Beisbol: La vida Latina: 
In plain English, language barrier a huge obstacle 
By Howard Bryant 
Recent Columns by Howard Bryant 
Re-Printed - September, 2004 

There is a line that runs through the New York Yankees clubhouse, a philosophical divide upon which neither side can claim a clear mandate. Panamanian Mariano Rivera, the dominant voice among the Latino players in the Yankees clubhouse, believes the first thing all young Latino players need to do in the big leagues -- besides play well enough to stay there -- is to learn English.

His reasoning is both simple and essential, even if it appears to the younger players to be conformist. In the United States, English is the primary language, Rivera says. To not speak it well is for a young player to put himself, Rivera believes, at a severe disadvantage.

``It is how I feel,'' Rivera said. ``In my country, you speak Spanish. But here, you speak English.''

For Rivera, the Latino players who don't master English are isolating themselves from the larger aspects and opportunities of the game. Unable to conduct interviews on their own, they will be at the mercy of translators who may or may not convey their exact sentiments. Latino players will not be, in Rivera's mind, full partners in baseball if they don't speak English.

``You have to be able to speak the language,'' he said. ``You have to be able to talk to your teammates, and the manager. If the manager doesn't think he can talk to you the way he can talk to the other guys, it can hurt you.''

Taking the long view of progress sometimes gives Rivera the look of a square, especially around younger Latino players not interested in learning English, and who do not see their swelling bank accounts affected by it.

But Rivera sees it differently.

English paves way to off-field success

To him, the next stage in the rise of the Latino player is not on the field, but in the front offices, the broadcast booths, the commercials. You can't be a manager or a general manager or owner without knowing English perfectly. So many opportunities will be closed off: endorsements, broadcast opportunities after retirement, lucrative speaking engagements, and more basically, the chance for a player to express himself.

There was a scene in Oakland in 1998 when pitcher Ariel Prieto, who had defected from Cuba, pitched a poor game and conducted a postgame interview without assistance from the club. Like most big league clubs, the A's did not employ a translator, and Prieto spoke under the lights of live television.

Reporter: ``Do you think you'll have to wait before they tell you if you'll get another start?''

Prieto: ``Huh?''

Reporter: ``Yes, wait. Do you think they'll tell you when you start next or will you have to wait?''

Prieto (Smiling): ``Oh, yes. Weight. I go about 235.''

Such stories give Latino players pause before conducting interviews in English. Baltimore's Miguel Tejada, at the time a young shortstop for the A's, felt trapped. He did not feel comfortable enough to speak in English, yet did not want to appear disrespectful by speaking only in Spanish. The result was silence, and, many of his teammates thought, a lost opportunity both on the part of the public to better know a special talent, and on the part of Tejada, who should have become more recognizable.

``I think the media and the fans lose out on a lot,'' Red Sox vice president of communications Charles Steinberg said. ``Sometimes ballplayers are viewed as shy, and what's worse, unintelligent just because they are uncomfortable with the language. But being uncomfortable with the language doesn't make you unintelligent. Send me to Germany and I'll sound like an idiot.''

A two-way street?

Perhaps more than any other player, Rivera commands the respect of his teammates, but his position is by no means absolute in the Yankees clubhouse or among Latinos in baseball. The explosion of Latin-Americans over the past 10 years has created a shifting of mindset that baseball should be, if not completely, more bilingual.

Yankees pitcher Orlando Hernandez, for example, has used a translator for the past six years since defecting from Cuba in 1998, while Pedro Martinez takes a middle approach. Martinez speaks perfect English, but has more respect for people who try to meet him halfway. Learning some Spanish, to Martinez, is a sign of respect, a sign that the Latino culture, and not just its talented players, is being accepted in the game.

The issue of translators has become prickly, especially with the influx of Asian players. Some Latinos feel Asians receive special treatment. The prominent Japanese players, such as Ichiro Suzuki, Hideo Nomo and Hideki Matsui, have professional translators. Non-English-speaking Latino players must either rely on a teammate to translate or a Spanish-speaking member of the team's staff. The Red Sox do not employ a translator. Usually, Martinez will counsel young players and translate for them.

In New York, the translator question reached a boil when, in 2002, the Yankees stripped Hernandez of his translator, Leo Astacio. The club reasoned that because Hernandez had been in the U.S. for four years, he had time to learn the language. Many Latin players were incensed, especially in comparison to Nomo, who has been pitching in the major leagues now for nearly a dozen years and still does not conduct interviews in English.

To Peter Roby, the director of the Center for Sport and Society at Northeastern University, the question was not one of culture, but of power.

``It's a matter of leverage,'' he said. ``The players coming here from the Japanese Leagues are big-money signings. The clubs are investing millions to ensure their success and, in turn, those players have the leverage to ask for things a Latino player being paid nothing could never ask for.''

Red Sox designated hitter David Ortiz and Carlos Delgado of Toronto take similar approaches. To avoid being cut off from one's teammates, it is good to master English. Ortiz said he took it as a challenge to learn English, just to avoid stereotypes and to understand everything going on around him.

A split in the clubhouse

Red Sox infielder Pokey Reese has been in the big leagues long enough, and played with enough teams, to know most clubhouses are split along ethnic lines. The only exception, Reese recalled, was one year with Cincinnati.

``That group went everywhere together,'' he said. ``It didn't matter what you were. Everybody hung out. But most times, the cliques are split up by race. It's like that here. It's just how it is.''

With Reese, he saw clubhouses also being split by language, with the Spanish-speaking players feeling isolated, or isolating themselves from the rest of the team.

In Oakland, another sensitive battleground, the music being blasted in the clubhouse, is settled diplomatically, if not democratically: The day's starting pitcher chooses the music. In New York, the Yankees settle the question much differently: There is no music at all in the clubhouse.

For his part, Rivera does not limit his evangelism to the Latino players. He challenges the entire system of baseball. The game is approaching 30 percent Latino, yet the overwhelming majority of reporters who cover the game do not speak Spanish. Each year during spring training, Rivera tells reporters he will only speak to them in Spanish. His protest lasts about 30 seconds, but his point is direct, similar to that of Martinez.

``Sure, I wish more people spoke Spanish,'' Toronto's Delgado said. ``But I don't know if that's realistic. Up here, you have to adapt to the culture. The culture isn't necessarily going to adapt to you.''

The result is something of a culture clash. Many members of baseball's old guard were frustrated by a wave of Latino players entering the game who had no interest in learning English, despite the classes the club provides in the minor leagues.

One coach in the Red Sox system expressed frustration in dealing with some Latino players, pitchers especially, because of the language barrier. It meant that either an infielder or catcher consistently needed to speak Spanish to communicate with the pitcher.

But Martinez has a point: if baseball is to truly become the international game it claims to desire, English cannot be the only language.