A Man Named Cookie
On Thursday January 7th, I found myself texting a friend “I’m sorry” like I had many times before. Not because of something I had done but because of something Cleveland baseball had done. His favorite player, Francisco Lindor had finally been traded to the Mets. This trade had been a long time coming. The owner jokingly said “Enjoy him while he’s here” in a previous offseason. My friend had time to prepare for his loss. He was used to this. This trade was like many before it. It’s the way of doing business in Progressive Field. Like Thome and Ramirez before him, Lindor was drafted, developed, loved, and then traded. As the headlines trickled in it was announced Carlos Carrasco, lovingly nicknamed Cookie, was part of the trade as well. This was when my friend got mad.
He hastily texted me, “They don’t give a duck about Cleveland or the fans just about making a quick fucking buck” and “I guess I’m rooting for the a’s or these new york mets now.” This trade was different.
To understand why his faith in the team is wavering and he is so upset we need to learn about Carlos Carrasco. Born in Venezuela in 1987, he was encouraged very early in life by his mother to pursue baseball. Cookie was signed at the age of 15 by the Philadelphia Phillies. He left his family and after his first ever plane ride he arrived in Tampa to play baseball.
He said baseball was the easy part. He knew baseball. He’d been throwing his entire childhood. Now for the rest of his childhood he’d hoped to be paid for it. The hard part for Carlos was the language. He had never heard or much less spoken English in his home country and he had no teacher in the States to help him. Everyday his first spring training Cookie ate Domino’s pizza. Not because he loved the taste but because it was the only food he knew how to order in English. The Phillies, like nearly every other team, had bought the rights to a 16-year-old, brought him to America alone, and didn’t give him a single lesson in English. Cookie said in his first few years of living in the U.S. he didn’t talk to his teammates because he didn’t know how.
In 2009 Cookie was traded to Cleveland. Here he learned key phrases in English and was able to build relationships with his teammates and the media. He became a part of the tight-knit baseball community in Cleveland. His establishment in the fabric of Cleveland baseball would be complete in 2016 when he became a U.S. citizen with the help of his teammates and family. He considered America, and more specifically Cleveland, home. Two years later he signed a 4-year extension that would keep him in Cleveland until he was 36.
In May of 2019 Cookie was diagnosed with leukemia. His career appeared to be cut short by the surprise diagnosis. After appearing in his home stadium for a ceremony dedicated to those who fought or are fighting cancer, Cookie’s teammate Lindor approached him and gave him some words of encouragement.
He was able to beat cancer and came back the next year to pitch from the bullpen and even make a few starts. He also won MLB Comeback Player of the Year. He was more than a fan favorite in the city of Cleveland. The city was committed to him like he was committed to them. Less than a year later he would be sent to New York as a throw-in salary dump in exchange for a handful of prospects and Amed Rosario.
That’s why my friend was mad. He knows his story. He knows about Cookie’s difficulty in his first few years and he watched the All-Star game as all of Cleveland held up signs saying, “I Stand with Cookie”. The Lindor part of the trade was inevitable to the fans. The Carrasco part felt like a middle finger to the entire 216 area code.
Part of this is why I love baseball. The rabid love and appreciation for a player whose story may not even be known to other invested fans of the sport. The locality of fandom in baseball bonds its fans and players together over a collective struggle to win or in some cases, survive. The inherent local nature of baseball create a sense that a group of fans has part ownership in something special. Their own little slice of baseball heaven.
That’s the cruelness of the sport as well. Trades like these are a reminder that the small communities that baseball fosters are part of a much larger ravenous machine. Sentiment does not rule the sport. The frigid front offices are only concerned with the numbers attached to the names. The attachment my friend has to Cookie has no comparison. It yielded him great joy watching Cookie pitch for 10 years and when he recovered and made his first start after his diagnosis. But now left to reckon a future without Cookie, his fandom stands on shaky ground.
