Foreign Talent Loads the Bases in Minor Leagues

By JOEL MILLMAN

BOISE, Idaho -- Like many teenagers spending this summer abroad, Hak-Ju Lee is immersing himself in a foreign culture, making friends and tasting exotic food like moose stew. Unlike most teens, however, he's getting paid three-quarters of a million dollars to do it.

Mr. Lee, 18 years old, is a shortstop, and the culture he is experiencing is American minor-league baseball, where major-league teams develop their talent in small towns across the country.

For decades, minor-league rosters seemed the essence of America's heartland. But thanks to growing numbers of foreign players like Mr. Lee, the minors are fast turning into a veritable United Nations.

The Boise Hawks' Imported Talent

View Slideshow

Sean Flanigan for the Wall Street Journal

Hak-Ju Lee is one of 18 international players on the Boise baseball roster.

The gangly infielder is one of three South Koreans playing this summer for the Boise Hawks, an affiliate of the Chicago Cubs. The Hawks' opening-day roster boasted 18 of 25 players from abroad -- mostly Venezuela and the Dominican Republic -- making it one of the most "imported" of all minor-league teams.

Recent changes in U.S. immigration law and growing competition in baseball for raw talent have allowed the minor-league farm system to flourish with imported players. It has been a home run for globalization, but bad news for U.S.-born players, who suddenly have much more competition. Across the minor and major leagues, the total number of foreign-born players is growing fast, to almost 3,500 of the 8,532 players under contract this summer, from 2,964 three years ago.

Boise Hawks' hitting instructor, Ricardo Medina, a native of Panama who translates at team meetings in what has become almost a bilingual program, notes that Mr. Lee and his Korean teammates are getting something else from their summer in Idaho. "I think they may be learning more Spanish than English," he jokes.

The three South Koreans on the Hawks' roster matches the total number playing at the major-league level. Today, 19 Koreans play in the minor leagues, compared with just seven five years ago.

This summer's crop of foreign players in the minors includes baseball's first-ever pros from India, two of them on the Pittsburgh Pirates' Gulf Coast league team. That league's rosters include players from Honduras, Haiti, Russia and the Czech Republic.

Minor League Baseball Becomes Melting Pot

As a result of unlimited work visas, minor league baseball is seeing a new influx of international players. Joel Millman reports from Boise, Idaho.

Eight teams have minor leaguers from Brazil, including Fábio Murakami, an outfielder for the Philadelphia Phillies' Williamsport, Pa., minor-league team, the Crosscutters. Mr. Murakami is one of several South Americans of Japanese descent in the minors, a list that includes Claudio Fukunaga and Lucas Nakandakare, both from Argentina and under contract to Tampa Bay.

One Red Sox farm team boasts an even more exotic tandem: the brothers Crew Tipene Moanaroa, called "Boss," and Hohua Moanaroa, called "Moko." Born in New South Wales, Australia, the Moanaroas are believed to be the first members of New Zealand's Maori tribe to play baseball professionally in the U.S. "Boss" is a first baseman. "Moko" plays outfield.

New Zealand's representative in the minors is Scott Campbell. He plays third base for the Blue Jays' Eastern League affiliate, the New Hampshire Fisher Cats.

The surge of young foreign players into the U.S. minor leagues began in 2007, a few months after then-president and former major-league team owner George W. Bush signed the Creating Opportunities for Minor League Professionals, Entertainers and Teams Act, known as the Compete Act. It freed the farm systems of major-league teams from having to compete with all U.S. employers seeking H2B work visas for foreign employees, the supply of which usually was exhausted each year by February. Now, teams can import as many prospects as they want.

"There is no longer a limit on work visas," explains Oneri Fleita, the Florida-born director of minor-league development for the Cubs. "So, yeah, you might see more foreign players getting an opportunity."

The Cubs, who signed Korea's Hak-Ju Lee right out of high school, have become one of the most aggressive signers of foreign players. In 2006, 86 players in the Cubs' major and minor-league system were foreign-born. This year, 142 Cubs are imports.

The changes pose a challenge to American teens hoping to make the big leagues. Instead of signing hundreds of U.S. amateurs out of high school -- the traditional business model for stocking minor-league rosters -- teams are drafting fewer U.S. kids and signing more so-called nondraft free agents, the vast majority of them teenagers from Latin America.

Foreign Exchange

See the statistics of the players mentioned in this story:

Hak-Ju Lee (South Korea), Boise Hawks

Fabio Murakami (Brazil), Williamsport Crosscutters

Claudio Fukunaga (Argentina), Gulf Coast League Rays

Lucas Nakandakare (Argentina), Gulf Coast League Rays

Crew Tipene Moanaroa (Australia), Gulf Coast League Red Sox

Hohua Moanaroa (Australia), Gulf Coast League Red Sox

Scott Campbell (New Zealand), New Hampshire Fisher Cats

Eduardo Figueroa (Venezuela), Boise Hawks

George Matheus (Venezuela), Boise Hawks

Eric Gonzalez (Canary Islands), Lake Elsinore Storm

This summer, major-league teams spent over $70 million signing nondraft free agents from outside the country. That is up from $54 million last year, and just under $30 million in 2006, the last year before the Compete Act.

Economics plays a huge role. U.S.-born players drafted out of high school rarely sign a contract to turn pro without a cash bonus, most in excess of $100,000. This summer, the Cubs have forked out more than $6 million in signing bonuses to 26 U.S. prospects, an average of nearly a quarter million apiece.

While some foreign players like Mr. Lee got hefty signing bonuses, the majority do not. Latin players in particular can be had for a lot less -- just $10,000 in the case of Venezuelan pitcher Eduardo Figueroa, one of Mr. Lee's teammates. Third baseman George Matheus, another Hawk from Venezuela, received $15,000 for signing.

Lifting visa limits creates an opportunity for players like Eric Gonzalez, a 22-year-old Spaniard in the San Diego Padres' farm system. Mr. Gonzalez was the last player drafted by the Atlanta Braves in 2005, when he was a 17-year-old high-schooler in the Canary Islands. But under the work-visa cap then prevailing in baseball, the Braves would have had to release another foreign prospect to sign him, Mr. Gonzalez explains, "or else send me somewhere overseas to play, probably Australia."

So Mr. Gonzalez didn't get a shot, and instead polished his skills at the University of South Alabama. Signed by the Padres after graduating last year, he has already whipped through one level of minor-league competition, winning a promotion from the Fort Wayne TinCaps to the Lake Elsinore Storm in July. But the cash rewards will have to wait. "I signed for $1,000, before taxes," laughs Mr. Gonzales, one of two Spaniards in the minors this year. "Basically, I signed in exchange for a plane ticket and a work visa."

In the past, visa restrictions meant many foreign prospects were sent to play for sister teams in places like the Dominican Republic and Australia, where they tried to get enough visibility to fill a coveted visa spot. Nowadays, teams figure they can train foreign talent personally, and give youngsters a chance to learn English and assimilate with U.S.-born teammates.

On both counts, South Korea's Mr. Lee is an enthusiastic student. "Stolen base! Slider! Fastball! Right down the middle!" the teenager recently shouted with a smile, demonstrating the English terms he's mastered since arriving in Idaho.

Much like in an exchange-student program, local families host foreign ballplayers, getting season tickets in return. Mr. Lee lives in a suburban home festooned with heads of antelope and deer and other hunting trophies. He has learned to play Rock Band with his 17-year-old host-family "brother," a ballplayer who is entering his senior year in high school.

His typical teenage observation about life in America: lack of sleep. "Bus ride after game from Vancouver?" he groans, feigning fatigue. "Thirteen hours! Oh, my God. Tired!"

Write to Joel Millman at joel.millman@wsj.com

Different Teams, Common Goals: Camaraderie, Competition Unite Area Ethnic Groups

By Tara Bahrampour
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Uighurs eased their cars into George Mason University's Lot I, as they do most Sundays. They dropped their bags on the edge of a field and pulled on cleats and blue shirts.

The Kurds arrived soon after. They slapped hands with the Uighurs and exchanged greetings: "Hey," they said, "Salam-u aleikum." A few from both sides knelt on the field to pray. Then it was time to play.

Soccer is the Esperanto of sports. Everyone from everywhere seems to play it; all you need are feet and a ball. In the Washington region, where so many ethnic enclaves share a passion for the sport, soccer fields can sometimes feel like the United Nations: Ethiopians and Ugandans; Bolivians and Kazakhs; Uighurs and Kurds. The teams might not speak the same language, but everyone understands "goal," "pass" and "corner."

Uighur United, a Northern Virginia-based team of men in their teens and 20s, was formed in 2005. Many Uighurs, a Muslim minority in western China, arrived with their families about 10 years ago, often via countries such as Afghanistan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, where they fled to escape pressure from the Chinese government. They play against other Uighurs (pronounced "WEE-ghurs") across the United States and in Canada and this year plan to go to Australia.

"We're using it as a tool to reunite our youth," said Shafkat Ali, 22, a George Mason student who lives in Reston.

"Some of the people who come here at a young age, they sort of forget their own culture," explained Mustafa Sidik, 25, a University of Maryland student who lives in Annandale. "They get kind of Americanized. That's not a bad thing, but we don't want them to forget their culture."

They are also doing something their cousins in western China can't since a violent Chinese crackdown on Uighur protesters this month.

"Most of the time they . . . don't want you to get together," said Sidik, referring to the Chinese government, which he said has barred large gatherings of Uighurs. Soccer counts as a gathering. "I don't think anyone's playing soccer right now."

Kurds in northern Iraq can gather unmolested these days, but they, too, faced repression for years and often came here for similar reasons. In fact, many played soccer with the Uighurs at Fairfax High School, and they now attend local universities together.

For whatever reason, the Uighurs are more organized than the Kurds, who don't have matching shirts or even a team name.

"I wish we could have a team like them, because they go to Canada and different states," said Zirian Shammo, 21, a Kurd from Centreville who studies at Virginia Commonwealth University.

The Sunday afternoon games are not particularly competitive. Still, each team wants to win. "They make fun of us all week if we lose," Shammo said. "The past couple of months, we've been losing, so all the jokes are on us."

The field has the potential to be a cacophony of tongues. The Uighur language is similar to Turkish, and two Kurdish dialects spoken by the players, Bahdini and Sorani, are incomprehensible to one another. The referee, an Iraqi, speaks Arabic. The game, therefore, takes place mostly in English.

As does the cheerleading, undertaken by a lone Kurdish woman with long black hair and coal black eyes.

"What the hell was that?" shrieks Sabat Mahmoud, 20, when the Uighurs score a goal in the first minute. She attends George Mason and often attends these games. "Come on, Kurdistan!"

About 20 minutes in, another group of Kurds shows up. Furious that the game has started without them, they pull on fluorescent yellow vests and run onto the field, insisting that they are the regulars and that the non-regulars must leave. Those already playing say there is no official roster; it's first-come, first-served.

The argument heats up. Some Uighurs sit down on the field to wait. Ahmed Razak, an Iraqi computer engineer who describes himself as a little of everything -- "Kurd, Turkish, Shi'a" -- retires to a bench, muttering, "You wonder why there's no peace in the Middle East."

But the fight has nothing to do with nationality; it's the same posturing among young men anywhere. Accusations of "disrespecting" are thrown around. A Kurdish player charges another; a Uighur holds him back. Rolling her eyes like an experienced matron, Mahmoud inserts herself between the combatants, saying, "Why don't we just go bowling?"

Finally, the fighting ebbs, a goal is moved to make room for a smaller Kurdish game and the larger game starts over. Despite the damp heat, they play energetically; they are even balletic. By the time the referee blows the whistle, it is almost dark.

The Kurds have won, 7-5. The Uighurs collapse beside their goal and justify their loss: They were more fatigued at the end because they played longer than the Kurds, thanks to the earlier mix-up.

The conversation turns to Chinese food, which the Uighurs insist includes dog meat; Japanese food, which is "cleanest" but involves raw fish; and wives, which, they say, are hard to find here. Most players live with their parents, who want them to find Uighur girls, but the pool is limited. One player went back home in 2006 to look for one but had no success there, either.

Ashraf Tahir, a native of Sudan and one of the team's two non-Uighurs, sympathizes about the difficulty of finding a good wife. "Our women, once they get here, become harder to deal with on a daily basis."

The players cross the field toward their cars. They talk about an upcoming protest in front of the White House. They talk about how the Chinese didn't like their parents' generation to practice Islam; now that they are here and free to worship, in some ways it's more difficult because of the non-Islamic temptations.

Walking ahead, Tahir, 24, explains to the Uighur goalie, a tall boy of 16, that a real man doesn't lose his temper, that Islam teaches that the best person is the one who controls his emotions. Many things in life will require a lot more patience than soccer.

"One day, you're going to have a wife to deal with," he said, "and you're going to have kids, and a job and a boss and co-workers who stab you in the back."