El Gato Grande, y el appreciación de los juegueros de Venezuela

El Gato Grande

Did you ever have those certain players that --no matter how many favorites crossed your path, regardless of your team, your rival's team, whatever-- just took your attention and ran wild with it, making them "your guy," no matter what they did to your team...again, whether they were on your team or not?

I think of this because for some reason, throughout the more recent history of the MLB...say, 1970 onward, it's the occasional Venezuelan badass that makes me take notice and think, "damn...I just love this game...and (he's) why!"

Why Venezuelans? Good question. Why? No idea. But if you think of when the electricity of infielders became prevalent, you can easily start at the Aparicio era.

It can easily be said --by me, cuz I'm saying it-- that the whole Latin American standard of quick and excellent infielding began with the White Sox' Luis Aparicio.
Known more for his glove and arm than bat, his cat-like instincts and winning attitude forced a country to rethink the value of a player.

Where would Ozzie, or Ozzie, or Omar be without the path burned by Luis Aparicio? Before him, the hackneyed "good glove, average bat" player stereotype was perhaps the domain of the Rizzutos and Mazeroskis of the game; known more for so-called "hard-nosed" play or being a "gamer." Nowhere among the ilk was mentioned the notion of flash or transcendent ability. Maybe if Big Maz did backflips or if Scooter could track a bad hop like the Wiz', but no...this is the kingdom...the template of Luis Aparicio.

Which eventually (sorry, I'm tired and need to wrap this up) makes me bring up this: I fucking MISS the Big Cat. El Gato Grande. Andres Galarraga.

First base, Colorado Rockies.

To the hardcore fan, he first caught the eye as the power-hitting wall-eyed behemoth of the lowly Montreal Expos. As expected, the National (International, I suppose) media was continuing their Selig-imposed ignorance of Les Expos. But to those who gave a shit, we watched every Big Cat at bat we could. His Rod Carew-like open-stanced slugger persona. The smile. The superlative first-base play.

By the time he escaped the great white North he was already a legend to the scouts and true believers. An anomaly. That's a thing without a name. Lucky, or unluckily , for him, he landed in the great unknown that was (and perhaps is no longer...thank you el humidor) the Colorado Rockies.

Because of its mile-high reputation, you just couldn't get a fair shake being a Rockie. No matter where you whacked them dingers, you were looked at with the askance glare most often regarded to the most homely circus freak or spastic twerp. He was entering his prime as both a contact and power hitter, but the myth of the park relegated Galarraga to sideshow status, no matter what.

Once, I witnessed his power in the cavernous confines of the Murph in San Diego. It was blowout time. Dante and Vinny had already met the bleachers, but the Big Cat just had to show them some real power. He launched an Andy Ashby hanging curve at least 450 feet, well beyond the Loge bleachers tunnel his blast encountered. And you just know, he had that beatific grin cooking the whole time. How could he not?

But I do go on. A Venezuelan influenece? A coincidence? Just some great players who happen to all be from the same country? Who knows. Alls I'm saying is, just take a sec' to line up some of your favorite players of the last 30 years. What do you think? Omar Vizquel, perhaps the best shortstop that ever was? Ozzie Guillen. Do you recall him turning two with Jose Cora in his prime? If you're a San Diegan, "NumberelevenEnzo...HerNANdez!" Where would baseball be without this influence?

Determination

You've got to hand it to this guy: Rich Pohle has an interesting story to tell, and while his offbeat story of determination (and deception) to become a pro ballplayer might not necessarily make a great movie, it's one hell of an ESPN article.