A Corn Island tale: The Royals' Cheslor Cuthbert had to leave home and learn Spanish before he could

BALTIMORE — On a morning 10 years ago, Cheslor Cuthbert sat on a bed in his home in Corn Island, Nicaragua and packed his life into a suitcase. He owned a one-way plane ticket to Managua, the bustling capital city across the country. He had plans to stay with a baseball scout name Juan Lopez. He had a vision for his future and just a few hours to say goodbye.

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Cuthbert was 15 years old. He had spent all his life in a small neighborhood of Big Corn, a remote island 43 miles off the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua. His father, Luis, a lobster fisherman and baseball coach, was not convinced he should leave. His mother, Debbie, shed tears as her only son boarded the small airplane near their home.

They all knew the truth, of course. Cuthbert had to go. He was already one of the best young baseball players in the history of Nicaragua, a force of nature and nurture, a blend of strong hands and preternatural composure, a miracle come to life in the insular community of his home island, population 6,000.

Life on Corn Island revolved around the local fishing industry and morsels of tourism and an ethos that tilted laid-back. The outside world offered opportunity. So, Cuthbert got on the plane.

“It was really hard,” he said.

He would spend two years in Managua, attending a local Baptist school and testing himself against college-age competition. He would play in an organized league and be seen by more major-league scouts. He could not do this at home.

Ten years later, he is telling the story near his locker in the home clubhouse at Kauffman Stadium. He is 25 years old now, and he starts most days for the Royals, bouncing from third base to first to designated hitter. He is the 14th Nicaraguan in major-league history and the first from Corn Island, and this is where Cuthbert shares part of the story that even some teammates don’t know.

Here he is, lockering in the same corner as Alcides Escobar and Salvador Pérez, surrounded by friends from Venezuela and the Dominican Republic and other corners of Latin America. Yet on that day 10 years ago, as he took off above the blue waters of the Caribbean, his stomach roiled and his mind wandered. It was not like him. He was moving to Managua, one of the biggest cities in Central America. And, no, he did not speak any Spanish.

In some ways, the framework of Cheslor Cuthbert’s unlikely rise is well known, at least in the confines of Kansas City. He was raised on a dot in the sea once ruled by Caribbean pirates; he began playing baseball when he was a boy, his father hanging a baseball from the ceiling of a half-remodeled house. He hit, and he hit, and in 2009 he landed the largest amateur bonus in Nicaraguan history, agreeing to sign with the Royals for $1.5 million. It is the gaps that require some shading from the story’s architect.

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“I was never thinking major leagues,” said Luis Cuthbert, the father, “but he did have the strongest hands.”

The hands were hereditary, of course. This is a family story. Luis Cuthbert grew up in a town called Lagunas de Perlas, a village of just more than 8,000 people on Nicaragua’s southeastern coast. The town was rabid about baseball, he says, producing good players and weekly entertainment for the locals. He spent his childhood learning how to catch. The sport was in his blood.

What his hometown provided in culture and weekend recreation, it lacked in adequate job opportunities, so Luis migrated to nearby Corn Island after finishing high school, chasing work as a fisherman. He found employment and a local woman named Debbie. They married and had three daughters, settling into the island routine. The years passed, and they opted to stay.

Luis says he felt blessed. He had a big family and enough food on the table. Yet he still wished for something more.

“I was always like: ‘I want a son,’” he said. “‘I want a son!’”

The wish was granted on Nov. 16, 1992, when Cheslor, the fourth child, finally arrived. His birthday was just 468 days after countryman Dennis Martínez threw his perfect game, driving baseball interest across Nicaragua. Back at home, Luis mapped out a plan to teach his son the game.

The backdrop, as always, was Corn Island, surrounded by picturesque beaches and minimal resources. The island had never produced a player of major-league caliber. The minuscule population alone made the idea seem absurd.

The island is home to just thousands, most of whom live off the fishing industry. Everybody knows everyone. The place remains largely untainted by creeping tourism or corporate-owned resorts.

The local culture diverges from sections of the mainland in specific ways. Corn Island was a British protectorate for nearly three centuries during the colonial period. It has retained a creole influence. The locals speak a version of creole English, a language also spoken on parts of the country’s east coast. When Cuthbert was a child, he rarely heard Spanish on the island. His first language was an English-based creole, similar to Jamaican Patois.

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“It’s similar to English,” Cuthbert said, “but we shorten up a lot of words. That makes it really hard for American people.”

So when Luis put a bat in his son’s arms and pushed his hands into position, always back and away from the body, he delivered instructions in English. When he organized a youth league and maintained a local field — offering baseball games for 20-25 local kids — the fans showed up and cheered in the same island dialect.

On game days, Luis says, he would pack the equipment into his small red truck and begin his usual errands. He would drive to the field and cut the grass. He would stop by a store and buy ice. He would run to a local grocer and purchase soda and snacks for the concession stand. The proceeds went to paying the umpires. Cheslor had just turned 10.

“I’d carry it all to the ball field,” Luis said. “For years, I was everything. I was his trainer; I was his coach.”

Luis put his son at shortstop because he “liked the spot,” he says. He would not let him pitch because he feared an arm injury. He steered Cheslor away from other sports, such as basketball, because he worried he’d injure his hands. And when his son fell in love with raising chickens on the land near their home, Luis issued an ultimatum: He had to choose between chickens and baseball.

“He loves fowl,” Luis said.

Cuthbert loved baseball more, though. So one season, a few years later, Luis took a group of kids from Corn Island to play in a tournament in Managua, population 1.4 million. Cuthbert hit four homers and was named the most valuable player of the event. The performance led to his inclusion on a Nicaraguan youth team headed to Guatemala for another tournament. By then, scouts began to take notice.

One recommended a move to Managua, where Cuthbert would receive more exposure and better education. Luis remembers considering the idea for a moment.

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“Well, no,” he said. “Cheslor cannot speak Spanish. We don’t have family in Managua. So, I don’t care to make him go.”

Cheslor had to leave, though. The family knew it. In the months after his 15th birthday, Cheslor prepared for the transition. Luis arranged for him to live with a scout named Juan Lopez, who had met the family and covered the country for the Royals. He would balance school with baseball training and Spanish lessons.

“At the beginning, it was really hard,” Cuthbert said. “I didn’t understand anything.

“I was on my own. It was hard to have communication. After I started learning, I learned really quickly.”

Cuthbert said he used no secret method for mastering the language. He asked questions. He read labels on food items and menus. He watched very little television or movies. Instead, he tried to have small conversations.

Lopez had a son a few years older than him. Cuthbert leaned on both in the first year in Managua.

He also had baseball. In the years since, Cuthbert has seen many teammates struggle with a second language, both in the minors and in Kansas City. He has a unique perspective, he says. In clubhouses that are often divided by culture, Cuthbert retains a strong pride in his home country and his status as a Latin player.

Yet he might be among the few who arrived in the United States after signing an amateur contract and felt more comfortable understanding conversations in English than Spanish.

“The first time I met him, that was in 2009,” said reliever Kelvin Herrera, a native of the Dominican Republic. “He had a different accent. I think [his Spanish is] perfect now compared to back then.”

On an afternoon last week, Luis Cuthbert tucked his hands into the pockets of a blue Nicaraguan baseball sweatshirt and looked out at the field at Fenway Park in Boston. He had flown from Corn Island to Kansas City, watching his son hit two homers in a 5-4 victory over the White Sox on April 29. He’d joined the team on the road for the organization’s annual Fathers Trip. Moments before the final game of a series at Fenway, he found his seat in the lower section behind home plate.

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“He was always an easy child,” Luis said, his creole accent thick and distinctive.

It is easy to say this now, of course, because Cheslor is here, a major leaguer in his fourth season. Luis is talking about everything else. His son was quiet and conscientious. He listened and did what he was told. He was babied by his three older sisters — one of whom later attended college in Arkansas — and he embraced the role.

“They still treat me like the baby,” Cuthbert said. “When I was growing up, I was like the little boy in the house that everybody was waiting for.”

When Cheslor was a boy, his father would playfully tease him about his shy demeanor. As they walked down the street on the island, Luis would point out girls close to Cheslor’s age.

“Daughter-in-law?” Luis would ask. “He would just look at me.”

The years have not changed him. When Cuthbert signed for more than a million dollars, one of his first purchases was a Toyota Corolla. Inside the Royals’ clubhouse, he cuts a quiet and pleasant figure. He speaks just above a whisper, which hides his own creole accent. He wears a permanent smile. His manager jokes about his island roots.

“Corn Island, man,” Royals manager Ned Yost said. “It must be a neat place, because he’s so laid back.”

These days, Cuthbert has a son of his own. Cheslor Jr. was born in the summer of 2016. And on a Sunday in late April, three generations of Cuthberts were reunited in the home clubhouse in Kansas City.

As Cheslor spoke to reporters, he cradled his son in his arms. A few days later, Luis watched his son inside Fenway Park. He told the story about the red truck, and he talked about the nights back on Corn Island, where Debbie won’t take her eyes off the Royals game streaming on her phone. And then, he remembered the last time he had visited his son in the United States.

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“Last time I was here, a scout asked me: ‘Can you believe that a guy from Corn Island is in the major leagues?’”

“I said: ‘It was a long struggle.’”

(Top photo of Cuthbert: Peter G. Aiken/USA TODAY Sports)

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