The Cubans

Wha

t's the hottest source of U.S. pro-baseball prospects in the hemisphere? It could easily be Cuba--if only the island were more accessible. So when Cuban players fly to Tokyo or Barcelona to play for the national team, dealmakers like Miami sports agent Joe Cubas are often on the same passenger jet, promising multiyear major league contracts worth as much as $30 million to anyone who wants to defect. Cuban stars like third baseman Omar Linares have so far refused the overtures. But Cubas has engineered a dozen high-profile defections--including those of brothers Livan and Orlando ("El Duque") Hernandez, who pitched the Florida Marlins and New York Yankees, respectively, to World Series crowns in 1997 and 1998. "I'll go anywhere," says Cubas, "to help these guys play here."

They're worth the frequent-flyer miles. Baseball experts estimate that as many as 75 Cuban players are pro prospects--about 10% of the major leagues' roster--and many could easily command the whopping salaries of defectors like New York Mets shortstop Rey Ordonez ($1.65 million a year). They include the likes of German Mesa, perhaps the world's best shortstop, and Orestes Kindelan, the home-run king (nearly 700 career).

Why the gush of talent? Cuba has a century-long devotion to pelota, or ball. Love for the game grew alongside U.S.-owned sugar mills, producing players so good they often outshone visiting U.S. stars like Ty Cobb. When Castro took power in 1959, pelota acquired the propaganda value of showing that Cuba could best the Yanquis at their own game. State-run baseball schools sprouted up all over the island.

"It was just about all I did Monday through Saturday," says Marlins pitcher Vladimir Nunez, 24, who defected in 1995. Promising Cuban youngsters get the training and conditioning you find in major league spring-training camps, only it's for 10-year-olds instead of grown men. "The Cuban is trained to be a complete baseball player," says baseball writer Jorge Morejon of the Miami daily El Nuevo Herald, who left Cuba last year. "He's still driven by a passion for the game." True, but like athletes in the former Soviet bloc, Cuba's ballplayers lead privileged lives.

Last May, U.S. fans saw how well the combination of passion and socialist incentives worked. In a "baseball diplomacy" exhibition game at Baltimore's Camden Yards, Cuba rocked the Orioles for 18 hits in a 12-6 win--despite using wooden bats instead of their customary aluminum--avenging an earlier loss in Havana and playing with a verve that millionaire major leaguers seem to forget.

But hey, a fat contract has an allure all its own, which is why some 30 Cuban players have defected since 1991. The U.S. pro leagues have suggested that Cuba let its athletes play big-league seasons in the U.S.--just as Cuban artists and other cultural talent are allowed to work there today--so long as they keep their Cuban baseball commitments. So far Castro won't allow that, so Cuban officials are privately urging the U.S. pros to include the Cuban national squad as a sort of expansion team. "The major league teams are really the only ones that play at our level," says Cuban Vice President Jose Ramon Fernandez. But that would violate the U.S. trade embargo against Cuba. For now, the talent can join the majors only by stealing away from home.