HispanicTrending

Baseball teams work hard to knock down language barrier

July 6, 2008
By JOE VARDON

The corner television inside the Mud Hens clubhouse is usually - but not always - set to Telemundo, a popular Spanish-language network.

But on a rainy night in April, Erick Almonte sauntered over to the television and changed the channel to CNN.

"This is how you learn," said Almonte, a Hens infielder from the Dominican Republic, to a handful of Latin teammates who objected to Almonte's channel changing.

Almonte, 30, said he spoke very little English when he first arrived in Tampa in 1997 as a rookie in the Yankees' organization. He said he taught himself the language by reading American newspapers and turning the subtitles to English for the TV shows and movies he watched.

"It's very important to learn English, learn what's going on in this country," Almonte said.

Players in the majors or in Triple-A, like Almonte, still have to practice their English skills on their own. But their clubs are stepping in to help, far more than when Almonte broke into baseball.

About 30 percent of all major leaguers are Latin-born, according to the Institute for Diversity and Ethics in Sport. That's almost one-third of a workforce making a minimum of $390,000 a year who speaks a different language than most of the coaches they play for and the fans who idolize them.

Not only must these players hit 95 mph fastballs, they need to learn to live away from the ballpark - whether ordering a meal or opening a bank account - tasks made more difficult without the ability to speak English.

Major League Baseball has responded. Since 2001, the league mandates that each ofits 30 clubs provide English education at teams' Latin American headquarters, in either the Dominican Republic or Venezuela.

But some clubs, including the Detroit Tigers and Cleveland Indians, go far beyond that mandate and have established cultural assimilation programs either in Latin America or here in the States.

"We would be derelict in our duty if we allowed this transition to take place on its own," said Dan Lunetta, the Tigers' director of minor league operations. "We have to do everything we can to help these kids adjust to life in the U.S."

Hitting the books
The Indians have a contract with a school in the Dominican Republic that offer players courses in English, math, science, and American culture. The New York Mets, Boston Red Sox, Seattle Mariners, and Kansas City Royals do the same, but with a different a school.

Players can obtain high school diplomas, and what they learn is reinforced through classes once they reach the United States.

"It's a way to provide more normalcy, more structure for them when they get to the United States," said Ross Atkins, Cleveland's director of player development. "It offers them a chance to grow as humans."

The groundwork for the Tigers' program is laid through the mandatory English classes in Latin America, but their full-blown cultural assimilation courses are offered stateside.

The contrast between the Indians' and Tigers' programs is an example of using different methods to reach the same goal. It's seen throughout baseball, as some clubs go the extra mile with their Latin players and others stick to in-house English classes.

Lou Melindez, vice president of international operations for Major League Baseball, said the league hopes to decide by September whether to build its own school in the Dominican Republic or subsidize the clubs that contract for their Latin players to attend school.

The going rate is from $1,000 to $2,000 per player to send them to
CENAPEC, a nonprofit school established in 1972 in the Dominican
Republic to provide low-cost education to adults. The Indians will send 30 to 50 players, between the ages of 16 and 20, there this year.

Whether in the Dominican Republic or in Lakeland, Fla., in simple English classes or in elaborate assimilation programs, Latin players are taught how to order food in restaurants as well as how to set up and use e-mail, tasks that Americans take for granted.

"If you're from the Dominican Republic and you come to the U.S. or vice versa, it's culture shock," said Rene Francisco, special assistant to Royals general manager Dayton Moore.

Sal Artiaga, the Philadelphia Phillies' director of Latin American operations who has been teaching Latin players English since 1993 when he was with the Chicago White Sox, has written three workbooks used throughout baseball to help with the assimilation process.

Artiaga said speaking English is part of being a pro baseball player.

"Just like they go through the gamut of lifting weights or doing drills, Latin players must work on their language and life skills," Artiaga said. "It's imperative."

'One word a day'
On any given night, Tigers manager Jim Leyland's lineup card might include a Renteria, a Polanco, a Guillen, an Ordonez, a Cabrera, and a Rodriguez. All of them speak the language well, save for Cabrera.

"If they can get a hit, I don't care if they speak Spanish, Portuguese or Chinese," Leyland said.

But most players care.

Magglio Ordonez, the Tigers' right fielder and reigning American League batting champion, was in Artiaga's English class over a decade ago when he was with the White Sox.

"I'm still learning," said Ordonez, a Venezuelan. "You try to learn one word a day and keep getting better."

Ordonez laughed at the memory of those English classes and said: "People used to joke that I don't speak English. My bat speaks English."

Lunetta, who oversees the Tigers' minor league operations, said even though a player's success depends on how well he can hit or pitch, "we don't ever want to be in a position where a player has been in this country for six years and says the organization never really helped me understand English or understand life in the U.S."

And there are distinct advantages being able to speak English on the baseball field.

Fred Benavides, minor league field coordinator for the Cincinnati Reds, said the Latin players who learn English, or those who at least put for the effort, are generally more aggressive on the field.

"A guy who is not embarrassed or afraid to mess up when he's learning English makes for a more aggressive player," Benavides said. "The guys who don't learn or don't want to learn, they're generally more reserved. Either way, it translates into how they play."

Melindez, a major league executive, said Latin players with extensive training in English are often times better equipped to play professionally here.

"They can analyze issues, think critically. The feedback I've gotten from one of these schools tell them the players are better critical thinkers and more prepared to play the way they want them to play."

Continuing education
Wilton Garcia, Audy Ciriaco, Alfredo Figaro, and Mauricio Robles file into a cramped conference room at Fifth Third Ballpark in Comstock Park, Mich., home of the West Michigan Whitecaps, a Tigers Single-A affiliate.

They're greeted by Betty Duncan, a middle-aged teacher in the local school system.

On the dry erase board is the phrase "useful expressions," and in front of the four Latino ballplayers are Artiaga's workbooks.

It's the start of another cultural assimilation class, the kind Latinos with the Tigers' lower minor league affiliates have been attending since 2005.

Lunetta said Detroit's program, like many others throughout baseball, is primarily designed to work with players at the Single-A level and below. It begins at the start of minor league spring training and involves three classes per week through the month of March.

After the regular season starts, the program continues in Lakeland for all of the Tigers' remaining minor leaguers there (Single-A and rookie ball teams play in Lakeland) and at West Michigan.

"By the time the players get to Double-A, they're typically prepared to manage on their own," Lunetta said. "If not, we do whatever we can to help them."

On this day in Comstock Park, Duncan is working with Garcia, Ciriaco, Figaro, and Robles on introducing themselves.

"My name is Wilton Garcia, and I am a pitcher," Garcia says during a drill with Duncan.

The teacher also explains the nuances of shopping at gas stations, being interviewed by reporters, and the educational value of reading American newspapers and magazines.

Figaro, a 23-year-old pitcher from the Dominican Republic, said he's learning more in these classes with Duncan than he did in Lakeland, largely because there are fewer Latin players around him.

According to Lunetta, when the season started the Tigers had 145 minor leaguers, and 47 of them were Latinos. Many of them are concentrated in Lakeland, where Detroit's assimilation program is largely based.

"In Lakeland there are so many Latin players, when you back to the hotel you speak Spanish. At the field, you speak Spanish," Figaro said. "Here, most of our teammates speak English. My host family speaks English. We're speaking English on the field and at home, and in here [at class]."

'Competitive advantatges'
While this program is only in its fourth year with the Tigers, it's nothing new for Lunetta and other Detroit executives.

When Lunetta, current Tigers general manager Dave Dombrowski, and assistant GM Al Avila all held front office roles with the Florida Marlins in the early 1990s, they introduced a program that consisted of more than just simple English classes.

Lunetta, then the Marlins' director of minor league administration, had many discussions with Dombrowski, Florida's GM at the time, and Avila, the Marlins' assistant director of Latin American operations, about how to better help foreign players adapt to playing away from their home countries.

"At the time we were introducing this program, I believe we were on the cutting edge of implementing culturization programs," Lunetta said.

The Marlins had their program up and running in 1993, and one of its first participants was current Tigers shortstop Edgar Renteria, a Columbian who first joined Florida's farm system in 1992.

"I remember that it helped to be in that class," Renteria said. "For a Latin guy who didn't know how to speak any English, I was learning something every day."

Lunetta said the program has evolved since its early Marlins days, with more time now being spent with the players. But he said there is a specific reason why outside instructors have always been relied on to teach these classes instead of Latin-born coaches who can speak Spanish and English.

"That relationship doesn't develop with managers, coaches, and [baseball] instructors," Lunetta said. "The players put so much pressure on themselves to succeed baseball-wise that they don't want to present themselves as being vulnerable to those responsible for their baseball development."

No matter who the teachers are, Atkins, the Indians director of player development who used to run their Latin American operations, said the money spent on these programs is well worth it.

"It's peanuts compared to what we spend on scouting and developing the players, and it helps them learn the skills they'll need to make adjustments when they're here. Making it to the big leagues is all about being able to adjust.

"It's about human beings and competitive advantages."

Source: The Toledo Blade

Game was secondary for Latino contingent

July 1, 2008
By Matt Katz

The 13 youngsters who got an extraordinary chance to play T-ball on the White House lawn yesterday returned to Camden last night with bragging rights, a baseball bearing President Bush's signature, and memories of the nation's leader cheering them on.

One player even brought back a jersey stained from a bloody nose he suffered from an errant throw to first base.

But those most affected by the game between the kids from Camden's Cramer Hill neighborhood and a team from Puerto Rico were the Camden parents, all of whom are Latino. For them, the symbolism far outweighed the novelty.

"You can see that this is an American dream," said Abner Garcia, a Nicaraguan immigrant whose two sons were among the 4- to 7-year-olds.

"It's more than a T-ball game. It's about being accepted now," Garcia said. "The highest office in the land is willing to open the doors for us to spend time with the first lady and the president, to feel important for a little while."

Dolly Oquendo, the Puerto Rican-born mother of player Jeremy Rivera, 6, said several times that she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She tried hard not to cry all over her Cramer Hill T-shirt.

"Being right next to the president, I'm so proud of my son being a Latino," Oquendo said. "You very rarely see a Latino group sit right next to the president. . . . I'm very proud I'm representing the Hispanic community."

This was the 19th game to be played on South Lawn of the White House in a tradition started by President Bush in 2001. But it was the first with a Latino flavor, thanks to the pairing of the Angels from Manati, Puerto Rico, and the group from Cramer Hill, a largely Latino neighborhood.

The day was themed "Béisbol: The Latin Spirit." U.S. Commerce Secretary Carlos M. Gutiérrez, a Cuban native, coached third base and Roberto Clemente Jr., son of the Puerto Rican baseball great, was the game's honorary commissioner. The elder Clemente's No. 21 was retired during the proceedings.

Joined by his wife, an ebullient, shirt-sleeved President Bush dropped some Spanish on the field and in the third row of the bleachers, where he joked with the Cramer Hill Red Sox parents and talked across the aisle - literally and figuratively - with U.S. Rep. Robert E. Andrews (D., Camden).

When the game announcer called out a Red Sox player's name and favorite team, the New York Mets, the Camden contingent booed passionately. And the president loved it, doubling over in laughter.

Andrews, who is leaving office this year, shared a few quiet words with the president, then talked exclusively about baseball.

"Go Camden!" Andrews cheered.

The congressman said he was aware of the struggles of the Cramer Hill Little League, which for years has lobbied City Council for improved playing fields and a clubhouse with equipment storage, bathrooms and an adjoining concession stand. The current fields lack water fountains and permanent bathrooms, and are prone to flooding.

"Hopefully this [game] will give them a little bit of a boost," Andrews said.

Due to economic need, the league waives the registration fee for 40 percent of its players. More than 400 boys and girls, ages 4 to 17, played this year, but about 60 were turned away because of lack of playing space and coaches.

"The fields are so underfunded, we really do need support," Garcia said. "We need to feel like we count."

Pete Perez, president of the Cramer Hill league, said the program is constantly in peril.

"We're still getting kids we want to keep off the streets," he said. "If those resources don't come to us, the league could fall apart."

The publicity surrounding the team's White House invitation has resulted in donations pouring in. They covered the cost of two buses from Camden to Washington.

The players and their families boarded the buses just before 8:30 a.m. at the Susquehanna Bank Center on the waterfront. Big sisters and mothers tucked the players' brand-new red South Lawn Sluggers jerseys into the children's gray pants, a coach led the team in a prayer and, with some cheers, they were off.

"I'm going to hit the ball high," declared Abner Garcia II, 6. "We're number one, baby!"

The one female team member, Alexis Santos, 4, flaunts her gender. She uses a pink glove, wears jewelry to games and refused to wear her cap in a team picture "so they know she's a girl," said Jenise Santos, her mother.

During a private tour of the White House before the game, Alexis asked the tour guide, "Can I see the president? Is he in his room?"

They would see him soon enough. Bush led the crowd in the Little League pledge before the game and shook each child's hand afterward.

There was no winner: Official scores are not kept in T-ball. There was only one inning - the game ended after each batter was given an opportunity at the plate. All the Cramer Hill players made contact with the ball off the tee.

Still, there were low points. The Puerto Rican squad pulled off a sensational 4-2 double play practically unheard of in T-ball. And Cramer Hill's star first baseman, Andy Fortuna got hit in the face with a throw.

He returned later to shake the president's hand, despite the blood on his uniform.

After the game, the kids munched on burritos and hot dogs, and a handful of players did TV interviews.

Jose Delgado, a Camden school board member and Little League coach, said the joy of watching the children transcended all the political issues that concern the Latino community.

"The Hispanic parents weren't thinking about heavy-duty immigration issues," he said. "It's just an outing at their home, on their lawn."

Source: The Philadelphia Enquirer

Guatemalan women kick aside constraints in the U.S.

Soccer, a frowned on activity in their home country, becomes a passion.

June 30, 2008
By Molly Hennessy-Fiske

Celestina "Celes" Lopez strode out from under the shade of a battered palm tree in a corner of MacArthur Park, entered the makeshift soccer field of dirt and gravel, and called to teammates in Spanish.

"Don't be afraid of the big ones," said the 40-year-old mother of two, shoulders thrust back, head as high as she could manage on a 5-foot frame.

Her sisters, Francisca, 34, and Elda, 30, walked with her.

"Be like the men -- aggressive," Elda called out. During the week, the sisters spend their days like scores of other illegal immigrant women in Los Angeles: Wedged behind Singer sewing machines, they feed pants and shirts under the needle until their shoulders grow stiff.

But on the weekends they play a game that was off-limits to them in Guatemala. It is on the soccer fields that the Lopez sisters feel like American women.

Growing up at the foot of the Sierra Madre in northwest Guatemala, the Lopezes didn't need to be told that soccer was forbidden. Women did not wear shorts. They did not play games that required machismo.

"The indigenous people didn't like women to play," Celestina said while making tamales for dinner at her Westlake apartment one Thursday after practice. "There were evangelicals who didn't like it either."

There were six children in the Lopez family, three boys and three girls. The oldest, Juan, made the family's first soccer ball out of spare fabric when Celestina was small. She and her sisters were not allowed to play with it.

Her father, Francisco, an evangelical Christian, was a cattle and sheep farmer. He frowned on women playing rough sports like soccer but shared his countrymen's passion for the game. He attended the town's Sunday soccer matches and sold ice cream to spectators. He went to see the popular local soccer team, Club Deportivo Xelaju Mario Camposeco, "Los Superchivos," in nearby Quetzaltenango, where they filled the 13,500-seat stadium. He even took a few of his children to the game, including Francisca.

At night, Celestina would hear her brothers and other neighborhood boys calling to one another to play soccer.

She and her sisters would join them on the dirt roads, under the apricot, plum and palm trees. But the girls would never play.

"We would go and watch, only watch," Elda said.

On Jan. 20, 1994, Celestina left her small town of San Carlos Sija for the U.S., following the path of relatives. With no legal papers, she traveled by land, paying a coyote in Tijuana 15,000 quetzals, about $2,000, to guide her into California. It took her two tries to make it to Los Angeles.

Francisca followed the next year -- after five attempts over a dangerous route across the desert into Arizona. Elda arrived in 1996, again with the help of a coyote.

Life in L.A. proved harder than the sisters had imagined. The only jobs they could find were in garment factories, piecework that paid less than minimum wage with no benefits.

But they began building lives much as they would have in Guatemala: marrying, having children and joining an evangelical church, the Centro Cristiano Vida Victoriosa in Echo Park.

It would be years before they started playing soccer, almost by accident.

In the spring of 2006, after more than a decade of living in Los Angeles, Celestina heard an announcement at church: The minister was organizing a women's soccer league.

The sisters borrowed shin guards from their husbands. They bought knockoff Adidas cleats for $25, almost a day's pay, at Pepe's Sports near MacArthur Park because they knew the owner, a fellow Guatemalan. They persuaded their husbands to watch their five children.

Celestina had already practiced with her husband, Raymundo Hernandez, 35, who had played soccer in Guatemala since he was a child. But she felt awkward in the new cleats, "like a cow in shoes."

She and her sisters were nervous and scared to play. None of them had medical insurance in case they were injured.

But that was not their main concern. Their husbands had played without medical insurance for years and had never been hurt.

The sisters' biggest worry was that they might embarrass themselves by making stupid mistakes.

But as they played that first day at Belmont High School, and in the weeks that followed, Celestina grew confident. Not only could she and her sisters play, they looked forward to it. It loosened them up, relieved the stiffness in their shoulders.

Celestina and Elda felt less stressed. Francisca felt less depressed, stopped having headaches and breathing problems.

After about a year, the women's soccer games became so popular that the minister decided they were distracting churchgoers and discontinued them.

Celestina was secretly pleased. Playing under the minister's watchful eye, she felt she had to be on her best behavior. They would start their own team. For help, they turned to another Guatemalan immigrant.

On any given weekend, scores of immigrants line the hills of the bowl-shaped field where Celestina and her sisters play in MacArthur Park. Vendors with strollers full of Gatorade and Cheetos compete for territory closest to the field, bickering in Spanish. Men stand in clusters on the sidelines, following the action. Mothers dressed in heels and glitter-dusted jeans watch with babies hoisted on their hips. Boys and girls roam nearby, passing soccer balls.

Daniel Morales started the league, Youth Empowerment Through Scholastic Sports Service, for low-income, mostly immigrant children seven years ago. It has grown to about 1,200 players, including a dozen women's teams he refers to as "the ladies."

Annual dues are about $12. Games are usually on Saturdays, with optional practices during the week, and a season that effectively runs all year. Uniformed referees have whistles and carry penalty cards in their pockets, but in some ways the league is still informal.

The medic is an elderly Mexican cowboy who watches games from a folding chair on the sidelines. At the end of the winter and summer seasons, everyone receives a trophy.

Francisca remembers how giddy she felt the day she picked up her first uniform for $25, packaged in crinkling cellophane, like a toy.

"I wasn't a woman," she said, "I was a girl."

Celestina and her sisters didn't have to recruit much for their new team.

Women started approaching them in the park. Eventually, they attracted about 10 regular players, mostly fellow Guatemalan immigrants who had always wanted to play and finally felt free of family constraints.

"Here, you have the freedom to play for yourself," said Francisca, who plays offense. "There, if your mother or father-in-law says no, you can't."

Celestina and her team faced resistance.

Drunks shouted directions from the sidelines. Strange men in cowboy hats and paint-spattered pants gathered on the sidelines during games to stare at their bare legs.

"I can see how they look at us," Celestina said, "Like, who are these people and why are they playing?"

Back in Guatemala, attitudes about women's soccer are entrenched. Even members of the national women's team have fought with their families for the right to play.

When the sisters recount games to immigrant co-workers at the garment factories, some are shocked.

"Do your husbands know you play?" one woman asked Francisca.

"Did they allow you?"

Some Guatemalan women are afraid to play. Last month, the sisters tried to persuade their cousin who had just arrived from Guatemala to join the soccer team. She refused, afraid to wear shorts.

"Everyone will look at my legs!" she told Celestina.

Their mother, Catalina Velasquez, 75, did not find out they were playing until last month, and only by chance.

The sisters had not told her about their team because, like their father who died seven years ago, they thought she would disapprove.

But one day last month, as Elda was talking to her mother on a pay phone, she let the news slip.

"I have to go because I have a game," Elda said.

Her mother was shocked.

"What game?" she said.

Their time on the pay phone was about to run out.

"Fútbol," Elda said.

"Soccer? What? What are you talking about?" her mother said.

Elda had just enough time to reassure her mother that all three sisters play together, under the watchful eye of Celestina's husband, Raymundo Hernandez, who coaches the team.

A month later, their mother is resigned to the idea of her daughters playing soccer, they said. But she is not happy about it. She is convinced someone else must have given them the idea.

"Now," Raymundo said, smiling, "she is mad at me."

Thursday nights, the Lopez sisters and half a dozen teammates meet for practice in LaFayette Park.

Raymundo, 35, also a garment worker, is a demanding coach, pushing them to run faster, pass deliberately and charge the ball. Soccer has proved a common passion for him and Celestina. The game has been a way to escape from the cramped two-bedroom apartment they and their two children share with his sister and her two children.

During practice, Celestina and her sisters sprint, pass and scrimmage with teammates between fluorescent plastic cones on a field worn to dirt. Trash cans and palm trees serve as goals. When the light fades, they play by streetlight.

The sisters' five children play nearby. Celestina has been encouraging the only girl, her daughter, Erica Hernandez, 8, to play soccer, too, but she is scared of getting hurt.

The women practice surrounded by male soccer players engrossed in their own games, in the shadow of the park's official field.

The oasis of fenced artificial turf and metal goals glows under high-powered lights, and is always reserved by men's teams. Latina onlookers of all ages ring the field until well after dark, some still in work uniforms.

Celestina and her sisters dream of one day becoming the champions of MacArthur Park.

The sisters say their biggest challenge will be age and inexperience. They already think they run too slowly, pass too awkwardly and score too little, occasionally knocking the ball into their own goal. They are disappointed with their record this spring -- one win, one loss, five ties.

Each game, they play hard -- heading the ball, tumbling to make a save, rushing their opponents' goal and shouting at each other to score.

"We are not tall," Francisca says, "But we are not scared."

Source: Los Angeles Times

Baseball's Other Racial Barrier

Latino Players Forge a Big-League Presence, but Are a Rarity on College Rosters

June 24, 2008
By JAMES WAGNER

It's hard to watch the college-baseball World Series, under way now in Omaha, Neb., without noticing how different the college game is from the major-league version. Not in the caliber of play or the funny ping of the aluminum bats, but in the way the players look.

College players in the three main divisions are 86% white, according to the most-recent NCAA figures. That's a big difference from Major League Baseball, where one study puts the number at less than 60%. The most striking difference is in the number of Latinos on the field: They made up about 29% of all major leaguers in 2007 but only 5% of players in college.

While the percentage of Latino players has more than doubled in professional baseball since 1990, accounting for top stars such as Alex Rodriguez and David Ortiz, the percentage of minorities in the college game remains extremely low. That's especially true for Latinos, for whom college ball's failure to keep pace with the diversity of the major leagues is most striking. And that's embarrassing to some.

"We don't like that we're all-white, either," says Ron Polk, who retired last month after 29 years as the head baseball coach at Mississippi State University. "I don't want anyone to draw the impression that we're happy about it."

Minority players clearly aren't being excluded from major-league stardom and wealth. But because college baseball has had trouble attracting nonwhite talent, minority prospects aren't enjoying the benefits of a recent shift in the game that puts a premium on college players. Last year, according to data provided by Major League Baseball, 55% of the players picked in baseball's amateur draft came from four-year institutions, up from 38% in 1998. The number of college players taken in the first four rounds, where teams pay the highest bonuses, has increased by 20% over the past 10 years. The average signing bonus through the first four rounds last year was $790,000.

At the center of the issue is a perennial choice facing young baseball prospects: College seems to afford less opportunity than the fast cash they can get signing with a pro team.

But now that college has become a sexier pipeline for the major leagues, those players may be making a bad economic decision: not just passing up an education but also earning less money in the long run.

Elliott Avent, head coach at North Carolina State University, argues that if Latino players, or any other aspiring major leaguers, don't go to college, "they're leaving a ton of money on the table."

It's an argument that college coaches are making to potential recruits now. Turtle Thomas, head coach at Florida International University in Miami, was praying one of his commitments from Puerto Rico wouldn't sign after this month's draft. He says he spent about an hour on the phone with the incoming shortstop and his father trying to convince them college would prove more lucrative and beneficial in the end.

Mr. Thomas says if the player signs now he would probably do it for $60,000. But after three years in college, he's sure that money could be close to $600,000. That's partly why major-league teams want to scout high-school players, says Mr. Thomas. "They like to sign guys for as cheaply as possible."

The player agreed to terms with the major-league team that drafted him.

Clearly, other college sports have had more success attracting minority talent. According to the most recent NCAA Division I data, Hispanics and blacks make up nearly 11% of college baseball players. Yet blacks account for much larger percentages in men's college basketball (58.9%) and Division I-A college football (46.9%).

Many forces beyond the easy cash compound this discrepancy. They include challenges in recruiting, a college draft that, unlike the National Basketball Association's, doesn't include prospects from abroad, and baseball scholarships that are fewer and less comprehensive than football and basketball scholarships.

Coaches say it is expensive for colleges in the NCAA's Division I to recruit overseas, even in Latin America. And foreign players often lack the appropriate transcripts, grades and test scores.

The scholarship policies of the NCAA pose other obstacles for luring Latino players. Since 1993, college baseball teams have been limited to 11.7 scholarships to cover about 35 players on the average team's roster. That is a smaller allotment than some sports with smaller teams have. Women's basketball, for example, gets 15 scholarships for about 15 players. Under this system, even some star players don't get full rides: University of Arizona head baseball coach Andy Lopez points out that last season his top pitcher, Preston Guilmet, received 79% of a scholarship.

Last year, the NCAA adopted a new policy regarding baseball scholarships. While it didn't change the total value of the scholarships baseball teams can offer, it dictated that the money should be spread out more evenly. Starting next season, up to 30 players on each baseball team must have an overall financial-aid package that covers at least 25% of their costs. That means some students who got little or no assistance will get some, while others who were well-funded may see cuts in the scholarship money available to them.

Athletic directors say they aren't sure what impact this policy will have on the recruitment of minority players, but that it promises to make the already difficult baseball-scholarship situation all the more complex.

Walter Harrison, the chairman of the NCAA's Division I Committee on Academic Performance, says the pressure on men's sports such as baseball is just a fact of life given the general pressure on athletic budgets. He says the most recent change to the baseball-scholarships policy was aimed at lowering the high number of college baseball players who transfer to other schools each year in pursuit of bigger scholarships -- and whose academic records tend to suffer. By spreading the money around more evenly, he says, the NCAA believes more players will stay put and that this, in turn, should improve academic performance.

But when it comes to signing players, Major League Baseball has fewer constraints. The draft is limited to residents of the U.S. and Canada, but foreign players are free to sign with major-league teams as free agents when they are as young as age 16. And most teams are so eager to tap this pool of talent they have built baseball academies in Latin American countries to help recruit and train young prospects.

It's working. According to league figures, nearly half the players currently under contract in the minor leagues are foreign-born, and this contingent is producing some of the best players in the sport. About one-third of the 66 players named to last year's All-Star Game were foreign-born, including nine from the Dominican Republic.

What bugs many coaches most is that baseball, a sport that has a legacy of integration dating back to Jackie Robinson, has become at the college level a game for the privileged -- a country-club sport. To be noticed by college recruiters, they say, players must participate in travel leagues and showcase tournaments, attend camps and work with well-known trainers and coaches. Only the families of wealthy kids can afford this, coaches say.

"With this explosion of showcase camps and travel teams, kids from less-affluent backgrounds will get less of a chance," says Mike Gaski, head coach at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. He says his biggest fear is, "baseball is too quickly becoming an elitist sport."

Source: The Wall Street Journal

How to Fit in With the Frenzied Fans of D.C. United

June 15, 2008
By Dan Steinberg

In an unusual twist this year, the long-dormant Redskins, Wizards and Capitals each made the playoffs, while normally dominant D.C. United has struggled. But while the four-time Major League Soccer champions have been ragged on the field, their hard-core fans have maintained their status as some of Washington's best. Some advice for fitting in with the die-hards at RFK Stadium:

Choose your side carefully. The stadium is divided into two halves: the Quiet Side on RFK's south end, directly across from the more telegenic Loud Side. The former is perfectly friendly to families and children; the latter is home to the largest supporters' group and the legendary flying cups of beer after particularly momentous plays.

"I swear, I got a buzz once just from keeping my mouth open," says Marissa Valeri, 31, of Wheaton.

Be prepared for a workout. Most fans on the Loud Side remain standing (or jumping) and singing for all 90 minutes of game action. It's a feat of spectatorship more commonly seen at college football or basketball games, and it can be jarring for fans more accustomed to using the seats they've paid for.

"Honestly, preseason for the players is like preseason for us," says Pedro Aida, 28, of Richmond. "For the first game, the next day your calves will hurt and your voice will be scratchy. Your body hurts. But after you get a few games under your belt, you're back in shape, back in midseason form."

True United fandom also requires near-constant cheering; one longtime screamer recommends drinking hot tea with honey before a game.

Brush up on your Spanish. The team has had a strong following in the Latino community since its inception; it now has a Spanish-language Web site, in addition to extensive Spanish-language media coverage. A recent game brought out Las Senadoras, three not-unattractive models from Univision's "Republica Deportiva" ("Sports Republic") show who signed autographs for an appreciative, if mostly male, crowd in the parking lot.

This support is also reflected in La Barra Brava, the rowdy supporters' group that was formed by a core of Latino fans in 1996, the team's first season. That group has since attracted a younger, whiter crowd, and the "Gringos," as they're known, now are a majority, which makes for some interesting Spanish chants.

"We've got guys who have been here for years and they still don't know all the words," says Rob Gillespie, one of the group's leaders. "But they sound good, and we have people to help out with the lyrics."

"We're trying to introduce some new stuff, and it's an uphill battle," adds Vlad Karamyshev, a native Russian. "First of all, there's the language barrier. Second of all, there's the alcohol barrier."

Stay in rhythm. The number of musical instruments per capita at United games is easily the highest of any local franchise. Most home games feature fans with bass drums, tom-toms, snare drums, congas, whistles, cowbells, rattles, bagpipes and, occasionally, an English hunting horn.

"This is my expression of self," says Tom Faulkner, one of the most prominent drummers. "Smoking a cigar, with my buddies, banging drums: There's nothing like it."

Bring your better-than-average brews and ironic T-shirts. The crowd includes plenty of suburban soccer moms and dads, but perhaps more than any other local pro team, United has a strong hipster following. How did this happen?

Well, the parking lot beer selection, for one thing. You're just as likely to see a bottle of Newcastle or a keg of Bell's Pale Ale as you are a can of Miller Lite or a case of Coors. Similarly, when fan groups line up special offers during viewing parties for away games, think Carlsberg and Guinness, not Michelob.

"Frankly, it comes from the English pub experience; they're not drinking Bud Light in English pubs," says Paul Sotoudeh, president of the Screaming Eagles fan group. "Good beer is a big part of this experience."

United fans also seem to have a particular appreciation for the ironically worn jersey, from a vintage model honoring University of Virginia head soccer coach George Gelnovatch (who played two games with United in 1996) to a more recent shirt paying tribute to forgettable defender Mark Watson.

"It's like being an indie-rock fan. You don't know the hits; you know the deep cuts," explains Tony Frederick, 40, of Washington.

Don't boo the home team . Longtime United fans have certain guidelines, ones that do not apply to other local sports teams. Leaving early, for instance, is never acceptable. And booing (the home team) is highly discouraged. Fans take particular pride in starting their iconic "D.C. United" chant after opponents' goals.

"Even if we lose 8-nil to San Jose, we're still cheering," says Paul Planzer, 28, of Washington. "I think when we're losing, we actually get louder."

Feel free to wink at the visiting fans. The sort of interfan hostility that's common at NFL games is much harder to find in MLS. For one thing, only a fraction of fans travel with their team, leaving the visiting fans at RFK Stadium massively outnumbered, a rarity in this town of fair-weather support.

But also, longtime United fans still remember the nationwide solidarity of soccer fans dating from the league's inception, when supporters of the U.S. national team banded together behind the fledgling league. Much of that feeling has been lost as the league has grown, but some fans cling to the memory. Mike Rumberg, for example, has maintained a decade-long friendship with a Columbus Crew supporter he met in the late '90s.

"It's bizarre: You'd never go to Philadelphia, make a little connection, exchange [team gear] with him and 10 years later still be having lunch with him," Rumberg says. "No, he'd probably be in jail for kicking your [rear]."
Join the Fray

Source: Washington Post

AT&T Dials Up Olympics Ad Push Featuring 'First Family of Taekwondo'

June 9, 2008
By Della de Lafuente

AT&T has dialed up a Latino-targeted ad push for the summer as part of a multicultural, multiplatform media buy that showcases Hispanic siblings Steven, Mark and Diana Lopez of the U.S. Olympic Taekwondo Team.

The marketing push via TV, radio, online, digital and direct mail is part of the telco's sponsorship of the U.S. Olympic Team and is the first time that AT&T has developed Olympic-themed messaging aimed at Hispanics. Omnicom's Dieste, Harmel & Partners, Dallas, handled creative duties and WPP's Mediaedge:cia was responsible for media.

The Lopezes of Sugarland, Texas, are known by martial arts aficionados as the "First Family of American Taekwondo." They are the first sibling group to make the U.S. Olympic team in 104 years after U.S. gymnastics brothers Edward, Richard and William Tritschler competed in the 1904 games in St. Louis, per ESPN.com.

The martial arts threesome is coached by older brother, Jean, and holds three of the four slots on the 2008 U.S. Olympic Taekwondo Team, which includes Mark, Diana and Steve, who is a two-time gold medalist (Sydney and Athens) and four-time world champion. The fourth team member is Charlotte Craig.

A series of three Spanish-language TV spots are out this week and will air through early September as part of a wide-scale buy for the Olympics initiated by AT&T with NBC Universal.

Under the deal, AT&T will serve as the sole telecommunications sponsor of the NBC and Telemundo broadcasts of the summer games. Some English-language versions of the TV spots also are planned; and online banners designed to run during the Olympics are in the works aimed at users via YahooTelemundo.com.

AT&T's ad spending in Hispanic TV reached $15 million through April of this year, totaling $56 million for all of 2007, down from $60 million in 2006, per Nielsen Monitor-Plus.

Beyond the positioning for the Olympics, the campaign will extend to 22 Hispanic-dominant and emerging Hispanic markets via local Telemundo stations, Univision, TeleFutura, Azteca América, Mega TV and various independent stations. Key markets include: Atlanta; Chicago; Miami; Hartford, Conn.; Orlando, Fla.; Reno, Nev.; Raleigh, N.C.; Los Angeles, Bakersfield, Fresno, Monterrey-Salinas, Sacramento, San Diego and San Francisco in California; Austin, Dallas, Houston, San Antonio, El Paso, Laredo, Corpus Christi and Harlingen in Texas.

"We wanted to show the Lopezes interacting together as a family, which is how our [consumer] segment uses technology, and we wanted something fun that would highlight their participation in the Olympics," said Laura Hernandez, AT&T's exective director, diversity marketing. "This allows us to put a family of athletes in our commercials who are pretty inspirational."

The spot "Jumps" features the entire Lopez family, including parents Julio and Ondina, and is a take on the left-to-right footwork that taekwondo athletes use to keep their bodies in motion when they are training (sort of like a runner who jogs in place to keep muscles and joints limber). "During the entire spot the Lopezes are jumping from side-to-side while on the home phone, using the cell phone or chatting online with each other and coordinating a family gathering to watch a movie," Hernandez said.

The spot helps to promote all of AT&T's personal communications options and services, ending with the Lopez parents literally jumping in at the end of the spot to join their children to watch a movie via AT&T's entertainment service. "We hit everything from wireless to broadband to TV," she added.

In the spot, "The Other Lopez," a literal Joe Consumer who also has the last name, Lopez, is surfing the AT&T Web site and stumbles onto video clips of the athletic Lopez family engaged in martial arts training. Inspired by what he sees, "Joe C." decides that since his family and the Lopez athletes share the same surname, he must be like them and thus have the moves to be a Lopez taekwondo athlete.

Throughout the spot, the telco's high speed broadband capabilities are showcased, with the actual Lopez athletes featured on the laptop screen belonging to the other Lopez, who comically attempts to stretch some not-so-limber muscles by doing a leg split (he gets stuck halfway down), power kicking a sofa cushion and karate-chopping an ironing board (his wife walks in and stops the mayhem mid-chop).

A third spot "Sofa" highlights the telco's advanced digital TV service via a setting so three-dimensional that for a family sitting down to watch the Lopezes in a televised competition, "the 100 percent digital picture is so real, it's like being there competing with the Lopezes," Hernandez said.

In the past, AT&T has promoted its association with the U.S. Olympic team in Spanish, but this effort is the first creative by the marketer that integrates Olympic athletes, who happen to be Hispanic, into its Hispanic-targeted messaging.

As talent for the on-air spots, the Lopezes could be straight out of central casting: U.S. Olympic athletes bound for the 2008 Beijing games, who are the children of Nicaraguan immigrants. "They happen to be Hispanic, they happen to be fluent [in Spanish] and they are a very dynamic family," said Hernandez, whose team "had been looking at opportunities to leverage our Olympic sponsorship."

"What is great about the Lopezes is that they practice the sport of taekwondo as a family and they also use technology to stay connected as a family, which was an added bonus," Hernandez said. "The Lopez' experience is in sync with the insight we hear from consumers about their own use of technology to reach out to family. We were amazed."

Steven Lopez, who some the Michael Jordan of taekwondo, also has inked endorsement deals with Visa and Coca-Cola. His image is featured on packaging for Coca-Cola fridgepacks with LeBron James, USA basketball; Shawn Johnson, gymnastics; and Sanya Richards, track &field. He is also featured on cartons of Minute Maid orange juice and fruit punch, per ESPN.com.

For AT&T, the addition of Hispanic-targeted marketing tied to the Olympics is also about expanding its messaging to a multicultural audience. The telco also has launched three creative spots via broadband aimed at African Americans featuring track and field athlete Sanya Richards and her quest to break a world record, Hernandez said. Sanders Wingo Advertising, Austin, handled creative duties.

Source: Marketing y Medios

From TV to M.L.S., One Mexican Teen’s Soccer Dream

June 6, 2008
By BILLY WITZ

To describe how Jorge Flores ended up here — an unknown teenager traveling to South America and Europe to play for his country after emerging quite literally from a cast of thousands to win a tryout with Chivas USA — a word is worth a thousand pictures.

Sueño.

It is the Spanish term for dream. It is also the key word in the title of the “American Idol”-like tryout he won on Spanish-language television, “Sueño MLS.” Mostly, though, it is an apt description of the head-spinning path his life has taken in the last year.

No wonder it has become a sobriquet.

“People say Jorge Flores,” said his teammate Sasha Kljestan, a quizzical look on his face. “Who? Everybody knows him as Sueño.”

A lot more people are coming to know Flores, an 18-year-old, left-footed midfielder who had scored three goals in three games for Chivas before Thursday night’s 1-0 loss against the Red Bulls in East Rutherford, N.J. The most recent goal — a left-footed volley he ripped into the side netting against Columbus — was the type of dead-perfect shot any player dreams about hitting.

Not that it was his longest shot.

That came in February 2007, when his uncle signed him up for “Sueño MLS,” in which the winner would receive a tryout with Chivas USA. For several weeks, the contestants were followed in 10-minute segments on Univision’s “Republica Deportiva,” a sports program on the Spanish-language channel.

Flores did not gain one of the 2,000 original spots, but after seeking permission from his stepfather — for whom he worked on weekends doing maintenance work at a church — Flores showed up hoping to be selected from among the 4,000 applicants who were put on a waiting l