HIALEAH, Fla. -- When pitching coach Rigoberto Betancourt Herrera bolted from the Cuban baseball team in Baltimore in May, he thought he'd be basking in the glow of American capitalism by now, teaching hot prospects for the Boston Red Sox to toss blazing fastballs and wicked sliders.
Instead, the man once considered the Sandy Koufax of Cuba is holed up in a cinder-block rancher in a run-down neighborhood on the edge of Miami, tossing back shots of Cafe Cubano, watching television and smoking non-filter Competidoras to pass the time.
For Betancourt, who left his wife and four children for a chance to work in America's big leagues, defecting has been about as tough to take as a waist-high fastball.
"If I were working, I'd be the happiest man in the world," said Betancourt, 55, a short southpaw who looks like a cross between Ricardo Montalban and Jerry Vale. "Now, I'm worried. I don't have any doubts about my decision. But I have doubts about working in this country."
When Betancourt skipped the flight to Cuba after the Orioles' 12-6 loss on May 4 at Camden Yards, his defection drew international attention. Fidel Castro lost a prominent coach known as "The Little Giant of the Mound." Spanish-language TV stations in Miami turned him into an overnight news celebrity.
Success seemed sure to follow.
Joe Cubas, the sports agent responsible for luring promising players from Cuba to the majors, introduced Betancourt to the Boston Red Sox. Within weeks of slipping out of the Sheraton Inner Harbor Hotel and hiding from Cuban security agents beneath a row of bushes for six hours in downtown Baltimore, Betancourt said the Red Sox interviewed him for a job, coaching minor leaguers at their training camp in Fort Myers.
But that was more than two months ago. While U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service officers have granted Betancourt political asylum, they have not given him permission to work. By the time the paperwork comes through later this year, the season could be over, stalling Betancourt's dream of working for a major league team and bringing his family to Florida for a better life.
Under INS rules, Betancourt has to wait until October to apply for a work permit, and it could take a few more months before permission is granted. Betancourt said he's worried that a job with the Red Sox could be gone by then. Kent Qualls, the team's director of player development, said nothing is guaranteed until Betancourt receives INS approval.
"Until he gets his working papers, there's nothing to talk about," Qualls said.
Like most successful baseball players, Betancourt began his career as a boy, playing in the streets of Havana in the 1940s and '50s, a time when Meyer Lansky, fancy Cadillacs and Frank Sinatra defined the city.
After Castro came to power in 1959, the nation underwent a baseball renaissance. The game was Castro's passion, and it became Cuba's. A league was formed, with each province fielding a team. The best players represented the nation in games and exhibitions around the world.
Betancourt became one of those players. With a 90-mph fastball and low breaking ball that confounded hitters, Betancourt was a pitcher to be feared. Standing 5 feet, 6 inches, he became known as the "Little Giant," a pitcher who could ring up as many as 18 strikeouts a game.
He got his first break in 1964, when he pitched for a military team. He was later named to the national teams that played during the Central American-Caribbean games in Puerto Rico in 1966 and the Pan American games in Winnipeg in 1967.
Each time he left Cuba, Betancourt said, he was approached by U.S. scouts. He said he refused a $100,000 offer from the Phillies.
"At the time, Cuba was different from what it is today," he said. "I also had my father and my mother and my brother. So, I decided to remain in my country and stay next to my family."
Now, from his room, Betancourt retrieved a manila envelope and slid out a stack of torn and taped-up newspaper clippings chronicling his glory days on the mound. One from 1967 says he set a new Cuban record with 126 strikeouts, breaking the mark he set the year before, when he fanned 103.
In 1968, Betancourt had surgery and sat out the season. He came back, pitching a no-hitter in 1970, but the zip was gone. Suddenly, hitters could see his fastball, and they began to chip away at the stature of the "Little Giant."
In 1975, Betancourt retired, coaching first for a sports school and later for every provincial team in Cuba.
Last April, Betancourt was invited to go to Baltimore for the match between the Orioles and Cuba. He was thrilled at the prospect, but his excitement had nothing to do with baseball.
Hours before he left, he told his wife, Marta, that he was not coming back. She tearfully accepted his decision to defect, and he pledged to bring her and the children to America.
"I thought that in my country, there is no progress. There's no prosperity. There's nothing," Betancourt said. "I decided to leave and then to try to rescue my family. But I didn't know how to do it. It was all happening so fast."
On May 3, the 355-member Cuban delegation landed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. The next morning, Betancourt said he saw a young blond-haired woman standing near the lobby of the Sheraton. He struck up a conversation and he started to formulate a plan.
He said he wanted to use the woman as a decoy, someone his colleagues would become accustomed to seeing him with. When the time was right, he said, he planned to walk outside the hotel with her, hoping no one would notice. If they didn't, he would run.
After the Cuban team trounced the Orioles that night, Betancourt returned to his room, packed his suitcase, stuffed his travel documents into his jacket, and went to the hotel lobby. It was 3 a.m.
"I ran into four members of the delegation," he said. "They said we were leaving in an hour."
Betancourt was startled. They weren't scheduled to leave until 3 that afternoon. But fearing that players might defect, and with Cubas, the sports agent, reportedly trolling for prospective defectors, team officials decided to take a flight leaving at 6: 07 that morning.
"It spoiled my plan," Betancourt said.
He said he walked to the front door and told a police officer he was stepping outside to smoke a cigarette. In the driveway, he spotted the woman.
"It was an act of God," he said.
He said he put his arm around her and walked down the driveway toward Pratt Street. About a block away, he said, he turned to see if anyone was following.
"I threw my suitcase over my shoulder, and I walked away. I told her I wanted to be myself."
He heard police sirens. Afraid they were for him, he ducked into a row of bushes. He said he lay down on the dirt, draped his coat over his body and fell asleep. At 9 that morning, a police officer woke him. Betancourt, who barely speaks English, said he tried to tell the officer he wanted to go to a police station.
"He thought I was a vagrant," he said. "I was dirty. My hair wasn't combed. I looked terrible. And then I thought, 'Nobody's going to help me.' "
Betancourt said he approached a man on the street and asked him for directions to the police station. After an eight-block walk, he was standing in the lobby of police headquarters.
The next day, with a promise of political asylum from the INS, he was on his way to Florida to live with his aunt and uncle in Hialeah.
As he awaits news about his work permit, Betancourt said he is also trying to convince the Cuban government, through the INS, to let his wife and children go.
If Betancourt lands a job with the Red Sox, how much will he make coaching the future pitching stars of Major League Baseball?
"I'm not really sure how much they will pay me, and I really don't care," he said. "All I want to do is be back in baseball."
Pub Date: 8/07/99