artfullivingmagazine.com
| Winter 2016
1
intel || experience
Home Turf What I know about Tony-O. | BY FRANK ROFFERS
L
ast May, I was watching the Twins smash the Oakland Athletics when I noticed baseball legend Tony Oliva across the way and worked up enough nerve to talk to him. Like a shy kid asking for an autograph, I managed to choke out, “Mr. Oliva, I just wanted to meet you and let you know I’m going to Cuba next week.” And that was it. He flashed his famous gold-toothed smile and patted the empty seat next to him. I sat, and he regaled me with wonderful stories about his career and life, never taking his eye off the action on the diamond. Then, toward the end of the game, he asked a question I wasn’t expecting: Would I be willing to bring some things to his family in Cuba? A week later, I was on my way to Pinar del Río province, on the far western tip of the island. On the seat next to me: a blue Twins duffel filled with new tennis shoes, baseballs, and several $100 bills wrapped in a tight rubber band. Though he never advertises it, this is quintessential Oliva. The eight-time All-Star lives modestly in a Twin Cities suburb and bought houses in Cuba for all his siblings. In Consolación del Sur, I was honored to meet Tony’s brother, Juan Carlos, his sister Adela, and Juan Carlos’ wife, Chirino. We had our language difficulties, but they were exceptionally warm and inviting. They showed me their new pond for raising fish. They had me try on a Pinar del Río baseball jersey. They fed me pulled pork and rice and beans, and handed out cold bottles of Cerveza Cristal. We took a little trip into town to see a museum with Tony’s picture on the wall. Being with Juan Carlos punctuated for me how much was lost during the strained years of the Cold War. He is massive, with hands three times the size of mine. A left-handed pitcher who dominated the Cuban national team for a decade, he never got the chance to play for the majors like his brother. Same thing for Tony’s younger brother, Reynaldo, said to be an inspiring right-handed hitter in his day. Baseball lost out, and families were separated for decades. When I showed Adela my copy of the new Tony Oliva autobiography by Thom Henninger, she started crying and kissed the cover, with its picture of Tony as a bright young prospect in the early 1960s. I realized this is how she must remember him. She was just 9 when a talent scout gave their parents $250 and her brother left home and didn’t visit for 11 years. Now that the frost of the Cold War is melting away, Tony goes to Cuba almost every year. But he still teared up when I showed him videos of his family, photos of his homeland and a gift from Juan Carlos: a fat bundle of hand-rolled Cuban cigars, tied with a black satin ribbon.
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