes, I was just getting to that.
Well Señor Lara decided that with the Liga being such a great success, they should let some more teams start to play. I don’t know exactly how they decided, but it ended up with one team going to Villardondiego down on the west coast, and the other to little Rio Hondo up in the hills of Betancuria. The Villardondiego
Tropicales and
Los Rojos of Rio Hondo.
Now, the Rio Hondo team were owned by a gentleman called Martin García, who just so happened to be an acquaintance of our family. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were friends – he was a wealthy businessman and, while my father ran a successful farm, we just didn’t walk the same roads as him. Still, we knew him well enough. He had grown up with my grandfather in the little village of Cazorla. And he knew that papá Inglés knew baseball.
I don’t recall where I was when Sr García came to call that day. Perhaps I was at school. Or more likely out causing trouble with my brother and our friends. But I sure remember when I got home. Father was beaming from ear to ear, and my mother, bless her, could not contain her excitement when I walked in. We were moving to Rio Hondo, she said. Papá had a new job. A béisbol job.
I’m not sure what his ‘official’ job title was. Nowadays, he’d be called the general manager. Back then, he was known simply as
El Jefe. My father. In charge of a real baseball team. I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was!
Hey, you know I think I have a picture of my father from just not long after he got the job. Would you like to see it? Yes, here we are. This is him in 1945. Hard to believe, but I remember things so clearly still…