The Night I Met Alex Rodriguez

It was at a 1993 house party in Perrine during my sophomore year where he humbly introduced himself to me simply as Alex.

Before he was Major League Baseball’s favorite witch hunt target, Alex Rodriguez was an All-American shortstop at Miami’s Westminster Christian High School. Back in ’93 the A-rod moniker had yet to be bestowed on the 17 year old who was already built like a pro and projected to be the number one overall pick in the upcoming amateur draft.

He was unpretentious. Still I couldn’t help notice and admire his national championship ring won the previous year when his high school squad took the mythical honor as the best in the country at the behest of Baseball America.

Everyone knew who he was, which wasn’t unusual for a local athlete who got a lot of ink in The Herald. He had a quartet of private school girls hanging on his every word as he and I talked about playing junior ball at Miami’s famed Boys Club league, a haven where only a few years earlier Alex was just another promising player.

For a guy whose future was as limitless as his, Alex seemed most at home talking about home. His roots were important.

Only one of us broke the law that night. I’m guilty of tossing back a few underage beers, while Alex nursed a Sprite.

Before the century would close, A-rod (as the Big League Press had anointed him) had donated undisclosed millions to the Boys Club so future crops of promising players enjoyed better facilities than the ones we did.

A lot of sinners have thrown stones at Alex since the night we met on a Perrine back porch at a high school party. Most tend to judge on what they know. Guess I’m the same.