Before anyone had ever heard of me, San Pedro was known as an amazing city that produced big-league players like no other. Tony Fernandez, who won multiple gold gloves with the Toronto Blue Jays, is from San Pedro. So is Pedro Guerrero, who starred with the Los Angeles Dodgers in the 1980s. Also from San Pedro are former American League MVP George Bell, and Rico Carty, who was the National League batting champion with the Atlanta Braves in 1970.

And so was pitcher Joaquin Andujar, who had back-to-back 20-win seasons with the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1980s. I could go on and on -- they could probably assemble an all-star team made up only of San Pedro natives.

The other thing San Pedro is known for is sugarcane. Vendors sell it on street corners there, cutting small wedges and placing them snugly into plastic bags that people buy by the thousands.

There is nothing like it in the world. But garnering that sweet taste and developing a sweet swing in baseball come at a price of back-breaking work and sacrifice. I’ve paid that price in my life. So going back to the place where I started is like going back to the well for nourishment.

Once there, I often visit my mother, in the home I bought for her --just as I promised I would when I reached the big leagues. But mostly I go back to San Pedro to train, to work out, and to take my cuts in batting practice. Why? Because I could never think of training any place else -- though my American friends would probably be amazed to see where I prepare for Greg Maddux, Randy Johnson, and Kevin Brown.

It’s a park where I played as a child, the place where my friend Hector Peguero first saw me uncork a throw from right field as I do now in the big leagues. My brother Luis had taken me to Hector, who was recognized in my town for knowing a lot about baseball. Hector took one look at me, saw my arm strength, turned to my brother and said, "Hay comida." Loosely translated to English, that means, "That arm could pay for a lot of food." But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll come back to that story later.

As we approach the small playground in San Pedro, I’m transported back in time. Whenever my vehicle pulls up, it provides quite a contrast to the humble surroundings. Bumping along a dirt road that leads to a ragged baseball diamond with no infield grass, I witness the same scene each time I come here. Running along each side of my vehicle are young children dressed in stained T-shirts and cut-off shorts. Some shout out my name: "Sammy! Sammy!"

Turning onto the field, I pull up to the third-base dugout. The field itself is rough compared to the baseball diamonds in America. There are stones all over the infield. The outfield grass is hard and patchy. The dugouts are made of stone and painted green -- though the paint has been chipping since I was a kid.

The backstop is a sagging, chain-link fence, and there are no bleachers to speak of. The park is in a modest, working-class neighborhood and is filled with small, barefoot children, just like I used to be.

There is great poverty in my country, and it surrounds this park. I used to shine shoes near here. I used to live near here, in a one-bedroom house with dirt floors and no indoor plumbing. Those kinds of dwellings have not disappeared with the passage of time. The people who are always waiting for me at the park in San Pedro live that way today. These are my people.

They know my routine, they look forward to seeing me. And I look forward to seeing them. As I step out of my vehicle, the people are joyous but respectful, coming close to touch but not crowding in as a mob.

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