You stop counting at 50, although the number is at least twice that. None of them are pretty; few are even lined, although vague ruts can be seen when the sun hits just right, well-worn footpaths to a better life.
No American kid would be caught dead playing baseball on any of the endless stream of baseball fields off the road between Punta Cana and Santa Domingo in the Dominican Republic. The diamonds are, to be charitable, rough cut. Mostly dirt with some sand, shale and muck thrown in, what little grass exits is unkempt, sparse and trampled, or eaten by the rabbits, goats and iguanas.
But unlike the United States where pristine manicured fields with perfect fences and straight white lines sit empty on a Friday morning, every makeshift ballpark in the Dominican Republic is full. There are no uniforms, and of the hundreds of kids you see, there might be a dozen pairs of shoes, total. Gloves, such that they are, look like something out of a museum, and most of the pants are frayed or cut off somewhere between the ankles and the knees.
That is when the answer becomes evident, when only a glance explains how a country of 10 million people with an average household income of $400 a month continually churns out Major League stars from Albert Pujols to Robinson Cano to the entire Alou family and beyond. Baseball might be the national pastime in America, but it is a national obsession in the Dominican Republic, as much a part of the islanders DNA as their African, Italian and Spanish heritage.
A quick perusal of current rosters shows 95 Dominicans in the majors. Throughout history no nation has produced more players per capita. That seems incongruous with the countryside you see where chickens roam free outside shanty cinderblock huts with roofs made of tin or thatch or some combination of the two.
Vast fields of thick and unwieldy sugarcane stretch as far as the eye can see. Every mile or so, young men on motorcycles race along dirt paths with bundles of cane and well-worn machetes at their sides. Just looking at it makes the back ache and the heart hurt.
Sugar is the primary source of employment in the region. But baseball is the primary source of hope.
"It's not that difficult to understand, really," says Peter Bonell, a former Navy SEAL and current chief marketing officer for Casa de Campo, one of the most exclusive luxury resorts in the Caribbean and another major Dominican employer. "If you have great athletes in America, they're spread out among a number of different sports. Some play football, some basketball, some soccer or hockey or golf or tennis. Here they all play baseball. And they play it non-stop. There is no Nintendo or Play Station. Every spare minute, these kids grab a bat and a ball and pick up a game."
There is also nothing that will earn you national recognition faster than making it off the island and onto an MLB roster.
"Where are you from?" says Julio Paniagua, a 43-year-old caddy at Casa de Campo.
"Atlanta," you answer.
"Oh, Atlanta Braves!" Julio shouts. "Christhian Martinez, Juan Francisco, Juan Jaime, Jose Constanza…"
"Christian Bethancourt," you offer.
"No, he's Panamanian," Julio says. "But they did invite Luis De La Cruz to spring training."
This was not something he looked up on his smart phone. Caddies make about $40 a day, luxury wages for a job that requires bilingual skills and knowledge of a game most have rarely played.
"You know all the Dominicans in the Majors?" you ask.
"Oh sure," Julio says. "It is a great thing here."
It is also the great alternative. Julio wore a white jump suit and jogged 18 holes, gathering yardages and reading putts in 85-degree heat. He was lucky. Many of his relatives spent the day cutting cane.
"In the states you can get a lot of jobs and make a comfortable living," Bonell says. "The road of riches over here goes around the bases."
Julio echoes that sentiment, although not in so many words.
"So, how do Dominicans become such great hitters?" you ask.
Julio smiled. "You can't walk off the island," he says.
That sums it up as well as anything.
