The Other David

My agent told me that Argentina would be a good country to visit. I'm not such a world-savvy person and most of the miles that I have traveled have been from one ballpark to the next. We once had to play the Los Angeles Dodgers and I think that was the longest flight I had ever taken. It was also the saddest one, as we had just lost a game to the New York Mets.

But Argentina? What was I going to do there? Sign autographs to a bunch of kids that were still enjoying the victory of their soccer team in the World Cup? The person at the airport would talk lengths about Mario Kempes and a goalkeeper called Fillol, but didn't even know how baseball was played. After he told me that the British tried to import a game with wickets, I explained to him that baseball was a different sport than Cricket. I was definitely wasting my valuable time. At least Buenos Aires was warm in December.

I don't remember who told me to watch out for the meat in Argentina, not because it was of bad quality. Precisely because it wasn't, I would have to watch out for an indigestion. I ate too much of the chicken hearts they served on a stick at one restaurant and had to rush to a local hospital. I was in the waiting room in pain when I heard my name.

"David Concepción, Dr. Morales is waiting for you", said the pretty nurse. Too blonde for my taste, but beautiful indeed.

And then somebody else got up.

A bearded man, who had been covering his face by reading a newspaper, stood up quickly and rushed into the Doctor's office.

I was completely baffled. Not only did anybody know who I was, but there was somebody else with my name in Buenos Aires. I stood up and showed my face around to see if somebody would recognize me. Nobody did. I was so ashamed of my lack of fame that I decided to follow this person instead of heading towards the bookstore, where I was to sign a book on the Cincinnati Reds.

After following him through lonely alleys, I discovered the other reds, the real ones. His true name wasn't David and his last name wasn't Concepción. The comrade at the door of their hideout just told me that I was lucky to have been recognized by one of them that happened to like baseball. He even asked me for my autograph, which was flattering, even if I had no respect for communists. I just appreciated their will to fight against an oppressing regime much more powerful than them. The other "David Concepción" was a man stronger than I and with more balls than a batting practice.

Today, as I wait for Cooperstown to come calling, I can share this short story with you. Hopefully, the other David is alive to read it.