Diamond in the Rough

It’s a powerful thing, a voice.

The folks over at Imperial and Western found one Thursday, so resonant it carried beyond their words, into their smiles, their handshakes, their hope.

It was believable, this voice, echoing around a gymnasium hallway at Los Angeles Southwest College, where neighborhood children, students and champions gathered to celebrate a gift.

It was something no politician would give them, something they would never buy for themselves, something you only see in nicer neighborhoods with more clout, where children have more chances.

It was a baseball field.

Phil Pote’s Dream of a Field.

Remember that? The old scout’s idea for the first college quality baseball field in the history of South-Central Los Angeles? Spent nine years working on it, roped this reporter into three stories trumpeting it?

On Thursday, in an overgrown vacant lot behind the school, they broke ground on it.

Pote’s dream, ex-agent Dennis Gilbert’s seed money, another barrier hurdled in reviving our oldest game in our oldest neighborhoods.

“My heart is overwhelmed,” proclaimed Patricia Correia, president of the Southwest Community College Foundation.

It was an afternoon of corny photos and silly jokes and sheet cake, but it worked.

After a brief ceremony thanking just about everybody but President Clinton--Pote invited him, but he didn’t come--the dignitaries assembled among the weeds in the back lot and stuck shiny shovels into the ground.

This was noteworthy in that actual construction will not begin for a couple of months because of an unforeseen delay in the bidding process. But the invitations had been issued, so what the heck.

“I would hate to see the president show up and nothing be going on,” said Pote.

By next spring--barring anymore of the nonsense that has held this up for nine years--those shovels will be replaced by a regulation baseball field. Dugouts, bullpens, 330 down the line, and all the Chick-O-Stick you can stomach.

Dennis Gilbert Field it will be called, and why not, as neighborhood native Gilbert contributed $300,000 of the $365,000 building fund. The rest was given by the Vons Companies Inc., Universal Studios and the L.K. Whittier Foundation.

The college will maintain it, neighborhood teams will use it, and maybe, just maybe, another Eddie Murray or Ozzie Smith or Darryl Strawberry or Eric Davis will be discovered on it.

“This gives the neighborhood continuity, it gives baseball a home here,” said John Young, founder of the RBI inner-city baseball program who also pushed for the field.

Maybe, just maybe, talented young athletes here can begin setting their sights beyond football and basketball, expanding their dreams to baseball scholarships and careers.

Maybe, on the field and in the front office, those athletes can then help further diversify our national stagnating pastime.

At one time, Fremont High produced more major league players--23--than any other high school in the United States.

Today, despite the diligent efforts of coaches who purchase the equipment and rake the fields, city teams struggle with everything from holes behind home plate to missing gloves to mismatching caps. The scouts and college coaches don’t even drive through here anymore.

Young likes to tell the story of a promising South-Central catcher who blew his chance in front of scouts at a playoff game in the Valley because he could not catch a foul pop.

The reason? He had spent most of the season playing on inner-city fields with recreational batting cages that don’t allow for foul pops.

“You see that kid there?” Pote said Thursday, pointing to a tall member of the Southwest football team. “That’s a left-handed pitcher. Only, he’ll never be a left-handed pitcher.

“This field will make sure that the next guy like that will have a chance.”

For a longest time, the field never had a chance.

Pote, a longtime city coach and current part-time scout for the Seattle Mariners, began his quest by asking for public help. Wearing baggy pants, a Panama hat, and an eternal squint, he startled politicians with his persistence.

The attempt ended after one neighborhood meeting in which residents, learning they would be taxed an extra $12 a year each for the facility, shouted Pote down.

“I remember turning around and pulling out my wallet and telling one guy, ‘Here’s 12 bucks if you’ll just shut up and let me talk,’ ” Pote recalled. “As you can imagine, that didn’t go well.” Then Pote hooked up with Gilbert, a powerful agent who has not forgotten when he wasn’t.

The former Gardena High outfielder remembers how his father used to pass the hat at city games to pay for the umpires. After making it big as a representative for such stars as George Brett and Barry Bonds, Gilbert would leave his Beverly Hills office for occasional trips through the old neighborhood.

“I was appalled at what I saw--no grass infields, no raised mounds, no dugouts--and just felt it wasn’t right,” he said.

So he cut a check for $300,000. Pote and Young found the land. They all contacted the college. They made the offer. They figured it would be done in a matter of months.

That was more than two years and mounds of red tape ago.

“I couldn’t give up,” Gilbert said. “This was too close to me, to where I was from.”

Lucky us. On a bright summer Thursday in the city, the Southwest College facilities were filled with swimmers, football players, basketball players, children everywhere happily shouting.

For a moment, you could imagine them in baseball uniforms, Gilbert’s investment helping his sport become just a little bit richer.

“The clout and connection is not here to get a lot of things done, but we got it done,” said Pote, squinting, smiling, shuffling off to his worn pickup truck to drive to another game.