Reading los hojas de te

From la trapa liberal of record, today's off-season opus about A.F.O.M.G.'s namesake. What exactly is Mr. Glass, not to mention NYT beat writer Ben Shpigel -- on assignment in the D.R. -- trying to tell us?

PALMAR ARRIBA, Dominican Republic, Dec. 4 — Drive along the dusty, pothole-filled road, careful not to strike the roosters or stray dogs, until it dead-ends beside a stone staircase. Run up the steps, climb over the aqua-colored fence — or, for the less adventurous, slip through an open gate — and behold a field littered with avocado-size rocks and teeming with about 60 boys of all ages, many holding balls or gloves.

That's real, son.

The youngsters have gathered on this sizzling Tuesday morning to play baseball, naturally, but really they are here because of the young man standing over there, the one dressed in sunglasses-to-sneakers black and doubled over in laughter.

Say word. This is why people fell in love with Reyes the player -- not too strong an expression for what many Mets fans feel, in my opinion -- in the first place. The passion, the vibe, the whole package. The smile. Is this too gay for you yet?

There is nowhere else José Reyes, the Mets’ shortstop, would rather be than on this crude ball field nestled in the Cordillera Septentrional foothills, his passions for family and friends, baseball and his country, intersecting. This is where he learned to play. This is where he grew up dreaming of the major leagues. And this is where, as one of baseball’s most electrifying players, he still goes every weekday morning, arriving by 9 a.m. after a brief stop at his parents’ house, to begin his daily workouts.

Catching his breath, Reyes surveyed all that was in front of him, pointing out cousins and childhood friends and the man who hits him ground balls. “I told him that if I win a Gold Glove next year, I’m buying him a car,” Reyes said.

GOOD. I've mentioned this about a dozen times, but it bears repeating -- we want Jose working hard. We want him hungry. We want his energy funneled into productive avenues -- not stifled, not misdirected as it was toward the end of last season. A firecracker inside a tin can does nothing but make a lot of noise. You don't get to see any of the good stuff. The fire is snuffed out, or worse yet, never sparks.

Wow, that metaphor spiraled out of control pretty fast.

As for the chances of Reyes winning a Gold Glove next year? Probably better than he deserves. But no matter.

Maybe 40 feet beyond the right-center-field fence, a few women sat in front of a house painted sea green. Nodding in that direction, Reyes said: “Last year, I hit one guy on the head. Not good. Not good, papi.”

A nod to his developing power. Which begs the question -- does Reyes profile as a more of a home run hitter down the road? I personally think he's due for a big increase in home runs -- if not extra-base hits -- as his power develops. It won't be quite as pronounced as it might be for a player who hits fewer ground balls than Reyes, but I anticipate something in the vein of a 40 point bump in slugging percentage in '08.

Reyes returned to this rural village about 20 minutes north of Santiago, the country’s second-largest city, in mid-November after spending the previous six weeks resting at his in-season home in Manhasset, N.Y. He was more than a little tired, physically and mentally, after a turbulent year that, on one hand, included a career-high 78 stolen bases, but that will most likely be defined by his being yanked from a game for not running out a ground ball and a miserable September that culminated in his being booed as the Mets completed their collapse.

Despite the turbulence, despite the recent suggestions from fans and columnists that the Mets consider dealing Reyes for Minnesota’s Johan Santana, the 24-year-old shortstop with the engaging smile and the overexuberant celebrations on the field is not going anywhere, except to spring training with the Mets.

Just last week, General Manager Omar Minaya reiterated that he would not trade Reyes. Minaya had personally assured Reyes of that. In an indication of the organization’s long-term commitment to him, Minaya and Manager Willie Randolph both intend to visit Reyes here before spring training.

“I’ll show them around real good,” Reyes said.

There's the money section. If you believe Shpigel -- who has to has sourced that assertion to more than just Minaya's publications, I would think -- if you belive Minaya is telling the truth -- not that I trust that two-faced prick farther than I can throw him after the Thrilledge debacle -- a.k.a the Blastings Blowup 2K7; a.k.a. The Day the Rap Music Died; a.k.a. Omar's Folly, a.k.a. Shea It Ain't So Part XVII, a.k.a......

Sorry. Wait, no I'm not. Fuck this, man. I am so not over that trade.

Anyway, if you believe the above-referenced combination, then we're out of the woods on a potential Reyes-Santana swap, which I never thought had any chance of going down.

That tour could begin at Reyes’s new house in Santiago, where he lives with his girlfriend, Katherine, and their daughters, Katerine and Ashley. It is a place, he says, where he goes only to sleep. The rest of the time he spends at the home of his parents, José Manuel and Rosa, where he grew up and where visitors see a different side of Reyes.

In this setting, he still flashes the perpetually upbeat and caffeinated aspects of his personality, but around his family, particularly his parents, Reyes is also unflinchingly polite and deferential. Even as he marched up an outdoor staircase to show off his trophies, bobblehead dolls and framed jerseys, Reyes talked proudly of how happy he could make his parents. He praised his mother’s cooking, particularly her chicken and rice, and, though hungry, would not eat lunch until a few visitors had departed.

“We’ve taught him to be professional and to always present your best side to everyone,” his father said through an interpreter.

As someone's grandfather might say, "He's got a good head on his shoulders." I don't know who the hell talks like that, but I've heard that people do. In one of the Dakotas, I believe.

On this particular day, Reyes’s weight room, in the rear of his parents’ house, doubled as a gathering spot. Waves of friends and family came through, shaking hands with everyone. Arismendy Toribio, a childhood friend, has known Reyes since they were 6, and he said at that age, Reyes was not even the fastest boy in town.

“No chance,” Reyes, his brows furrowed, said in Spanish. “Who were they?”

“They were older,” Toribio said, laughing. “They’re not faster than you now,” he added as Reyes laughed, too.

Okay, that's just wrong. Who was ever faster than Jose Reyes? Show me that man. I need to see video before I even come close to believing that? And even so, what are they growing in this town? Meth labs? Extra tendons? Speaking of which ...

José Manuel turned to his right where, sitting on deck chairs, no fewer than 10 boys watched Reyes put himself through a punishing series of leg exercises. Reyes adheres to the off-season workout regimen supplied by the Mets’ training staff, but to prevent the hamstring injuries that once hampered him, he has incorporated a few other drills.

In one, he set up a small wooden bench and boosted himself up with one leg, 10 times in all, before switching to the opposite leg. Taking a quick water break, Reyes then stretched out on the floor so he could catch an eight-pound medicine ball thrown by Toribio, his trainer, while completing a sit-up.

“Diablo,” said Reyes, calling Toribio the Spanish word for devil.

There's a reason why A.F.O.M.G.'s nickname only kind of makes sense anymore, and this is it. Hard work/teamwork, baby. It's transformed our boy from a training-table terror to, even after all this, one of the most valuable properties in baseball. There's a reason why none of us think trading Reyes for THE UNDISPUTED BEST PITCHER IN BASEBALL makes sense. When you read that sentence again, you realize what a quality talent we have here.

And there's a reason why Shpigel is in some Latin American jungle, tracking down relatives through translators, and firing this story out right now -- on the week of the Winter Meetings, while every other baseball writer in the country is cold chilling by a hotel pool. They have minibars there.

He's there because either or he or his editor doesn't want Reyes to go. Consciously, perhaps, but just as likely subconsciously. There's a reason why a long-form apologia like this goes out at this time, and while there's nothing insidious or horrifying about it, someone has an agenda here. This is a soft-landing propaganda piece, and I'm fine with it.

Anyway, Shpigel detours into the negative stuff for a while -- Reyes was tired last year, etc. -- before wrapping up with this.

Meanwhile, Reyes is trying to make life easier for everyone close to him. He has purchased land for his close friends and family around this village and in neighboring Villa González. His father owns four properties within a 15-minute drive, growing sweet potatoes, plantains and yucca to be sold at Colmado Reyes, the family bodega beside their home. Standing on the roof of the original house — the second floor was added a few years ago — Reyes gazed past the soaring palm trees, past the tin roofs and colored streamers marking the holiday season, and toward the ball field of his youth.

That field served its purpose, but Reyes this season will start donating money for a new diamond nearby. This one will have a smooth infield and a wall that will not crumble when heavy rains fall, so that his cousins and everyone else who dreams of becoming the second major leaguer to hail from here may improve his odds.

I mean, that's the dream. That's what you'd like to think you'd be big enough to do were you in his position. And it's not exactly a reason to hate a motherfucker -- people are allowed to have their own priorities -- but look at the contrast between what guys like Reyes and Pedro do, and the straight nada coming through from a dude like Manny Ramirez. Washington Heights doesn't get a dime out of him. Others give without the asking. My point being, some athletes (and people) are easier to root for than others. I think we all agree on that, and agree that all the nasty aspects of last season considered, we know why we root for who we root for.

As it so happened, the Mets were holding a tryout here Tuesday morning. With Reyes watching, a scout clocked players running to first base, and a lanky boy wearing blue pinstriped pants and a white Reyes No. 7 jersey grabbed his attention. It was his 15-year-old cousin, Reyes explained, and a pretty good player.

“I know he’s skinny,” Reyes added. “But I used to look like that once.”

SIGN THAT KID.

P.S. Happy Pearl Harbor Day to everyone. Especially Kei Igawa.

P.P.S. R.I.P. Chip Reese. A legend has fallen.