Adolfo Luque, left, with the Cincinnati Reds; Miguel Angel Gonzalez with the N.Y. Giants
CUBA'S LOVE AFFAIR WITH BASEBALL
By Steven Scarpa
"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"
"I think they are equal."
- Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
You couldn't find two more different characters in Cuban baseball history than managers Adolfo Luque and Miguel Angel Gonzalez. In the highly competitive world of Cuban baseball, particularly during the glory days of the 1930s and '40s, the press spoke about the Rojos [Reds] of Habana, Gonzalez's team, and the Azules [Blues] of Almendares, Luque's squad, as "eternal rivals."
The teams had existed since the 1860s, longer than professional baseball had been around in the United States, and had a history of perennial struggle for the league championship.
Luque and Gonzalez stood as the respective patriarchs of the league. Both of them - the stoic Gonzalez, the macho Luque - would fit in well among Ernest Hemingway's characters.
Both men, born in 1890, had extensive experience playing in America. Luque amassed a pitching record of 194 wins and 179 defeats, with an earned run average of 3.24 for the Boston Braves, Cincinnati Reds, Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants. Gonzalez also spent his entire 17-year career in the National League between 1912 and 1932, playing in 1,042 games primarily as a reserve catcher, batting .253 with 13 home runs and 263 runs batted in.
Miguel Angel Gonzalez, known as "Mike" in America, was a sober, quiet figure who bore more than a passing resemblance to the film comedian Stan Laurel. Growing up in modest circumstances near Havana, he was known to Cuban fans as "Baguette" or "Pan de Flauta."
"Some say he was so-called because of his elongated, gaunt appearance, which brought to mind a loaf of Cuban bread. Others thought it was because as a young man he earned a living delivering bread," writes Roberto Gonzalez Echevarria in his history of Cuban baseball The Pride of Havana.
A good defender with a strong arm, Gonzalez entered Cuba's professional leagues in 1912 (playing alongside Luque for the first time) and had a competent but not spectacular career. Where Gonzalez excelled was as a manager, coach and administrator.
"He is also remembered for a telegram that revealed both his broken English and his notorious frugality," Echevarria writes. "Legend has it that the Cardinals sent him to Princeton to scout a promising catcher named Moe Berg, who would eventually make the majors and become famous for his linguistic progress and activities as a spy rather than for his baseball exploits. Miguel Angel wired back what has become a standard phrase to describe a certain kind of player: ‘good field-no hit.'" Miguel Angel's terse description of Berg's ability could easily have applied to his own.
At the age of 24, in 1914, Gonzalez took his first managerial job in Cuba and quickly became known as the most knowledgeable baseball mind in the nation. He parlayed his popularity and excellent business sense into the ownership of the Habana team, a squad valued at $500,000 when low-level major league teams were worth little more than $1 million.
"The delivery boy from Regla [an impoverished section of Havana] became a wealthy, respected grand old man. What Miguel Angel always lacked was charisma. He got the job done and made progress slowly but surely," Echevarria writes.
On the other hand, Luque was, to put it charitably, a firebrand. Oftentimes his ire was justifiably raised - throughout his career in America he was the target of a steady flow of racial epithets, the end result usually a brawl between himself and the offender or one of his fastballs hurled near an opponent's skull.
His nickname in the United States was the staid "Pride of Havana." In his homeland, Luque was known as "Papa Montero," the name of a then-famous rumba dancer and pimp. "He was a snarling, vulgar, cursing, aggressive pug, who, though small at five-seven, was already ready to fight," Echevarria says.
During his days managing in Cuba and Mexico, Luque was known for carrying firearms on the field, and on at least two occasions, he showed that he was not afraid to use them.
In 1930, Luque removed pitcher Double Duty Radcliffe from a ballgame. In the locker room scuffle that followed, Luque fired his gun at Radcliffe, the shot deflected by the quick thinking of another player who pushed Luque's arm away.
On another occasion, Luque took issue with pitcher Terris McDuffie's haphazard training methods. More interested in alcohol and chasing women - both areas of Luque's interest as well - McDuffie was unwilling to play until Luque used his handgun as a persuader.
Despite his less than Boy Scout-like demeanor, Luque was a particular source of national pride. In 1923, the height of Luque's excellence in American ball, a year in which he went 27-8 with a 1.93 ERA, he was honored with a national pageant. Thirty thousand people attended.
"It was almost as if Luque were celebrated for having created Cuba in this consciousness of the United States, and feted for defending the fatherland, as if he had been a soldier in battle . . . Papa Montero drank, enjoyed cock fighting and was a ladies man. None of that mattered. He was a hero of the nation for having attained glory in the United States, surpassing its greatest athletes. He was the pride of Havana," Echevarria reports.
It is easy to see why Santiago, the old baseball-loving fisherman in The Old Man and the Sea, finds traits to admire in both men. Luque's fire in the face of adversity and Gonzalez's rise from a background not different from Santiago's own could be seen as sources of inspiration for an old man facing the greatest battle of his life.
