every Dolphins home game, and needed money to buy the tickets. Barbara and Orlando owned seven Samoyed dogs, a beautiful breed with long white hair that was hard to keep clean. They paid me ten dollars a week for each dog I washed, and I used my earnings to buy tickets to all eight regular-season home games in 1985.
West Miami Junior High didn’t have a football team, so I had to find a Pop Warner team. I joined the Tamiami Colts, who played at Tamiami Park. They were a great team. The coaches had recruited the best playersfrom several competing parks, and put together a team that went undefeated that season and won the city championship. I played outside linebacker. I wasn’t a standout, but I had fun. Winning is fun.
The Colts were the only social activity I had that year. I didn’t like West Miami Junior High any better than I had liked Miami High. It was every bit the culture shock Miami High had been. Again, the student body was almost entirely Hispanic. Veronica adjusted quickly to our new circumstances. I did not. The few friendships I managed to form effectively ended when the bell rang at the end of the school day. When football season ended, I had virtually nothing to do after school. I became an afternoon recluse, and spent almost all my time alone. I pined for my friends in Vegas, and wondered what they were doing.
When I finished ninth grade, I was glad to put the experience behind me. I hoped I would fit in better at South Miami High, and from my first day there I knew I would. I made the South Miami Cobras’ junior varsity team. Half my teammates were African Americans, and, at the time, I was more comfortable in their company than with my fellow Cubans. There was real tension between the black and Hispanic players, something I had not experienced in Las Vegas. They didn’t socialize off the field, and even on the field they huddled in separate groups.
Unhappily, my first football season in South Miami came to an abrupt end before it began. I dislocated my shoulder during a preseason practice, and it took eight weeks to heal. Pain from the injury still bothers me from time to time.
Even without football, I found it easier to make friends at South Miami than at West Miami Junior High. I socialized mostly with my African American teammates. We spent most of our time “cracking,” sitting around cracking jokes at another’s expense. It usually took the form of a contest between two students who traded insults back and forth until the winner was decided by acclamation of the audience. My father was always teasing people. The practice had rubbed off on me, and I was good at “cracking.” I was happy to have finally found a social circle in Miami. It was the first time I had felt at home since we had moved back.
Socially and geographically, Miami is a deeply segregated city. When school finished for the day, my black friends returned to their homes in a South Miami neighborhood known as “the Creek,” and I went home toWest Miami. After school, I was every bit the loner I had been the previous year.
Football came to my rescue, as it often did. In May 1987, when I tried out for the varsity team during spring practices, I did well, but it was clear I wouldn’t be a starter. The starting safety, Dakari Lester, was a senior and Division I college prospect. The secondary coach, Otis Collier, was frank with me. He told me not to expect much playing time my junior year. But if I used the opportunity to learn from Dakari and hit the weight room to build muscle and strength, I might start my senior year.
I had a good spring training camp. I made some interceptions, and the hard tackles our coaches wanted to see us make. I earned the respect of the other players. When we broke for the summer, I couldn’t wait to get back on the field my junior year.
Yet it was not to be. At practice five days before our first game, I broke my finger during an interception drill. I spent a lot of time the first week after
West Miami Junior High didn’t have a football team, so I had to find a Pop Warner team. I joined the Tamiami Colts, who played at Tamiami Park. They were a great team. The coaches had recruited the best playersfrom several competing parks, and put together a team that went undefeated that season and won the city championship. I played outside linebacker. I wasn’t a standout, but I had fun. Winning is fun.
The Colts were the only social activity I had that year. I didn’t like West Miami Junior High any better than I had liked Miami High. It was every bit the culture shock Miami High had been. Again, the student body was almost entirely Hispanic. Veronica adjusted quickly to our new circumstances. I did not. The few friendships I managed to form effectively ended when the bell rang at the end of the school day. When football season ended, I had virtually nothing to do after school. I became an afternoon recluse, and spent almost all my time alone. I pined for my friends in Vegas, and wondered what they were doing.
When I finished ninth grade, I was glad to put the experience behind me. I hoped I would fit in better at South Miami High, and from my first day there I knew I would. I made the South Miami Cobras’ junior varsity team. Half my teammates were African Americans, and, at the time, I was more comfortable in their company than with my fellow Cubans. There was real tension between the black and Hispanic players, something I had not experienced in Las Vegas. They didn’t socialize off the field, and even on the field they huddled in separate groups.
Unhappily, my first football season in South Miami came to an abrupt end before it began. I dislocated my shoulder during a preseason practice, and it took eight weeks to heal. Pain from the injury still bothers me from time to time.
Even without football, I found it easier to make friends at South Miami than at West Miami Junior High. I socialized mostly with my African American teammates. We spent most of our time “cracking,” sitting around cracking jokes at another’s expense. It usually took the form of a contest between two students who traded insults back and forth until the winner was decided by acclamation of the audience. My father was always teasing people. The practice had rubbed off on me, and I was good at “cracking.” I was happy to have finally found a social circle in Miami. It was the first time I had felt at home since we had moved back.
Socially and geographically, Miami is a deeply segregated city. When school finished for the day, my black friends returned to their homes in a South Miami neighborhood known as “the Creek,” and I went home toWest Miami. After school, I was every bit the loner I had been the previous year.
Football came to my rescue, as it often did. In May 1987, when I tried out for the varsity team during spring practices, I did well, but it was clear I wouldn’t be a starter. The starting safety, Dakari Lester, was a senior and Division I college prospect. The secondary coach, Otis Collier, was frank with me. He told me not to expect much playing time my junior year. But if I used the opportunity to learn from Dakari and hit the weight room to build muscle and strength, I might start my senior year.
I had a good spring training camp. I made some interceptions, and the hard tackles our coaches wanted to see us make. I earned the respect of the other players. When we broke for the summer, I couldn’t wait to get back on the field my junior year.
Yet it was not to be. At practice five days before our first game, I broke my finger during an interception drill. I spent a lot of time the first week after
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