# Agustín Marquetti: "we were of revolutionary conscience: money didn't matter, but life changes you"

**Date:** 08/31/2023

"They tell me they still show my home run on television: that means they still love me here," Agustín Marquetti says.



The author of the most iconic home run in the national series is visiting Havana, in the country where he was born and became a baseball legend, eight years after his previous trip.



He wears a sweater with the name Cuba on his chest—as he did for years—and wears a Cincinnati Reds cap. It seems the man who emigrated and settled in the United States more than a decade ago hasn't changed much.



"In my life what I've done is good, help people. Also, I've been helped a lot," he says, proudly, about how he projects himself in this world.



He's the same Agustín Marquetti who made the ball disappear from Rogelio García at the Latinoamericano Stadium, though many years older.



He speaks with the same familiarity, he's witty, conversational and open. But the former home run hitter, former militiaman, former ballplayer and still idol of multitudes, believes and states—firmly—that life "is dialectical," that everything changes. Even him.



You were born in 1946, in Alquizar. What was childhood like for Agustín Marquetti?



When I was a boy, since I loved baseball so much, I asked the Three Kings for an Almendares team uniform, but my father told me there wasn't one and he gave me one from Havana. I have a photo somewhere with my brother, maybe six or seven years old, with him dressed as a cowboy and me as a ballplayer.



Where did you play back then?



We played four corners at night. We used cigarette packs, deodorant tubes, a little rubber ball. It's in my blood, because my dad was a ballplayer, second base; my grandfather, catcher, and I had an uncle who was very good. I was born with a bat in my hand.



And at an organized level?



At an organized level, an uncle of mine, Manuel, was the team captain. We went to Güira, Bauta, San Antonio, Bejucal. He'd rent a jeep and transport all of us kids there.



Before '59, what was your family's economic situation?



I was raised by my grandparents, because my parents separated. Along with my uncle, who was a carpenter, my dad was a builder. I didn't go hungry, we were humble, but without many problems. I never had to work at that age.



You told me you were from Havana



I played youth ball and back then, in military service they paid 7 pesos. At that time, among labor centers there were many rivalries. So, a scout from the Ministry of Interior (MININT) told me he wanted us to play with them. He explained to me that if I went to military service I'd earn seven pesos and that if I did it with them, it would be 125 and, at that time, that was real money. I was at MININT until about 1980. Really, all we did was play ball. Maybe an occasional guard duty, but most of the year we had athletic leave.



To be a ballplayer, did you have to be at some work center?



Before, baseball also existed in the base league, youth and second category. People played for their work center: for the Havana Psychiatric Hospital (Mazorra) or fishing, for example. In the end, our pay came from those centers, even though we were playing ball all year.



And did those tournaments have a lot of following?



Yes! They had tremendous level, that was hot. Even more level than the current National Series.



Did any professional ballplayer coach you?



Us, mainly my uncle Manuel. Later, when I went to Havana, I had Ramón Carneado, Juan Ealo and Oscar Sardinas, in my opinion, the best batting coach.



Others also helped me like Andrés Ayón and Juan Delís, who were players. Those professional ballplayers helped us a lot.



After you left the youth leagues, there was a second category of six teams. The National Series teams could pick three ballplayers from that tournament. Ramón Carneado (manager) called me.



I have an anecdote from that time. At first, we rookies were last in everything: in batting practice, entering the cafeteria, getting on the bus, and that motivated me to want to be one of the generals, to be among the first.



With Carneado, I also have another story. When Mozambique (Cuban musical rhythm) was playing and they'd put it on during batting practice. I was in the outfield catching my teammates' hits and while I was there, I started dancing. When practice ended, he called me and said: "Don't you know you shouldn't be dancing on the baseball field? When you're on the field it's baseball and baseball. You have all the talent to be one of the best hitters in this country, but you have to stay focused." Ramón was a great person.



You were Rookie of the Year and National Champion in the same season.



Yes, and also cleanup batter for the team, something unique. Plus, we came out champions, with Industriales' fourth consecutive championship. I was living a dream. I wish I could turn back the calendar.



Later, in '67, Manuel Alarcón beat you, in one of the great moments of Cuban baseball after 1959.



Alarcón was a tremendous pitcher. People tell me he always struck me out, and when I arrived, he was a lion and I was still starting. He was a real pitcher.



Did you start your career as a right fielder?



I started in right field in the youth leagues and also in the second category. Even some national team games I played that position. But I dedicated myself more to hitting, because I wasn't very good in the field. One day, I went up to Juan Ealo and told him I thought if I played first base, I'd stay on the team longer. The problem was that when they hit me rolling grounders I'd turn my face away, I was afraid of the ball. Until I went to Tony González and German Águila, who had wonderful hands, so they could give me the secrets. Also, I'd catch 1000 grounders every day. You always have to look for the masters, learn from those who know. Experience is money.



What were the conditions like in those first national series?



We traveled to Guantánamo by bus, we slept in the stadiums. The food wasn't bad. I also became friends with the cooks, I'd give them a ball, something, and then there was always something extra for me. In Las Villas, Pinar, Matanzas and even in Oriente.



I never had problems with regionalism. In fact, one of my great friends is Braudilo Vinent. He hit the ball to everyone except his mom and me. They'd give him a hit and whoever came behind got beaned.



How do you remember the moment you broke the home run record that Felipe Sarduy had set?



Sarduy had the record with thirteen and I broke it around game 30, when there were about 60 games left, but I was tired. Nelson Cielo told me: but how can you be exhausted? Look at those arms you have. But I was missing someone to push me. Notice that I only hit six in the last 60 games.



Years later, Armando Capiró broke it for you, another legend of Cuban baseball. What was the relationship between you two?



He broke it with 22. The year I hit 19, he also had about 10, but he got injured stealing a second base. We were the best one-two in baseball. They talk about the Santiago steamroller, but they called us the terror shift. The relationship was spectacular. Generally, he was the third batter and I was the fourth. What we needed was a bit more pitching, because we only had the great Changa Mederos as a star.



When did you join the national team?



In '69, at the world baseball championship in the Dominican Republic, where Gaspar "El Curro" Pérez beat the Americans. Servio Borges was smart, because people wanted him to take out El Curro, but he was throwing a great game and was also a great batter.



I didn't play that game because I had problems in my thighs, they were raw. The entire Quisqueya stadium was with us, shouting "Yankees go home" all the time! It was a great team, they said we beat college students, but those pitchers were throwing 100 miles and were looking to be signed to the Major Leagues.



Also in 1972 you decided a game against the Americans. What do you remember from then?



I hit a foul home run and then one, a good one. That's something that almost never happens. I was the fifth batter, Félix Isasi gets a hit and Capiró strikes out. Normally they'd give me the base and pitch to Owen Blandino. But no, they pitched to me. I connected the first one as a foul and then, with a bad pitch, I hit it in a good zone. One thing, the images that come out here in Cuba aren't from the home run swing, because when that moment came, the cameraman ran out of film, so they put another moment.



What happened in '80, when you were left off the Cuba team?



That's historical. The fault is 50 percent Servio Borges and 50 percent mine. Because Ramiro and Fernández Mel had told me to hit home runs, because Antonio Muñoz was hitting 25 and I was hitting 10 in the national series. So we get to the preselection, I hit 10 in seven games against the best pitchers in the country, but they left me off the team. I can't even remember what they told me.



I'm religious and fanatic about my religion. I told Servio, at this Latin American championship, in front of Fidel, they're going to boo you with all kinds of insults. And in '82 they lost the Central Americans at the Latin and the fans told him everything. But it was also my fault for not giving my best in the national series, for being overconfident, because if I was capable of destroying the best in Cuba, how wasn't I going to do it against the National Series? It was the biggest pain of my sports career.



At that moment, going with the Cuba team was a way to help your family?



There was a big difference between Cuba team ballplayers and National Series ones. In terms of diet, meeting people who give you gifts, plus you had a status. I was cleanup batter for the Cuba team and earned 125 pesos, and I got to earn a maximum of 400 because I became a licensed Physical Culture specialist, but that wasn't enough. You earned from your work, not from baseball.



Let's get to the most iconic moment of your career, the home run in '86 against Rogelio García, at the Latinoamericano Stadium.



I was forty years old at that moment. Rogelio was on fire, unstoppable. But I had an enormous confidence. If you look at my average opening innings it's worse than with men on base. In the fifth or sixth inning, José Modesto Darcourt says: this is decided by either Lázaro Vargas or Agustín Marquetti and I jumped. I said: I decide this game. It was a boast, but I knew it. Plus, we hadn't won in 13 years.



You hit the home run and could barely touch home.



Yes I did arrive, but everyone stops when Giraldo González shakes my hand, who I had a great friendship with. Plus, he said I was one of his favorite ballplayers. Unfortunately, we lost him last year, the same day as my birthday. That made me very sad.



I'd tell people: I have to get to home for it to count. People were carrying me, so I touched third and then they carried me again to home. The problem is that in a game against Occidentales I get a hit in the ninth to decide, but with the excitement I didn't get to first and Tony González notices and they call me out and so that stuck with me: that's why I asked them to let me get to home.



It's the most iconic home run in the National Series.



I'm lucky, because it's an image that will always be remembered: I could die tomorrow and that home run will be in the popular memory, for life. Everything came together—the moment, that it was with the Industriales team, that the pitcher was Rogelio García, who was on fire. He dominated us easily for six innings. Lázaro Vargas and Pedro Medina struck out three times that day. If I had been the Vegueros director, I would have sent him to first and had Luis Daniel Pérez bat, who was a rookie.



What came after the home run?



It was tremendous, crazy, weeks and weeks of parties and recognition. But you know, I was crazy for beer, but I got a cyst on a buttock and couldn't drink. We were given everything we could want.



Why did you retire in '87?



I didn't want to retire. In '80 I already wanted to, but Óscar Fernández Mel (who was a FAR General) told me how I could do it, that I should wait a bit more. Also, a friend of mine tells me to ask for a car before retiring because otherwise I'd be left with nothing. So I talk to Fernández Mel and he says yes. But I wanted a Lada and they gave me a Peugeot. I talked to Ramiro Valdés and he wanted to give me a Moskvitch.



Later, I talked to José Ramón Fernández and he talked to me about a Fiat Polski 126p. Víctor Mesa called me one day and told me that now I was the preferred ballplayer of the son of a big leader. I made a good relationship with this person and he took me to meet his dad, Carlos Rafael Rodríguez. The day of the home run, he told me his dad wanted to see me. Carlos told me he was going to talk to Fidel to resolve my car situation. Shortly after, his son arrived and told me they were going to give me a Lada 2107, which was the car I wanted.



How was it facing retirement?



I would have liked to play a couple more years to reach 2000 hits. I was prepared for retirement, because baseball was my life, but you have to be ready for that moment. Look at Braudilio Vinent, who had years left over.



What did you do after retirement?



I spent many years helping at the academy. I wanted to manage Industriales, but it never happened, I don't know why. They put me as batting coach for the Metros and that team that year was the one that batted the most in the Series.



Does your life change a lot economically when you retire?



Of course, once you stop traveling the crises come, because there's always money they give you, plus the little gift that so-and-so gives you. It's different.



And in terms of recognition?



Recognition also fades. If you stay in baseball, even as a coach, people see you, but if you don't, they forget you. "Spilled water doesn't move the mill." But I consider myself lucky. I arrived in Miami in 2010 and in 2011 they gave me a recognition with more than 30 thousand Cubans. I told myself: "They gave me a recognition they had never given me before."



You have a son who emigrated, and also at a time when it wasn't so normalized. How did Agustín Marquetti face that?



My son was a ballplayer, he made it to Triple A. That always affects you. I got depressed, it also affected my wife. My two children left, the girl and the boy. My daughter married an Italian. They left almost together and you love them very much.



Would you have liked to play in the Major Leagues?



Once CNN came to interview me, when I was retired. They asked if I would have liked to be a Major League ballplayer and I told them yes. Sometimes, even if you don't want to, when you talk politics catches up with you. I'm from a generation of ballplayers, many of whom would have played in the Major Leagues, but it wasn't meant for us.



Everyone likes good things. Recognition is one of the best things there is. We were ballplayers of revolutionary conscience. Whoever says otherwise is lying. Money didn't matter to us, but life changes you, because life is dialectical. That's in Marxism I think: the dialectics of life. What is true today can be a lie tomorrow, because life is in constant movement.



José Dariel Abreu, for example, earns 16 million for playing six months and we played 11 months. They sleep in five-star hotels and have many things we didn't have. So we played with love, like they don't play there, in the Major Leagues. We played however we could. I'm from that generation, this is another, that can't think the same as mine. Congratulations to whoever got it.



At your time, didn't it cross your mind to stay in some country to play in the Major Leagues?



You couldn't do that, because you were a traitor to the revolution. If you stayed in my time, that was a dishonor, it was unthinkable. I went to Canada, to a youth event and a scout told me he had references about me, that they were going to give me 50 thousand dollars to sign with Cincinnati. I told him many things, everything. In our time you could come with as much money as you wanted, nobody stayed. We carried the revolution in our blood. Now, people don't think the same.



Why do you emigrate in 2010?



In 2010, my little granddaughter that I was raising left. I didn't see her get on the plane, or I would have had a heart attack. Later, I was in Mexico with Víctor Mesa, coaching the Veracruz Eagles. But since Yadel Martí, a Cuban pitcher, went to our team, Cuba's team sent word that revolutionaries couldn't be with worms and traitors and a 7-month contract ended in three. When he got to Cuba, my daughter put a letter of invitation for me and my wife. My children are my life, like my grandchildren, and that's why I stayed. Without family, what are you? One of the big problems we have here is that, that family is separated.



Did it cost you to adapt to society?



No, I adapted from the first day I arrived. My wife, for example, wanted to come to Cuba. I'm nice. I speak some English words.



Have you worked there?



My son and I had an academy, but it lasted about four months. We had to pay about 1500 dollars for the field. There are many there who aren't ballplayers, but they have academies and they had their clan. We had about 200 kids and they started leaving. With the ones who stayed, the numbers didn't work out. I've given my phone number to many people there and sometimes a parent calls me to give his son a clinic and with that I get by, even though it's one every six months.



How do you see Cuban baseball?



It's not very good, because of the problems there are now. They leave you at 13, 14, 15 years old. You have to change the mentality. I don't know what needs to be done, but a change is necessary. In the Major Leagues we're doing well, we have many, plus more to come.



Is Agustín Marquetti happy?



I feel good, fulfilled. In my life what I've done is good, help people. Also, I've been helped a lot. I have a phrase from a psychologist that I say: "life is a boomerang, what you give out there, comes back here." I helped the world, and the world helped me. Here, in Cuba, countless people helped me and now, in the United States, many people also help me.



For example, someone hit my car, but it was my fault, because the guy is American and I don't speak English. My son came, but it was too late. My insurance didn't cover it. I bought the parts and a partner found someone to help me. That person, Aramís, told me to go see him. He had been a ballplayer. Between the bodywork and paint job on the car, the work cost 5000 dollars and he didn't charge me. I'm lucky that people love me.



What does it feel like to have the most iconic home run in Cuban baseball?



I don't live off that, I feel happy. As an athlete you do things, but it's after you finish that you value them. They tell me they still show it on television: that means they still love me here.