"Garrett Broshuis, Pitcher."
I'd played this game since I was a boy. Pitching had become as much a part of me as my blue eyes and ugly eyebrows. I'd carried this title and all its baggage everywhere I went.
Perhaps no force has shaped the growth of Dominican baseball more in the past 20 years than the buscón. (Hint: it rhymes with the thing you dip into your coffee.) And yet, hardly anybody in America has ever even heard of the term. When one of them is caught with 293 kilos of cocaine, a couple of submachine guns, and a rifle with a silencer, maybe people should start paying attention.
(see Melissa Seguaro’s piece here: http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2009/baseball/mlb/09/27/dominican.trainer/index.html?eref=twitter_share)
It sounds like a recipe for a Quentin Tarantino movie. According to one estimate, the cocaine that Jose Gabriel Arias Castillo possessed was worth $5.86 million. It's enough cocaine to get a herd of elephants high for the rest of their lives. The former Phillies’ minor leaguer turned buscón even used baseball equipment bags to conceal the drugs. So what the hell is a buscón?
A rough literal translation is “one who searches.” In America we’d call them bird dogs. The buscón lives in all parts of the Dominican, turning over every leaf in their talent quest, often plucking kids out of their families’ houses at age 12 or 13, promising them a better life at their “academies.”
“Throw a scout, a coach, and an entrepreneur into a blender, then mix, and you have a buscón,” Jim Salisbury of the Philadelphia Inquirer once said.
The buscones often care for the kids, providing them with food and training. The business, totally unregulated, has exploded, and every MLB team deals with buscones when they sign Dominican players.
Often the players do not pay for the services of the buscón upfront. Many parents of American kids pay for baseball lessons, but parents in the Dominican can’t afford to do so. Instead, they agree to pay a portion of the kid’s signing bonus, if there ever is a signing bonus. The buscón accepts a high degree of risk, and so the parents agree to pay 25 or 30 percent of a signing bonus; even 50 percent is not unusual.
Teammate Angel Villalona told me earlier this year that he gave his buscón $750,000 of his $2.1 million bonus, a percentage of more than 30 percent. Agents in the states, in comparison, typically receive around 4 or 5 percent for their services.
Despite this, almost every Dominican teammate speaks highly of the buscones. On a long bus ride recently, we talked about them.
“They give you better food, they give you a better bed, and they teach you the game,” one Dominican told me. “A lot of kids are poor and their parents can’t feed them. This way they’re taken care of, especially if they have talent. They even give them protein shakes.”
Many speculate as to whether or not they give more than protein shakes, and MLB even maintains a list of buscones known to distribute steroids. Yet with no way to perform drug testing on players not under contract with MLB teams, there is still speculation that at least some young kids are receiving steroids as part of their training.
“Some are bad people,” my Dominican friend conceded. “Most don’t give steroids, as this would give them a bad name if they were caught. But some do.”
Other buscones are involved in the business of forging documents. In the post-911 era, requirements for documentation have increased, and MLB has even begun the controversial practice of performing DNA testing on some prospects to try to deduce a true age. This has made document forging more difficult, but with so much money being paid to the buscón, there is tremendous incentive to falsify ages. A sixteen year old with tremendous raw talent might receive a signing bonus in the millions, whereas a nineteen year old with the same raw talent may receive a signing bonus in the low six figures.
The buscón no doubt plays a valuable role in the development of Dominican baseball talent, but the business needs greater regulation. Many buscones are legitimate baseball men. Several former professional players operate as buscones, including MLB star Ramon Martinez. Professors and accountants can be found in the ranks of the buscón, but just as many sleazier subjects can be found as well.
These sleazier subjects need to be found and eliminated. Also, some sort of standard on services provided and payment accepted needs to be established. Until these things are done, there will be too many kids being misused by the likes of Arias Castillo, with his submachine guns and cocaine ring.
Going back to Connecticut was harder than being told that I was going to San Jose. It might have been the hardest thing to face in my sports career. Flying across the country, I knew that my chances of coming back to AAA were not good. Furthermore, the feeling that the Giants had given up on me overcame me. The dream that I had lived since I was a boy was falling apart. I had been given one game, and I didn't take advantage of it. As so often happens in this game, just as I had regained hope it had again been ripped away from me.(Here's a Baseball America article on that). This season has made me realize that I'm an organization arm. I'm simply a guy who can fill in at whatever level I'm needed, and it's not an easy thing to swallow, as this isn't my goal. Still, I've pitched against enough big league guys now to know that I can get them out. Over the past two years, only one person in the Giants' minor leagues has more wins than me: Madison Bumgarner. It's thoughts such as these that keep me going.
Do I have doubts? Yeah, all the time. I throw slower than almost any righthander at any level. I'm 27 now and have only a handful of AAA starts. I know that the chances of having a big league career are very, very slim.
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep playing. Unless a person has some big league time, the minor leagues pay players so little that it is difficult to keep playing financially. I also have a wife that I have to think about. I love her dearly and I'm forced to be away from her for six months out of the year. She's very understanding, but I know how tough it is on her. It's tough on me.Okay, so you have to choose one of the two:
A) You can never drive again. When I say never, I mean it. For the rest of your life you can never get behind the wheel. In fact, you can’t even ride in a car. No driving to the grocery store for a forgotten item; no more street racing or mudding (for my "Redneck" readers). Biking and public transportation become your only means of movement.
B) You can drive as much as you want. Hell, you can be a Nascar driver if you like. The catch: you have to live in your car for the rest of your life. Eat, sleep, and dream in your car, day after day.
Which do you choose?
Responses
One afternoon in New Britain, I asked almost every teammate this question. I thought A was the obvious option, and if you spend most of your time in a city, you'd probably agree. Some though had a different opinion. A few responses:
"Have you seen how sweet my car is? I would have no problem living in it." ("Yeah, but could you sleep in it every night? Think about your back. And are you honestly going to bring a girl back to your car?" "I could do it.")
"I've got a huge truck. I'd just throw a mattress in the bed." (When told this was against the rules, he reconsidered but still chose option B.)
"Can I put camouflaged curtains on it and shoot things with my pellet gun?" "Sure, why not." "Then I'd live in my car."
More practical:
"Can I take the bus?" "Yeah." "Then I'd choose A."
"What about taxis?" "Nope, no cars." "Hmm. I guess I'd just buy a bike or take the train."
Further Thoughts
Approximately 100% of guys from Texas chose option B (of course, it was a small sample size). I'm not sure if this signifies laziness, a love for cars, or mere Texan stubbornness. Or perhaps they simply have further to travel.
The overall percentage choosing option A came to be about 70%. Obviously those living in a city with greater access to public transportation were more likely to choose A.
There was a Third World Split. The Dominicans all chose Option A, while the one Venezuelan chose Option B. Maybe it's all the cheap gas that Chavez is passing out in VZ.
Last thought: Some people love their cars WAAAYY more than I love mine. Of course, some people have WAAAYY cooler cars than my own. Maybe I'm a dork.