Las Aguilas son las estrellas
Growing up in la tierra santa de Higuey, all you heard was "El Licey this" or "El Licey that." (I now think Licey's popularity out east was probably a safe anti-Trujillista stance, sort of like that forced nervous laughter some folks let out when someone they don't like is the butt of jokes.) By the time of my glorious childhood, El Licey was just like a certain religion: every kid I knew was a liceista, just like their parents, during the last years of Los 30 años. No imagination, like today's New York Yankees fans, as my hero funnyman Cleef would say.
Then there was my uncle Carlos, a fanático de los equipos del campo: Aguilas y Estrellas. A mountain of a man, and easily the tallest man in all the east, Carlos's humility allowed him to root fearlessly for Aguilas y Estrellas. I think he should've been a liceista, for that's what I thought of them: dignified, humble, religiously traditional, uncomplicated.
We "was" poor, us barrio kids (too poor to know we were poor): no TV, just radio and El Caribe (El Nacional came out at night and was considered leftist). "Did you hear Felipe la botó de foul anoche?" We could only imagine what a home-run looked like, even de foul. Carty was bigger than life and Marichal was a living legend, but only played in Las Grandes Ligas. La gente grande would criticize him: "He's too good for us now." I don't know, but maybe the San Franciso Giants didn't want him to take risks during winter ball. Besides, you have to admit that battling Sandy Koufax was more important, and all's forgotten. Gibson was probably better, but Marichal era de nosotros: nuestro astro.
Still, rooting for Marichal in the Bigs and for Licey at home was too safe of a bet. Carlos rooted for Marichal as well. And for los equipos del campo. Out. East. On the other side of San Pedro de Macoris. An anomaly. And I liked it. I also liked that Julián Javier didn't look like any other pelotero. We had seen him in photos: light-skinned and glasses. Nothing racist. Just different. And the contrarian in me was being formed.
Yeah, I became an aguilucho, and in Higuey to boot! Those were the days before the AIs and before cibaeños came out to work, and when Bávaro was full of cocos and unknown to out-of-towners and Punta Cana was too far and El Macao was it. So, I was probably the farthest-to-the-east aguilucho kid during those days. I was Julián Javier.
Kite-flying, marbles, camán ahí (cowboys and Indians), a lo encondio (escondido: hide-and-seek) were routines, but baseball ruled the day: a jugá pelota, muchachose! Although afraid de un pelotazo, I insisted on playing second base: I was Julián Javier. I even wanted to wear glasses, always asking los tres reyes magos for lentes.
Our Santa never delivered. The lots shrunk, which necessitated a bateá a lo zurdo. My cousin-brother Negro was the only left-handed kid we knew, but we didn't insist on him switch-hitting: he was weak and would quit most of the time. Que maldita rabia when would-be losers quit rather than take their just beating! By then, I was the only baseball-cap-wearing fool around. Y roja. And with a big 'C' on it. See, the stinkin' St. Louis Cardinals traded Julián Javier to the Cinci Reds. I showed them: I switched allegiance and became a Reds fan. That would "learn" them!
I would eventually roam the outfield and become César Cedeño, César Gerónimo, Lou Brock, Yaz, Fred Lynn, Paul Blair, Miguel Diloné, and later on, Wally Joyner, Ricky Henderson, Tim Raines, Willie McGee, and Eric The Red: Eric Davis.
Carlos se fué. My goatee is turning gray. I'm trying original Proust, Prose, and Roth and Lord Tennyson these days. But while all you hear now is "Las Aguilas son Las Aguilas," I put down all that high-fallutin' stuff, and shout: Las Aguilas SON LAS ESTRELLAS!
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