(Originally published in Sept. 2006 prior to the “Free The Birds” walkout, this is Part 2 of a 19 Chapter Series on how baseball and the Orioles and his Pop’s love of the game berthed WNST)
What’s in a name anyway?
Not a week in any summer has gone by since I was born when somewhere, somebody wouldn’t ask me: “Hey, are you related to the ballplayer?” I honestly don’t know a life without that question. It’s been, by far, the most frequently asked question of my life.
When I was in Chicago working for Sporting News Radio, just pulling out my credit card would beg the question nearly 100% of the time.
It’s amazing what dropping the name of a baseball player will do in a town where baseball matters. For the most part, over the course of my lifetime the absolute biggest celebrities from Baltimore — aside from the occasional actor or TV newsperson — have always been Orioles players and this town has ALWAYS given them a pretty good deal, really.
There’s always been a job or a career or a door that could be opened if you played for the Orioles, kept your nose clean and treated the community with some respect and dignity.
And you didn’t need to be Brooks Robinson or Cal Ripken…
The number of ex-baseball players who settled here and made a nice life for themselves is too numerous to even recall. Willie Miranda. Boog Powell, Jim Palmer, Dick Hall, Mark Belanger, Terry Crowley, Al Bumbry, Mike Flanagan, Scott McGregor, John Stefero, Gregg Olson, Mark Williamson, Dave Johnson — geez, they all raised children here and lived here and are or were a part of the fabric of the community.
And my name just happened to have a very famous Baltimore baseball surname: APARICIO.
So, just how did my last name wind up being so Latin in a household that was pure Dundalk and pure Irish Catholic meets Southern Baptist?
Well, here goes the story as I know it…
My Dad and his brother, my Uncle Omar, came from Maracaibo, Venezuela during the mid 1960’s, when Luis was a member of the Orioles. They shared the same name as their cousin — Luis Aparicio.
I suppose if my Dad, who shares my first name as well, would’ve come to America in the late 1950’s, I’d be drinking Old Style and celebrating last year’s White Sox win.
Or I guess I might not have existed at all…
But by the time I was adopted in 1981 by my Mom and Pop, I had been using my paternal father’s name for 13 years, so we just decided it would be easier to use Aparicio than to switch for school and stuff. My adopted legal name however has a hyphen and my Pop’s last name, even though I’ve never thought of using it as an adult (I thought if it was good enough for Farrah Fawcett-Majors, then it was good enough for me).
I have never used any name other than Aparicio in my life.
My paternal father met my maternal mother at an event in the mid-1960s and I’m sure it must’ve been a place where lots of alcohol was served. In a match made in hell that brought me into this crazy world, they were married in the summer of 1966 at Our Lady of Fatima Church. I still have the photo album (and I bet they fought on their wedding night!).
I was born on October 14, 1968, just four days after the Detroit Tigers beat the St. Louis Cardinals in Game 7 of World Series. Bob Gibson was great but Mickey Lolich was better. And Detroit was rioting. Most of American cities were.
My parents’ relationship didn’t work out so well, to say the least. Fighting, drinking, crazy families, people in institutions, and usually, the cops paid an annual visit each Christmas Eve once the spiked punch and the beer led to near riots between my father’s Spanish-speaking side of the family and my East Baltimore mother’s Italian army and their friends, which happened to include the pair who would become my “real” parents.
But, once sober (and that was rare, believe me), everyone agreed (for the most part) that I was in a very advantageous situation: two grieving, sober, loving people in Dundalk who would fight to their death to make a better life for this adopted little boy after they lost their own child in a horrible drowning accident in 1969.
The Aparicio thing has always been in my life and it’s funny how my feelings about it have changed over the years.
It made me a celebrity on the Little League circuit and it always made for interesting conversation on the No. 22 bus when we talked baseball with strangers, which we almost always did. Any fan of baseball was considered a friend to my Pop and I on a game night.
But for the most part, being with my grandfatherly aged Pop and trying to explain how we were “related” and how the whole “Aparicio-relation” thing worked was usually more trouble than it was worth.
Who cares, right?
Yes, I’m related, but it’s a very distant relationship. We’ve seen each other on many occasions in my life — especially once I became ingrained in the national baseball media events — All Star Games, Super Bowls, Oriole reunion occasions in Baltimore, baseball card shows, that sort of thing.
But because of baseball and what I’ve done for a living, it’s a question I’ll probably answer until I die or until baseball becomes so insignificant that the name APARICIO has no recognizable quality.
My two best memories of Luis Aparicio came when I was a young person. First, I absolutely remember meeting him for the first time in the tunnel of Memorial Stadium near the Hit And Run Club in the summer of 1973 when he presented me with a baseball signed by the Boston Red Sox. (It’s the main picture on this blog.) I still have the faded ball. All of the names on the ball were signed in light blue, and Luis signed his name in black. Carl Yastremski. Carlton Fisk. Orlando Cepeda. Luis Tiant. Dwight Evans. A young Cecil Cooper. The team had some serious star power — that’s four Hall of Famers, three in their twilight, plus some other long-term major leaguers, but no Fred Lynn or Jim Rice — they weren’t up just yet!
It’s probably my first real memory of going to an Orioles game at Memorial Stadium. I distinctly remember walking into the stadium and hearing the voice — which I believe was Rex Barney — say, “For the Boston Red Sox, batting first, the shortstop, number 11,Luis Aparicio.” That staccato sound and the booming echo under the lower reserved seats will live in my mind until the day I die, just like that thin little scoreboard with yellow lights under there.
I DEFINITELY got to see him play, but only once that I remember.
The only picture I have of the event was taken with a tiny 110 camera and then I cut out all of the background.
My Pop worked at the steelmill in all day in 1973 and look at that smile on his face – and mine!!!
But at least I have it, and the ball. My Pop bought me a Boston Red Sox bobblehead at the concession stand behind Sect. 38, right near the Leaning Tower of Pizza. I still have the bobble head and my wife, who is a lifer Red Sox fan from Manchester, N.H., thinks its kinda cool.
The other significant time I’ve spent with Luis was during the 20-year reunion of the 1966 Orioles in June of 1986.
I was almost 18, and as a teenager I went nuts at baseball card shows buying Aparicio memorabilia. I had a ridiculous collection of cards and stuff and junk. I was literally a neighborhood dealer and I worked a lot of the early card shows and pestered Jay Finglass at Jay’s Nostalgia World in Towson every chance I got.
You can still put ANY Topps card (or any brand really that came out before 1982 all the way back to Honus Wagner) and I can identify it and tell you the condition and some special facts about it. If baseball was my life until I was about 14 (again, the discovery of girls put a major dent into statistical analysis right around 1983), then my lifeblood and brain was baseball cards.
The black borders of 1971, the minis of 1975, and the rookie cards, error cards and fun stats and information. My favorite cards were the 1974 set. I had the very valuable 1970 Johnny Bench and the 1972 Rod Carew. I had a Pete Rose rookie card with his buzz cut. My favorite card was a 1955 Roberto Clemente that I had obtained in decent shape. And anything with Bobby Valentine, Sixto Lezcano or George Brett held special significance, because they were “MY guys.”
But for my cousin, Luis, I had every single card, cup, bat and all of the special issue crap (like pins, buttons, cutouts, the whole nine). There were probably well over 200 different items in my collection. The two toughest cards, without question were the 1971 Kelloggs 3-D card (and particularly hard to get in decent shape because they cracked!) and the 1961 high-number All Star card. Back in the 60’s, Topps would release cards by their numbers on the back in series. So each month you needed to run out and buy new cards to complete the series. And, of course, you got to chew gum. The last series (the high numbers) were always left on the shelves and discarded or destroyed because kids didn’t buy cards in September. They were in football mode by then! I think that 1961 card is still a pretty expensive item.
My marquee item was a 1974 spring training game-used jersey that was Aparicio’s last as a major leaguer that I bought from Ted Patterson in 1985. It was so tiny that it didn’t fit me even then. He left the team during spring training and, there were some rumors he would resurface with the Texas Rangers, but he never did.
Anyway, I had EVERYTHING, and still do for the most part.
Luis came in for that 1986, stayed at the Belvedere Hotel, and we sat and watched baseball all afternoon.
The Chicago White Sox were playing and had this kid named Ozzie Guillen, who Luis watched with great interest because of their Venezuelan heritage and family ties.
Luis was kind enough to me, signed all of the stuff, I brought, shared some stories with me. He wanted me to make a beer run for him, but I had to explain that I was only 17.
I remember that most of our conversation was about my Dad’s brother, who had passed away in 1981. Luis was close with my Uncle Omar, who was the wine sommelier at the Chesapeake Restaurant downtown, which from what I hear was one swanky, Ruth’s Chris-kinda place back in the day. All the sports writers ate and met there and when I first got into this sports journalism business as a member of The News American in 1984, most of my “heroes” — John Steadman, Vince Bagli, Jack Dawson, Jimmy Jackson, Bob Maisel, Chris Thomas, Ted Patterson — they ALL knew my Uncle Omar.
To some guys like Vince Bagli, I wasn’t Luis’ cousin – I was Omar’s nephew!
Even though Omar has been gone for 25 years — he died back in Venezuela in April 1981 — my favorite Omar story was told to me recently, just a month ago when an older gentleman and philanthropist from the Northwest side sat at my kitchen table for my All Star Game party. He told me that HE TOO knew Omar from the 1960’s and 70’s at the Chesapeake, all while munching on Esskay Oriole Franks while the game from Pittsburgh blared on in hi-def.
He said that Omar was his favorite guy at the restaurant and that he used to make bananas foster tableside for him and his special someone.
And when he’d add the triple sec to the dish, his Spanish accent was thick enough and it was funny enough, that he would tell the saucier patrons that it was “Triple SEX,” so they could enjoy the rest of their evening. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge!
Who says “witty” doesn’t run in the Aparicio bloodlines, huh?
Omar always hosted a crab feast at his home in Timonium when the Red Sox came to town. I remember being at the house one night when Luis Aparicio, Rico Petrocelli, Luis Tiant and Orlando Cepeda were sitting in the kitchen drinking beer and eating crabs with all my Venezuelan relatives.
It was cool, the Venezuelan side of my family and the Aparicio name. I had cousins who were my age and loved sports. We gathered on weekends and ate a bunch of Venezuelan food (steaks, rice, plantains, arepas), there was always lots of beer and rum and whiskey, penny poker was played into the wee hours and meringue music blared from the turntable at police-baiting volumes. When I got to Venezuela as a young adult, in the late 1980’s, I figured it out: most of the Latin culture is just one, big nonstop party!
I’ve been to Venezuela three times in my life, and twice sat in the stadium in Maracaibo with my family’s name.
The first time, in the summer of 1972, I sat on a donkey outside and went to the game with my parents and my Tio Pepe. My Tio Pepe (to me it wasn’t a restaurant!) is a barber in Maracaibo but was born in Italy. He married my Dad’s sister in Venezuela. And my Tio Pepe had no real use for baseball: soccer and the Italian World Cup team were his passion!
The second time, in November 1987, I watched a VERY young Greg Maddux hurl for Aguilas, the local team. I went into a record store the next day to buy imported Venezuelan-labeled Bruce Springsteen and U2 albums and started chatting with an obviously American middle-aged man. Turns out it was Dick Pole, who you guessed, was with the 1973 Red Sox and whose name is scribbled on that ball I got at Memorial Stadium from Luis. He was actually the pitching coach for Aguilas and I saw him several times with the Cubs and Giants later in life when I became a sports talk show host.
It IS a small world after all.
It kinda hard to express the significance of baseball in my cultural homeland, especially with the political issues and Hugo Chavez (and his relationship with Fidel Castro and the Cuban government) and oil prices. It seems like anytime Venezuela is in the news these days regarding baseball, it has something to do with corruption, kidnappings, hostages or shootings. Luis had a tragedy in his own immediate family with bandits. Venezuela is in rough shape right now and it’s not a safe place for a gringo like me to be.
My paternal father, who shares my name, returned to Venezuela for good during the summer of 1978. He visited me in 1981 and took me to Philadelphia to see the Phillies play (another watershed event regarding baseball in my life as you’ll later learn). I went to see him in 1987 and 1989. I haven’t chatted with him since March 1996. The Ravens didn’t even have a jersey color or logo!
Such is life as an Aparicio, especially on the gringo side.
Luis Aparicio was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in January 1984. The next month I found out I had a pregnant girlfriend. In August 1984 he was inducted into the Hall in Cooperstown, N.Y. My girlfriend was eight months pregnant. I watched and videotaped the entire ceremony.
I’ve been to Cooperstown three times. The first time, in 1989, I walked into the actual hall where the famous plaques are and I drifted toward one area to the left. I looked up, and “APARICIO” was the first plaque I glanced at.
Coincidence? I guess so, but it was still pretty neat. It was beautiful, it was in the hallowed Hall of Fame and it had my name on it. Nes at Cooperstown plaque
Every time I go into Comiskey Park on the southside of Chicago — and I’ve probably seen 15 games there over the years, including a few in the old barn — there it is out on the outfield wall in giant letters: 11 APARICIO. And every single time I go I always seem to forget what a beloved and respected player Luis Aparicio was in Chicago. It really doesn’t even occur to me until I walk into the bowl of the stadium and it hits my like Broadway lights, that giant sign!
Again, I sorta lived there on and off for the better part of three years and it never really sunk in so much, except when I had to provide ID at the airport or a hotel or a restaurant.
The last time I saw Luis Aparicio was at the Chicago All Star Game in 2003. It was the week before I was getting married and I told him so. He congratulated me and spent a few minutes with me, was actually very nice and extremely cordial.
But, quite frankly, we really don’t have much to talk about. He is slated to return to Baltimore next month for the Sports Legends Museum’s 1966 Reunion.
(For the record: It’s an absolute disgrace that the BALTIMORE Orioles of 1966 were not honored by the Angelos family and this franchise this season at Camden Yards. Just one of the many incomprehensible decisions that will draw thousands of you to the Inner Harbor for The Rally on Sept. 21.)
Last year, I finally sold that 1973 gray Red Sox road jersey (which incidentally, for local crowd, says BOSTON in big red letters) last year at a major baseball auction. I was, quite frankly, just “done with it,” after owning it for more than 20 years and I was afraid a moth would get to it. It just didn’t mean anything to me anymore.
To me, it was just an item, albeit a valuable one, and it literally stayed in the back of my closet for all of these 20 years — and I mean the back of the closet. But I’m glad someone has it and will treasure it, frame it and think of good thoughts when he or she sees it.
To me, it’s just a name.
I’m an Aparicio. For better or worse.
And my last name is synonymous, almost everywhere I go, with baseball and probably always will be.
And that’s really the cool part for me at this point in my life.
