If fans were inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, my father would have a place of honor somewhere between Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays! No less a place would be worthy enough or grand enough to hold his love of the game.
Stories about my father’s boyishly eager enthusiasm have gained a solid place in my extended family lore. For years, Petra, a long-time family friend who only saw my dad in the summer ― baseball season ― thought he had grown deaf. Why else would he always be wearing an ear bud whose cord ran into a device that he carried in his shirt’s chest pocket? The device must surely be an aid to help him hear more clearly . . . pobresito, Ale. She kindly adopted the habit of speaking to him more loudly until someone questioned her about it. “No," she was told, "that’s not a hearing aid! It’s a transistor radio! He’s listening to the Dodger game!”
Not many people know that my dad also played ball. During the 30s and 40s, there were many Mexican / Mexican American baseball teams throughout Southern California.
Pictured here is my dad’s team sponsored by Rancho Sespe.
STANDING (L > R): Unknown, John Castorena, Alex Davis (Dad), ___ Catarino (the Manager), Chavelo Sanchez, Primitivo Calles, Henry Garcia, David Cervantez (stats). KNEELING (L > R): Unknown, unknown, __ Cota, Henry Ibarra, “Loco” Carrillo, Gilbert Ozuna.
I don’t have any names for the following photos nor
do I know exactly where this field was. But I do recognize the silhouette of the hills in the background. They look like home to me.
The agile batter (BELOW) spreads his wings and flies his butt out to avoid an inside pitch. I can almost hear the stinging slap of the ball as the leaning catcher grabs it.
The curly-haired, handsome man posed with this team of young women ball players is my dad. He was their coach. Like so many other photos in my mom’s collection, the back of this one had no names. But there is one face that I recognize
.
.
She wasn’t the best player on the team – not even close. My dad said when he did allow her to play, he would put her in right field, the field that seldom got any hits. There, she was less likely to cause any errors. Now, I don’t want you to feel sorry for her. He liked her well enough. In fact, my twenty-something dad had an eye for this mid-teen player. But he was also a gentleman. He waited until my mom (you already guessed, right?) was 18 before he let his interest be known. My mom, Carmen, is the first one standing on the left.
She may not have been a great player but, if there was a Hall of Fame for love stories that began on a baseball diamond, this one, that evolved into a fifty-seven year marriage, would have a place of honor somewhere between Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays.
