In Honor of My Grandfather, Who Taught Me About Love and Baseball

My grandparents moved to Puerto Rico when I was three years old.  After they moved to San Juan, I only saw them for a few weeks at a time when my parents and I visited them during my summer vacation from school.  Because those trips coincided with the middle of baseball season, my grandfather always wanted to talk to me about the game.

When I was eight years old, I discovered that Abuelo (that's Spanish for "grandfather") was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan.  He, my grandmother and their four children (one of which is my father) moved from the Island of Enchantment to New York in 1947, the same year Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball.  Robinson wasn't the only reason Abuelo became a Dodger fan, as 1947 was also the year Gil Hodges and Duke Snider came up to the major leagues to stay.  The Dodgers won the pennant in 1947, making only their second trip to the World Series since 1920.  They would make many more over the next few decades.  Abuelo was hooked for life.

The summer of 1981 was special for both Abuelo and I.  It was the year I became a Mets fan, but it was also the year of Fernandomania.  That summer, when my parents and I went to visit my grandparents in Puerto Rico, the players' strike was nearing its conclusion.  But just because there was no baseball to watch didn't mean there were no baseball stories to share. 

Any time I wanted to talk about Mookie Wilson, my grandfather would remind me that he wasn't as fast as Maury Wills.  (Wills was the first major league player in the modern era to steal 100 bases in a season, swiping 104 bags for the Dodgers in 1962, which was 45 more than the entire Mets team stole in their inaugural season.)  I knew better than to argue with him.

After a few minutes, the conversation would always turn to Fernando Valenzuela, who had taken the country by storm during his rookie season.  Abuelo would normally be in bed by 10 PM every night, but if Valenzuela was pitching and the game just happened to be broadcast on the local television channel, he'd always stay up to watch the game on a 13-inch black and white TV.  He'd keep the volume low so as not to wake my grandmother, telling me that he didn't need to hear the game because Fernando's pitching would tell the story.  In the summer of 1981, he was absolutely right.

I'll always remember talking to him on the phone after the Mets won the World Series in 1986.  He was thrilled that I was finally able to celebrate a championship, but he was also quick to remind me that despite the Mets boasting a pitching staff that included Dwight Gooden, Ron Darling, Bob Ojeda and Sid Fernandez, it was Fernando Valenzuela who led the National League in wins.  (Valenzuela won 21 games for the Dodgers in 1986; his only 20-win campaign in 17 years in the big leagues.)

Oh, Abuelo.  He really loved his Dodgers.

Two years after the Mets won the World Series, they played for the right to appear in another.  But this time it was different.  This time, the Mets were playing the Dodgers for the pennant.  A member of the Leyro family was going to see his favorite team play in the World Series in 1988.  But for that to happen, another member of the Leyro family was going to be disappointed that his team failed to reach the Fall Classic.  It was about as awkward as it was ever going to get between me and Abuelo when it came to our shared love of the national pastime.  In the end, it became one of the most important times in our relationship.

The Dodgers defeated the Mets in the 1988 NLCS, upsetting them in seven games.  The Mets weren't the only ones upset by that result.  The day after Game Seven, the phone rang in our house.  My mother picked it up, spoke for a few seconds, then called me over to the phone.  It was for me, she said.  It was Abuelo.

I thought it was strange that Abuelo would call me.  After all, any time I'd speak to him on the phone, it would be my grandmother who called us and then she'd pass the phone over to Abuelo.  (The men in the Leyro family have never been known as "phone people".)  But this time, my grandfather let his fingers do the walking and he called me directly.  Over three decades have passed since this call was made, but I'll never forget that conversation.

Not once did he mention the Dodgers while talking to me.  Nor did he mention the Mets.  Instead, he reminded me that there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.  He told me that he once went on a date with a girl when he was eighteen.  She was his definition of "the perfect girl".  She was smart, beautiful and came from a great family.  He was sure after one date that he was going to marry her.  Two dates later, she decided she didn't want to see him anymore.  He was crushed.

After two years of wondering where he went wrong, he made the acquaintance of another local girl.  Abuelo admitted to me that he wasn't attracted to her at first, but she listened to his story of lost love and gave him words of encouragement.  They continued to talk as friends for nearly a year until he realized something.

He was falling in love.  And this time, the girl he loved felt the same way about him.

The year was 1933.  In 1934, they were married.

When Abuelo finished telling me the story of how he and Abuela met and fell in love, I thanked him for making me smile.  I thought that was the reason he was sharing his story with me, because I was upset that my Mets had lost to his Dodgers and I would need some cheering up.  But that wasn't why he told me the story.  He then went back to the beginning of our conversation, the part where he said there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.

For two years, he wondered to himself why the love of his life didn't love him back.  But without that unexpected breakup, he never would have met my grandmother, a woman he would be married to until she passed away in 2001.  He then told me to think about his words and to "never stop believing" before hanging up.

It took me until that evening, but as I was getting ready for bed, it finally hit me.  Abuelo was using his story as an analogy.  I was questioning how the Mets could lose to the Dodgers in the playoffs after defeating them 10 of 11 times during the regular season, just like he had questioned why the girl he loved couldn't reciprocate those feelings for him.  He had to wait two years after suffering through a devastating heartbreak, but in the end, it netted him the love of his life.  Therefore, what Abuelo was telling me was that he knew I was heartbroken because of the Mets' loss to the Dodgers, but before long, they'd be back and I'd love them more than ever.

You know what?  He was right.

Sure, it took 11 years for the Mets to make it back to the postseason, but when they did, they went to the playoffs in back-to-back seasons and made their first trip to the World Series since 1986.  And when they did win the pennant, Abuelo was the first person who called me to offer a congratulatory message.

Abuelo didn't make it to see the next two Mets/Dodgers postseason matchups in 2006 and 2015, as he passed away five days after his 90th birthday in 2002.  But when the Mets defeated the Dodgers to advance to the NLCS in both campaigns, the first person I thought of was him.  What did I think of?  That he didn't have to feel sad because the team he loved would be back.  And they did, as the Dodgers have won eight consecutive division titles and three National League pennants in the last four years.  Somewhere in Heaven, I knew Abuelo was smiling.  And now he's probably smiling even more, as the Dodgers just won their first World Series championship since the year he called me to tell me a story about love and patience.

There is a point to this personal story.  You see, Abuelo was born on October 29, 1912.  That means today would have been his 108th birthday.  He and I never went to a Mets/Dodgers game together, but we didn't have to.  The stories took us there.

When I was eight years old, Abuelo shared his love of the Dodgers with me at the same time I was trying to share my love of the Mets with him.  He never became a Mets fan, just as I never became a Dodgers fan.  But we shared that love of baseball that no rivalry can break.  That love brought us together and provided me with some of my most wonderful childhood memories - memories that I continue to cherish as an adult.

Sometimes we question why things happen the way they do.  I never have to question why I loved my grandfather.  He was the most important man I've ever known.

Happy 108th birthday, Abuelo.  And thank you for always taking me out to the ballgame.

Dedicated to Horacio Leyro (October 29, 1912 - November 3, 2002)

A Healing Win After a Terrible Loss

My mother was only 15 years old and living in Puerto Rico when her mom passed away.  Soon after, she met a man while she was finishing up high school and married him at age 18.  That marriage lasted for nearly a decade, but when she and her husband couldn't conceive a child, the relationship fizzled and led to divorce.  The year was 1967.  And once again, my mother was alone.  Her aunt, a rabid Yankees fan who lived in New York at the time, asked her to come visit for a few weeks to get away from the heartbreak and disappointment.  My mother accepted the offer and her visit ended up lasting for decades.

You see, soon after my mother arrived in New York, she met a man who just happened to be from Cabo Rojo - the same town in Puerto Rico where she was born and raised.  He had also been involved in a relationship that had recently ended and they found comfort in sharing those stories with each other.  Eventually they shared more stories with each other, sometimes over ice cream on City Island or under the stars by the Hudson River.  Less than nine months after they met for the first time, they were married.  And five years later, I came along.

It.  Had.  Happened.

I was one awkward looking kid.  But I was the only one my mother had, and she loved me for it.

After 15 years of trying, the long-desired title of "mother" had finally been earned.  You can imagine how much Mamita (that's what I called her) loved me and spoiled me, especially after thinking that she would never have a child of her own.

When I was eight years old, I became a Mets fan.  And when Mamita saw how much joy the team gave me - even if it was 1981 and the team rarely won - she became a Mets fan as well.  Her aunt wasn't very pleased with Mamita's decision, but the 22 rings won by her team probably made it a lot easier for her to accept.

Since my father was not a big sports fan, it was Mamita who took me to my Little League games.  She even worked at the field's hot dog stand just so she could be closer to me when I was playing.  When I pitched my first and only Little League shutout, she was the one who served me and my teammates the celebratory frankfurters.  They were probably the best dogs I ever had.

Once my Little League career had ended, my mother would take me to Mets games so we could continue to bond over our mutual love of baseball.  I'd talk to her about Mookie Wilson and she'd tell me about seeing Linguine Lasorda (that's what Puerto Ricans playfully called the legend we know as Tommy) playing and managing in Puerto Rico.  It made those pre-1986 losses much more tolerable to watch in person.

Ah, 1986.  The year the Mets finally won the World Series.  Mamita and I watched every postseason game together that October.   And in the tenth inning of Game Six, she passed down an old Puerto Rican tradition to me, although it was completely by accident.

As you surely know, the Mets needed to win Game Six to force a seventh and deciding game.  My mother had been holding a ceramic elephant for luck during the entire contest.  Not only did she have to hold the elephant, but it had to be facing away from the TV and she could only grab the elephant by its tusk.  It's only weird if it doesn't work, right?

Well, once Wally Backman and Keith Hernandez made the first two outs of the tenth with the Mets trailing by two runs, she tossed the elephant aside in disgust.  Ya gotta believe that I picked up the elephant and held it backwards by its tusk once she let it go.  This long-suffering Mets fan (of five whole years) was not about to give up on the team just yet even if things looked somewhat bleak.

With the elephant correctly positioned in my hand, my mother and I watched nervously as Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and Ray Knight singled.  We were on the edge of our seats as Mookie Wilson tap-danced away from Bob Stanley's wayward pitch.  And once Mookie's little roller up along first found its way behind the bag, I knew that I'd be holding elephants by their tusks for the rest of my life whenever I needed a little good fortune.

The Mets didn't make a return trip to the World Series until 2000.  By then, my father had been retired for 11 years and my parents had moved back to Cabo Rojo to spend the rest of their lives in their hometown.  Even though Mamita was now 1,576 miles away (according to what the frequent flyer miles said), she always made it back to New York for important Mets games.

Shea Stadium will always be in my heart.  As will my mother.

She was with me at Shea Stadium when Mike Piazza played his final game as a Met in 2005.  She was there when we saw the Mets clinch the N.L. East division title on September 18, 2006.  (I don't think I apologized enough to her for injuring her shoulder when Cliff Floyd caught the final out of the game.  I was a little excited and started jumping up and down while pressing down on her right shoulder repeatedly.  Oops.)  She even attended the last game played at Shea Stadium in 2008 and the first regular season game played at Citi Field in 2009.

The baseball-loving-woman-in-my-life torch was passed from my mother to my wife when we were married in 2010, but my mother always asked me about the Mets whenever we spoke on the phone during baseball season.  Even when we couldn't find something else to talk about, there was always baseball.  And it would be like that until her final days.

My mother passed away yesterday, exactly 13 years to the day after I got a little too excited after seeing the team clinch their first division title since 1988.  And even in passing, she gave me one more happy Mets memory.

As my father informed me of her passing, the Mets were playing a day game in Colorado.  Eighteen years ago, when I was told the news that my grandmother had passed away, the Mets were also playing a day game.  On that day (May 20, 2001), the Mets were trailing the Dodgers by two runs as they came to bat in the eighth inning.  New York scored in the eighth, then pushed across the winning run in the ninth inning.  It was a happy moment on an otherwise awful day.  So what do you think happened after I learned of my mother's passing?  Yup, you guessed it.

Mets down by two as they bat in the eighth.

Mets score in the eighth.

They score again in the ninth, turning a potential defeat into a healing victory.

The funny thing is, once the game against the Rockies entered the eighth inning with the Mets trailing by a couple of runs, repeating the scenario from when my grandmother passed, there was no doubt in my mind that the team would come back to win.  When it came to baseball, my mother had never let me down before and she wasn't about to begin now.

The Mets might not make the playoffs this season, but as far as I'm concerned, they already had their biggest win of the year yesterday.  And in a way, Mamita got to experience that win with me.

As a child and young adult, baseball helped my mother escape from the difficulties that life presented her, whether it be losing a parent, a marriage, or even the place she called home.  Now baseball will help heal me as I face my own challenge.  And I will heal, just like my mother once did.

We believe in comebacks.  And just like the Mets did yesterday, I'll come back from this loss.

My mother wouldn't have it any other way.

Dedicated to Juanny Leyro (Dec. 27, 1938 - Sept. 18, 2019)

Mamita, you'll always be in my heart.

A Tribute to My Grandfather, Who Taught Me Love and Baseball

My grandparents moved to Puerto Rico when I was three years old.  After they moved to San Juan, I would only see them for a few weeks at a time when my parents and I would visit them during my summer vacation from school.  Because those trips would coincide with the middle of baseball season, my grandfather would always want to talk to me about the game.

When I was eight years old, I discovered that Abuelo (that's Spanish for "grandfather") was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan.  He, my grandmother and their four children (one of which is my father) moved from the Island of Enchantment to New York in 1947, the same year Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball.  Robinson wasn't the only reason he became a Dodger fan, as 1947 was also the year Gil Hodges and Duke Snider came up to the major leagues to stay.  The Dodgers won the pennant in 1947, making only their second trip to the World Series since 1920.  They would make many more over the next few decades.  Abuelo was hooked for life.

The summer of 1981 was special for both Abuelo and I.  It was the year I became a Mets fan, but it was also the year of Fernandomania.  That summer, when my parents and I went to visit my grandparents in Puerto Rico, the players' strike was nearing its conclusion.  But just because there was no baseball to watch didn't mean there were no baseball stories to share. 

Any time I wanted to talk about Mookie Wilson, my grandfather would remind me that he wasn't as fast as Maury Wills.  (Wills was the first major league player in the modern era to steal 100 bases in a season, swiping 104 bags for the Dodgers in 1962, which was 45 more than the entire Mets team stole in their inaugural season.)  I knew better than to argue with him.

After a few minutes, the conversation would always turn to Fernando Valenzuela, who had taken the country by storm during his rookie season.  Abuelo would normally be in bed by 10 PM every night, but if Valenzuela was pitching and the game just happened to be broadcast on the local television channel, he'd always stay up to watch the game on a 13-inch black and white TV.  He'd keep the volume low so as not to wake my grandmother, telling me that he didn't need to hear the game because Fernando's pitching would tell the story.  In the summer of 1981, he was absolutely right.

I'll always remember talking to him on the phone after the Mets won the World Series in 1986.  He was thrilled that I was finally able to celebrate a championship, but he was also quick to remind me that despite the Mets boasting a pitching staff that included Dwight Gooden, Ron Darling, Bob Ojeda and Sid Fernandez, it was Fernando Valenzuela who led the National League in wins.  (Valenzuela won 21 games for the Dodgers in 1986; his only 20-win campaign in 17 years in the big leagues.)

Oh, Abuelo.  He really loved his Dodgers.

Two years after the Mets won the World Series, they played for the right to appear in another.  But this time it was different.  This time, the Mets were playing the Dodgers for the pennant.  A member of the Leyro family was going to see his favorite team play in the World Series in 1988.  But for that to happen, another member of the Leyro family was going to be disappointed that his team failed to reach the Fall Classic.  It was about as awkward as it was ever going to get between me and Abuelo when it came to our shared love of the national pastime.  In the end, it became one of the most important times in our relationship.

The Dodgers defeated the Mets in the 1988 NLCS, upsetting them in seven games.  The Mets weren't the only ones upset by that result.  The day after Game Seven, the phone rang in our house.  My mother picked it up, spoke for a few seconds, then called me over to the phone.  It was for me, she said.  It was Abuelo.

I thought it was strange that Abuelo would call me.  After all, any time I'd speak to him on the phone, it would be my grandmother who called us and then she'd pass the phone over to Abuelo.  (The men in the Leyro family have never been known as "phone people".)  But this time, my grandfather let his fingers do the walking and he called me directly.  Nearly three decades have passed since this call was made, but I'll never forget that conversation.

Not once did he mention the Dodgers while talking to me.  Nor did he mention the Mets.  Instead, he reminded me that there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.  He told me that he once went on a date with a girl when he was 18.  She was his definition of "the perfect girl".  She was smart, beautiful and came from a great family.  He was sure after one date that he was going to marry her.  Two dates later, she decided she didn't want to see him anymore.  He was crushed.

After two years of wondering where he went wrong, he made the acquaintance of another local girl.  Abuelo admitted to me that he wasn't attracted to her at first, but she listened to his story of lost love and gave him words of encouragement.  They continued to talk as friends for nearly a year until he realized something.

He was falling in love.  And this time, the girl he loved felt the same way about him.

The year was 1933.  In 1934, they were married.

When Abuelo finished telling me the story of how he and Abuela met and fell in love, I thanked him for making me smile.  I thought that was the reason he was sharing his story with me, because I was upset that my Mets had lost to his Dodgers and I would need some cheering up.  But that wasn't why he told me the story.  He then went back to the beginning of our conversation, the part where he said there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.

For two years, he wondered to himself why the love of his life didn't love him back.  But without that unexpected breakup, he never would have met my grandmother, a woman he would be married to until she passed away in 2001.  He then told me to think about his words and to "never stop believing" before hanging up.

It took me until that evening, but as I was getting ready for bed, it finally hit me.  Abuelo was using his story as an analogy.  I was questioning how the Mets could lose to the Dodgers in the playoffs after defeating them 10 of 11 times during the regular season, just like he had questioned why the girl he loved couldn't reciprocate those feelings for him.  He had to wait two years after suffering through a devastating heartbreak, but in the end, it netted him the love of his life.  Therefore, what Abuelo was telling me was that he knew I was heartbroken because of the Mets' loss to the Dodgers, but before long, they'd be back and I'd love them more than ever.

You know what?  He was right.

Sure, it took 11 years for the Mets to make it back to the postseason, but when they did, they went to the playoffs in back-to-back seasons and made their first trip to the World Series since 1986.  And when they did, Abuelo was the first person who called me to offer a congratulatory message.

Abuelo didn't make it to see the next two Mets/Dodgers postseason matchups in 2006 and 2015, as he passed away five days after his 90th birthday in 2002.  But when the Mets defeated the Dodgers to advance to the NLCS in both campaigns, the first person I thought of was him.  What did I think of?  That he didn't have to feel sad because the team he loved would be back.  And they did, as the Dodgers have won seven division titles in the last ten seasons.  Somewhere in Heaven, I knew Abuelo was smiling.  And now he's probably smiling even more, as the Dodgers are playing for their first World Series title since the year he called me to tell me a story about love and patience.

There is a point to this personal story.  You see, Abuelo was born on October 29, 1912.  That means today would have been his 105th birthday.  He and I never went to a Mets/Dodgers game together, but we didn't have to.  The stories took us there.

When I was eight years old, Abuelo shared his love of the Dodgers with me at the same time I was trying to share my love of the Mets with him.  He never became a Mets fan, just as I never became a Dodgers fan.  But we shared that love of baseball that no rivalry can break.  That love brought us together and provided me with some of my most wonderful childhood memories - memories that I continue to cherish as an adult.

Sometimes we question why things happen the way they do.  I never have to question why I loved my grandfather.  He was the most important man I've ever known.

Happy 105th birthday, Abuelo.  And thank you for always taking me out to the ballgame.

Dedicated to Horacio Leyro (October 29, 1912 - November 3, 2002)

For My Grandfather, Who Taught Me Love And Baseball

My grandparents moved to Puerto Rico when I was three years old.  After they moved to San Juan, I would only see them for a few weeks at a time when my parents and I would visit them during my summer vacation from school.  Because those trips would coincide with the middle of baseball season, my grandfather would always want to talk to me about baseball.

When I was eight years old, I discovered that Abuelo (that's Spanish for "grandfather") was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan.  He, my grandmother and their four children (one of which is my father) moved from the Island of Enchantment to New York in 1947, the same year Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball.  Robinson wasn't the only reason he became a Dodger fan, as 1947 was also the year Gil Hodges and Duke Snider came up to the major leagues to stay.  The Dodgers won the pennant in 1947, making only their second trip to the World Series since 1920.  They would make many more over the next few decades.  Abuelo was hooked for life.

The summer of 1981 was special for both Abuelo and I.  It was the year I became a Mets fan, but it was also the year of Fernandomania.  That summer, when my parents and I went to visit my grandparents in Puerto Rico, the players' strike was nearing its conclusion.  But just because there was no baseball to watch didn't mean there were no baseball stories to share. 

Any time I wanted to talk about Mookie Wilson, my grandfather would remind me that he wasn't as fast as Maury Wills.  (Wills was the first major league player to steal 100 bases in a season, swiping 104 bags for the Dodgers in 1962, which was 45 more than the entire Mets team stole in their inaugural season.)  I knew better than to argue with him.

After a few minutes, the conversation would always turn to Fernando Valenzuela, who had taken the country by storm during his rookie season.  Abuelo would normally be in bed by 10 PM every night, but if Valenzuela was pitching and the game just happened to be broadcast on the local television channel, he'd always stay up to watch the game on the 13-inch black and white TV.  He'd keep the volume low so as not to wake my grandmother, telling me that he didn't need to hear the game because Fernando's pitching would tell the story.  In the summer of 1981, he was absolutely right.

I'll always remember talking to him on the phone after the Mets won the World Series in 1986.  He was thrilled that I was finally able to celebrate a championship, but he was also quick to remind me that despite the Mets boasting a pitching staff that included Dwight Gooden, Ron Darling, Bob Ojeda and Sid Fernandez, it was Fernando Valenzuela who led the National League in wins.  (Valenzuela won 21 games for the Dodgers in 1986, his only 20-win campaign in 17 years in the big leagues.)

Oh, Abuelo.  He really loved his Dodgers.

Two years after the Mets won the World Series, they played for the right to appear in another.  But this time it was different.  This time, the Mets were playing the Dodgers for the pennant.  A member of the Leyro family was going to see his favorite team play in the World Series in 1988.  But for that to happen, another member of the Leyro family was going to be disappointed that his team failed to reach the Fall Classic.  It was about as awkward as it was ever going to get between me and Abuelo when it came to our shared love of the national pastime.  In the end, it became one of the most important times in our relationship.

The Dodgers defeated the Mets in the 1988 NLCS, upsetting them in seven games.  The Mets weren't the only ones upset by that result.  The day after Game 7, the phone rang in our house.  My mother picked it up, spoke for a few seconds, then called me over to the phone.  It was for me, she said.  It was Abuelo.

I thought it was strange that Abuelo would call me.  After all, any time I'd speak to him on the phone, it would be my grandmother who called us and then she'd pass the phone over to Abuelo.  (The men in the Leyro family have never been known as "phone people".)  But this time, my grandfather let his fingers do the walking and he called me directly.  Although almost a quarter century has passed, I'll never forget that conversation.

Not once did he mention the Dodgers in the conversation.  Nor did he mention the Mets.  Instead, he reminded me that there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.  He told me that he once went on a date with a girl when he was 18.  She was his definition of "the perfect girl".  She was smart, beautiful and came from a great family.  He was sure after one date that he was going to marry her.  Two dates later, she decided she didn't want to see him anymore.  He was crushed.

After two years of wondering where he went wrong, he made the acquaintance of another girl.  He wasn't attracted to her at first, but she listened to his story of lost love and gave him words of encouragement.  They continued to talk as friends for nearly a year until he realized something.

He was falling in love.  And this time, the girl he loved felt the same way about him.

The year was 1933.  In 1934, they were married.

When Abuelo finished telling me the story of how he and Abuela met and fell in love, I thanked him for making me smile.  I thought that was the reason he was sharing his story with me, because I was upset that my Mets had lost to his Dodgers and I would need some cheering up.  But that wasn't why he told me the story.  He then went back to the beginning of our conversation, the part where he said there would be times in life when we'd question why things happened the way they did.

For two years, he wondered to himself why the love of his life didn't love him back.  But without that unexpected breakup, he never would have met my grandmother, a woman he would be married to until her death in 2001.  He then told me to think about his words and to "never stop believing" before hanging up.

It took me until that evening, but as I was getting ready for bed, it finally hit me.  Abuelo was using his story as an analogy.  I was questioning how the Mets could lose to the Dodgers in the playoffs after defeating them 10 of 11 times during the regular season, just like he had questioned why the girl he loved couldn't reciprocate those feelings for him.  He had to wait two years after suffering through a devastating heartbreak, but in the end, it netted him the love of his life.  Therefore, what Abuelo was telling me was that he knew I was heartbroken because of the Mets' loss to the Dodgers, but before long, they'd be back and I'd love them more than ever.

You know what?  He was right.

Sure, it took 11 years for the Mets to make it back to the postseason, but when they did, they went to the playoffs in back-to-back seasons and made their first trip to the World Series since 1986.  And when they did, Abuelo was the first person who called me to offer a congratulatory message.

Abuelo didn't make it to see the next Mets/Dodgers postseason matchup in 2006, as he passed away five days after his 90th birthday in 2002.  But when the Mets swept the Dodgers to advance to the NLCS in that magical season, the first person I thought of was him.  What did I think of?  That he didn't have to feel sad because the team he loved would be back.  And they did, winning back-to-back division titles in 2008 and 2009.  Somewhere in Heaven, I knew Abuelo was smiling.

There is a point to this personal story.  You see, Abuelo was born on October 29, 1912.  That means today would have been his 100th birthday.  He and I never went to a Mets/Dodgers game together, but we didn't have to.  The stories took us there.

When I was eight years old, Abuelo shared his love of the Dodgers with me at the same time I was trying to share my love of the Mets with him.  He never became a Mets fan, just as I never became a Dodgers fan.  But we shared that love of baseball that no rivalry can break.  That love brought us together and provided me with some of my most wonderful childhood memories - memories that I continue to cherish as an adult.

Sometimes we question why things happen the way they do.  I never have to question why I loved my grandfather.  He was the most important man I've ever known.

Happy 100th birthday, Abuelo.  And thank you for always taking me out to the ballgame.

Dedicated to Horacio Leyro (October 29, 1912 - November 3, 2002)

Carlos Beltran: A True Role Model For Today's Kids

Carlos Beltran has always been a soft-spoken leader, preferring to lead by example rather than through rah-rah histrionics. Throughout his career, he has been a player that has done everything well on the field. He can hit for average (.325 in 2009, career .283 hitter), hit for power (franchise record-tying 41 HR in 2006), steal bases (286 SB in his career) and play a Gold Glove caliber center field. He lets his talent do the talking for him on the field.

However, there is one area of his game that he is not quiet about. It’s an area that does not appear in the boxscores, does not make ESPN Top 10 lists, receives little to no press coverage and does not get enough attention on many baseball sites. It’s the charitable work he does off the field that impresses me more than anything he does on the field. Carlos Beltran has been hitting home runs off the field for years now and less fortunate children in New York and his native Puerto Rico are the beneficiaries of that extra effort.

When Carlos Beltran signed his seven-year deal with the Mets prior to the 2005 season, he had already been involved with numerous charitable organizations. He set up the Carlos Beltran Foundation in 2002 in the hopes of someday opening up a baseball academy for students in his native Puerto Rico. That “someday” is about to become a reality as the Carlos Beltran Baseball Academy is set to open its doors.

The academy will serve to strengthen its students both academically and athletically. It is not meant to only serve as a place for school-age kids to hone their baseball skills, as is the case with other baseball academies. They’ll be there to learn as well, so they can take their education and apply it to the “real world” that awaits them once they graduate from the academy.

So many players from Puerto Rico and other Latin-American countries sign with major league baseball teams but come to this country unprepared in all things that are not baseball-related. They struggle with the language and other things that American-born players do with ease. It makes it very easy for people to take advantage of them, and if they don’t make it in the major leagues, they leave with nothing to fall back on. Beltran’s academy will emphasize the English language in its classes and will prepare its students for baseball and for life’s challenges so that they will not have to suffer through the hardships that other Latin-American players encountered.

Carlos Beltran has devoted so much of his time and money to realize his dream of opening this academy. Those dreams are about to come to fruition. However, just because he has spent so much time and effort with this endeavor doesn’t mean he’s taking it easy with others. In fact, he’s going above and beyond to help one particular local organization.

In 2006, Carlos Beltran was named honorary commissioner of Harlem RBI, which is an organization that provides inner-city children with the opportunity to play sports while getting a proper education, similar to what the Carlos Beltran Baseball Academy is doing for children in Puerto Rico. In conjunction with being named honorary commissioner, Beltran agreed to donate $500 for every RBI he collected during the season.

From 2006 to 2008, Beltran never collected fewer than 112 RBI. Unfortunately, because of injuries that forced Carlos to miss half of the 2009 season, he only drove in 48 runs this season. According to his agreement with Harlem RBI, this would add up to a $24,000 donation. However, Carlos did not want to deny the children of money they would have gotten had he not missed so much playing time. Therefore, when he appeared at Harlem RBI on Wednesday, he donated $50,000 to the organization. The Mets matched his donation with a $50,000 contribution of their own, making the total amount of the donation $100,000.

Not everyone has been blessed with the extraordinary athletic abilities that Carlos Beltran possesses. Those who do have these abilities give children reasons to smile by hitting home runs or making a diving catch on the field. Carlos Beltran was once one of those children. He remembers what it was like for him growing up in his hometown of Manatí, Puerto Rico. It’s always difficult to balance school with sports, but it’s all the more difficult when you have to do it under tough financial situations. By taking what he learned from his childhood, Beltran is providing other children in similar situations with the opportunity to become the best players and the best people they can be. He has given back to the community that helped him get to where he is now and has not let success go to his head.

Carlos Beltran is a true role model for today’s youth. His contributions to society are just as valuable, if not more so, than his contributions on the field. As a Mets fan of Puerto Rican descent, I am proud to call Carlos Beltran my fellow countryman. But more importantly, I’m proud of Carlos Beltran, period. May he continue to succeed on the field and off. After all, Mets fans aren’t the only ones who are benefiting from his success.