"Miguel Cabrera . . . is mad at me," writes Sam Alipour of ESPN.
He won't say as much. In fact, he'll deny it when I ask him, straight up, at lunch in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., in February.
"I'm not mad," the Tigers third baseman mutters through pursed lips even though everything about his demeanor -- arms folded tightly over his stomach, eyes fixed on his crossed ankles, burly back slouched so low in his seat it'd take a bulldozer to pry him out -- suggests otherwise.
Before I managed to completely alienate one of America's most accomplished sports stars, Cabrera had been open and animated in sharing his journey from the pebbled fields of Maracay, Venezuela, to his recent standout season. This from a man who, while absolutely fearless in the batter's box, is also fiercely protective of his privacy and rarely opens up to anyone outside of a small circle of family and friends.
Cabrera entrusted me with his story in part because he'd come to know me and my own American tale. Like Cabrera's, my family migrated here from a faraway place, arriving in limbo -- no longer a part of our old world, not quite at home in the new one. For a short while, I dwelled inside his bubble. Now I'm being shoved out by its keeper, who's either oddly paranoid or rightfully furious, depending on your opinion of my crime: asking him about his past issues with alcohol.
Don't be mad, Miguel.
