A Special Revenge for Luis Tiant

Carbon monoxide emissions came out from the car in the garage. Dad took off in the Plymouth Century. “Are you breathing that smoke again? Get out from there. You’re going to poison yourself, then we’ll have to go to the hospital instead of going to Cumaná.”

I ran to the kitchen. Mom was very upset because now the breakfast was cold. “It was about time that you recalled about breakfast.”

When the sun pushed that Sunday to 11 o’clock in the morning, Dad moved the control to the drive position, and the Plymouth started to advance through La Florida street.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet city woman…
I can see your face. I can hear your voice. I can almost touch you.”

After that sticky song finished, they announced a baseball game broadcasting. I begged Dad to stay with the game on the radio. Mom threw him a sympathetic gaze. Dad told me I would have to explain to him some things about baseball he didn’t understand.

Commentator Carlitos Gonzalez was saying that Luis Tiant would be the starting pitcher for the Tiburones de La Guaira team, and I went back to a January night of 1971. Leones del Caracas and Tiburones de La Guaira played the semifinal playoff series. Rookie Robert Marcano came to bat as a pinch hitter and smacked a home run off Tiant to eliminate the Caracas team.

Caracas team management decided not to sign Tiant for the next season, thinking he was done as a pitcher. But Pedro Padron Panza, the La Guaira general manager, followed Tiant during that summer, and no matter how bad Tiant had looked with the Boston Red Sox, he decided to sign him for the 1971-72 Venezuela winter ball season.

That Nov. 14, 1971, Dad stopped the Plymouth at the gas station between the towns of Arenas and Rio Arenas. He stayed half an hour talking to his friend Nino. He even went to Nino’s home to look for a piece of provolone cheese. When I thought I had lost an important part of the game, he returned, and the engine noise brought with it the announcer’s voice.

“At the bottom of the third inning, comes to bat Barry Lersch. Tiant makes the windup. He shows the number on the back of his uniform to the central stand…there it goes, a low line drive over the third base line. Robert Marcano dives and takes the ball in the webbing of his glove…”

I was welded to the front seat until the Plymouth arrived at the El Palenque curves. A few hundred meters before getting to the Quebrada Seca’s bridge, an anteater crossed the road, and Dad stopped the car. “What’s that, that the batter is in three and two?”

At the Los Cocos straightaway, there were two boys selling some river fish and shrimp. Dad stopped for a while but then kept driving. The announcer’s voice resounded inside the car: “…it’s a tremendous line drive by Victor Davalillo but just to the glove of right fielder Antonio Correa. Tiant keeps hurling a no-hit, no-run game. Only the first baseman, Joe Lis, has arrived to first base, on a walk.

“After seven complete innings, La Guaira 3, Caracas 0. It seems that Tiant is very compelled to take revenge on his former team. It’s a matter of honor and guts. It’s been a very short time since Tiant’s last season with the Caracas team.”

Dad asked what was that “no-hit, no-run game.” I tried to explain, but he didn’t understand what a base hit was.

At Tataracual’s hamlet surroundings, Dad stepped on the brake pedal to the bottom. It caused a very dark cloud of black smoke over the pavement. Some little boys got close to the Plymouth’s passenger window. Mom chose two packets and gave two coins to the boys. The notebook paper crunched on her fingers. Several seeds with brown-reddish covers went to Dad’s hands and mine. I was impressed. “Mom, this peanuts are too big.”

“Those aren’t peanuts, son, are cashews.”

As I discovered that cashews tasted better than peanuts, the announcer’s voice got excited again. “Cesar Tovar hits a hard grounder to the mound. Tiant bends down to his right. He throws to first base and it’s an out.” The commentator f0llowed with:  “He looks like a shortstop. It’s the second play by Tiant; in the sixth inning he got a line drive from his counterpart Barry Lersch that seemed like a base hit.”

Between the remote scents of the sea breeze and the countryside freshness coming from the oaks and wild flowers, Dad insisted to know what a no-hit, no-run game was about. I tried with all my efforts to find a situation related to Dad’s everyday routine to make the explanation easier. He pressed his cigarette against the ashtray and raised the radio’s volume. “After eight complete frames this game is still 3-0. Now Tiant stops by the Caracas team dugout and looks inside it and to the fans in the stands. He passes his right index finger past his neck. The Caracas team fans are sad and furious.”

This gives more intensity to the game, the announcers say. All  that can be heard in the stands is iconic fan Lezama’s cornet. It sounds like a lament.

At every curve of the road Dad dramatically decreased the Plymouth’s speed. He wanted to know every detail on what was happening at the ballpark.

In front of Boca de Sabana town’s entrance, Dad crossed to his right and stopped the car next to a high-fenced house. He took some papers from the front seat and told us he would be back very soon. Mom said that it was Sunday, that he had to rest from working the whole week. He closed the Plymouth’s door and shouted at the house’s gate.

Carlitos Gonzalez and Delio Amado León’s emotive comments on the radio kept me very close to the broadcast. “Tiant looks at his catcher’s signs. There comes the ball. Davalillo hits a grounder to first base, Oswaldo Blanco gets the ball and Luis Tiant’s revenge is a fact. He has hurled a no-hitter against the team that told him he was done as a pitcher. All his teammates have surrounded him and are trying to raise him on their shoulders. There is a party at the La Guaira’s team tribune.”

Dad spun the ignition key to start the Plymouth’s engine and got closer to the radio. “Why didn’t you go to call me so I could listen to the ending of the game? I wanted to know how it finishes, a no-hit, no-run game!”

I stayed wordless and open mouthed. I imagined the scolding he could have given me if I interrupted a working meeting.

I know this game won’t be taken into consideration for a probable Tiant induction to Baseball Hall of Fame this December, but I don’t have the tiniest doubt that this one is as important as his best performances in major league baseball. It meant a lot for the process of recovering from his throwing arm injury.

After seeing Dad’s regretful gaze, I thought for just a second that maybe it would have been worth the trouble interrupting Dad’s meeting. A no-hitter doesn’t happen every day. Maybe he would have gotten mad at me at first, but then he surely would have run to the Plymouth to listen to the game’s ending. I could see that at the bottom of his eyes, where he kept a lot of his childhood dreams very hidden.