Unusual Night in Bristol Provides Early Look at Almonte

Since there is nothing else to do on a weeknight in Bristol, Conn., I talked to some friends and found that watching 12-year-olds play baseball was exactly what they wanted to do. Minutes later, we left for the five-minute ride to another world.

Armed with Subway sandwiches and wary looks, we rolled up to Giamatti Stadium (after the late baseball commissioner), not knowing what to expect.

We had no trouble finding the stadium. It's erected in a swamp, and sticks out like a carnival in an Amish community.

We had barely reached the grounds when the shrill sounds of cheering hit us in the face. The stadium shook from the thunder created by the bleachers above the New York team's dugout.

My friends and I settled into our seats in the right field bleachers and took in the situation. A team from the Bronx was set to play a squad from State College, Pa. for the automatic berth in the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pa. It would be a great story if some hometown boys got to take on the world in Williamsport. That storyline, however, paled in comparison to the five-foot-nine, Dominican-born pitcher standing on the mound popping his catcher's mitt.

"Look at this kid on the mound. He's gotta be throwing over 70. And his curveball is nasty. Do you know who he is?" I asked.

"Someone named Danny Almonte," my friend mentioned, consulting his roster. This suppossed 12-year-old put on a show like I've never seen. It was like Roger Clemens facing the Brooklyn Cyclones.

Half of the Pennsylvanians' swings started after the ball was in catcher Fransisco Pena's mitt. Hitters lunged at sliders in the dirt and looked lost. When the third inning rolled around, we started to wonder if anybody had actually put the ball in play yet.

We began to whisper, "How old do you think he really is?"

Batter after batter, inning after inning, Almonte owned the mound. He was a man among infants. Soon we left our bleacher seats for the New York section of the stands to see the phenom up close.

We strutted around the outfield fence as if we were eager little boys fighting for gofer balls that Mark McGwire clocked.

Once in the New York section, the adventure began. Having to snake our way through the hordes of relatives and fans of the Bronx team, we finally settled on the section we saw shaking earlier. We were literally the only people speaking English in the stands, and trying to see over the Dominican flags and Telemundo cameras in the stands was part of the deal.

With each pitch, the cowbell was rung, the air horn was sounded, and the whistles were blown. The guy two rows in front of me drew the biggest cheer when he took off his prosthetic leg and started swinging it for the ESPN camera. The place was nuts, with a block party atmosphere mixed with the SAP channel. Even watching my friend Bess, who was my co-worker at ESPN, rush through the crowd, speaking Spanglish while trying to identify the Bronx players' parents for her camera crew, was hilarious.

The State College side of the bleachers was the Felix Unger to the Bronx's Oscar Madison. The Pennsylvania parents, who spent most of the game sitting on their hands, were a sea of white compared to the members of the Bronx team, which boasted zero white players. There were no cowbells or whistles for the State College parents, who clapped politely and held up signs with catchy slogans only a team destined to lose would hold.

"At least we play by the rules," one said.

The Bronx won 2-0, but the game was actually pretty boring. Seeing Almonte strike out one batter was cool. But watching it 16 times in one game (out of 18 total outs) gets a little tedious. At least the Pennsylvania team bunted once in fair territory. Third baseman Hector Rodriguez was the only fielder to touch the ball.

The aftermath of the game presented a more interesting scenario. I don't mean when the game ended, and players went to the interview booth. Some did stop to talk to the throngs of pre-teen girls dressed as if they were going to Sound Factory, faces caked with makeup. I no longer wonder how and when the groupie culture starts.

The Bronx team played out its games, with Almonte throwing a perfect game, and finished third in the Little League World Series. Only then did baseball fans and social workers alike find out the tragedy that is Danny Almonte.

In a much-publicized discovery, 12-year old stud Danny Almonte is really 14-year old, pretty-good pitcher Danny Almonte, a shy teenager who has never attended school. His father forged a birth certificate for him, as he had done for his other son. By telling his son he isn't good enough to play with his age group, taking him out of school, teaching him that cheating is the norm, Danny's father taught the world a lesson in awful parenting. In the end, though, all it leaves is a pitcher who can be signed to a contract two years earlier than previously thought.

Apparently, Little League is no longer child's play, though actually watching the children play in that atmosphere will provide the most lasting impression.