El Profe: Dancing in Cooperstown’s Latin Corner

Knucksie’s pitches danced toward home plate, mesmerizing batters.

At the same time, his knuckleballs always had his catcher in a state of anxiety as they flitted through the air in each and every direction before arriving at their destination.

And if memory serves, this pitcher once pulled his hamstring (or was it hamstrings?) running the bases in front of speedster Brett Butler, who was legging out a gapper for a triple. Yes, this pitcher — who won 318 games from 1964 to 1987 — was never a graceful runner.

Which is why he was the last Hall of Famer I expected to witness cutting a rug in the Latin corner of The Otesaga Resort Hotel in Cooperstown during the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum Induction weekend.

In the Club

You learn a different side of ballplayers when you get to spend time with them and talk to them about their journeys in baseball. They share their stories about the interesting people they met, and the teammates they bonded with and remained connected to after their playing days came to a close.

Talking with Phil Niekro this past August after the death of his Braves teammate Paul Casanova helped me understand this aspect of the ballplayer’s life: that baseball can help people from very different places connect at a human level.

Knucksie spoke about the many times he and Casanova went to dinner after a ballgame and spent time just talking about life and about their different paths to the major leagues.

The Ohio-born Niekro bonded with the Cuban native, who had traveled the Americas playing professional baseball.

That phone conversation with the Hall of Fame pitcher put a whole new spin on a scene I had witnessed 11 years earlier in Cooperstown.

Recreating the Latin Corner

One of the Induction weekend traditions at the hotel is the Sunday dinner. The invite list is Hall of Famers only. No guests of the Hall. No spouses. Not even the beloved Negro Leagues legend Buck O’Neil could get in that room.

What makes the dinner so special is that it represents the first time the newly-inducted class can dine with their fellow Hall of Famers as enshrined members, having received their plaques and given their speeches. Spouses and guests of the Hall of Famers hang out in the hotel lobby, waiting for the Hall of Famers to start spilling out of the dining room.

In 2006, I got to witness this scene in the Otesaga firsthand. Unlike previous years when I was credentialed media, this time I was a guest of the Hall of Fame, a benefit of having served on the Special Committee on Negro Leagues.

I sat in the lobby conversing in Spanish with the wives of Orlando Cepeda, Juan Marichal and Tony Pérez. Eventually, a few of the Hall of Famers began to trickle out of the dining room. First came Cepeda. Shortly thereafter Pérez and Marichal joined us. In so doing, the Hall of Famers, their spouses and a few friends and guests like myself recreated the Latin corner, right there in Cooperstown.

For those unfamiliar, the Latin corner is a term long associated with the clubhouse space where Latino players congregate to talk, play music and cards, and swap jokes. It has long been a special space for them to freely converse in either Spanish or English and indulge in Latino baseball culture. All are welcome into the space — just bring your cultural awareness and be ready to tell jokes, sing and perhaps dance.

First english words

That evening in the Otesaga, I was privileged to partake in a unique Latin corner experience. The three Latino Hall of Famers regaled me with stories from their ball-playing days. Of the special bonds forged playing in the first decades after integration while traveling through the South and other parts of the United States that were truly alien to them. They joked about their misadventures while learning about life in the U.S. or how to speak English, a necessity for ordering food or communicating with teammates, coaches and managers.

“Same,” Marichal shared, was one of the first English words he learned in the minor leagues. This, so he could order food by pointing at a teammate’s meal and telling the waiter, “Same.”

Cepeda described how frightened he was as a 17-year old Puerto Rican on his first train ride traveling from spring training in Florida to his first minor league assignment, not yet knowing English and having only a sign with “Kokomo,” the name of his destination.

And then they began singing and dancing.

Pérez and Marichal clapped the rhythm section as Cepeda — the same Cha Cha who descends from the famous Cepeda family of pleneros y bomberos in Puerto Rico—began to belt out the verses of the famous plena “Elena, Elena.”

Cha Cha and the Latin corner was now in full swing at the Otesaga. Pérez and his wife dancing, then Marichal and his spouse.

And then came Knucksie.

Unlike some of the other Hall of Famers who came out of the dining room and bypassed this hopping section, Niekro made a beeline straight for the Latin corner. Next thing I notice was Knucksie dancing to the sounds of Cepeda singing and taking Cepeda’s wife as his dance partner. In the most improbable sight, the two began dancing in the middle of the Otesaga’s lobby.

And whaddaya know — Niekro’s got rhythm; the man can dance to Latin music. I guess ol’ Knucksie learned something from his Latino teammates during his legendary career, from guys like Cepeda and Casanova, among others. And that night in Cooperstown, Niekro performed another form of magic that left me mesmerized.

Featured Image: Rich Pilling / Getty Images Sport