Baseball writers were fascinated by every utterance of the Cincinnati Reds’ two Cuban players, Armando Marsans and Rafael Almeida. Marsans was the more popular—and more successful—of the two. He was also the product of well-to-do background.
William A. Phelon of The Cincinnati Times-Star illustrated the cultural difference between the Reds’ two Cuban players:
“(S)omeone asked Almeida and Marsans if they wouldn’t like tickets to a grand opera. ‘Si, si, accented Marsans, delightedly. I love grand opera—eet ees fines’ of all entertainment for a gentleman.’
‘I thank you much,” negatived Almeida, “but I care not to go. To me, grand opera eet sound like de screech of de beeg tomcat, and about so much sensible.’”
Perhaps made up on his own, perhaps captivated by the erudite Marsans, perhaps in on the joke—it wasn’t always clear when Phelon was in on the joke—he quoted Marsans spinning a tale of a Cuban legend in his column in 1912:
“I have seen all the great ballplayers of the present time. I have been in post-season series against (Napoleon) Lajoie and (Joe) Jackson and have made trips just to see Ty Cobb. They are wonderful ballplayers, but I give you my word that the greatest I ever looked upon was an Indian named Canella, and popularly called Cinnamon.
“Canella was of a strange Indian race that is supposed to be extinct—the Sibboneys [sic Ciboney] of Cuba, who populated the island when the Spaniards came. The historians and scientific books all say that they are extinct, and it would doubtless be so, if it were not for the fact that they still live in eastern Cuba and have a little city of their own. They are tall men with ancient Greek faces—nothing but the color of the Indian to make resemble such men and (John “Chief”) Meyers and (Charles “Chief”) Bender—and they are an athletic people, more agile and active by far than we. Baseball is their own pet diversion, and Canella, known as Cinnamon, was the greatest of them all.
“Canella, who cannot be over 27 even now, came out a few years ago, and at once became the marvel of eastern Cuba. He was a pitcher, and a star on the slab, but he was also a batsman, lightening base runner, and clever outfielder. The records of six years ago show Canella, in some 60 games hit .446 and stole 55 bases. Havana’s best clubs went up against him and found him invincible while he turned the tide of the closest games with his own batting.
“Canella received no offers from the big American leagues, They took it for granted he was a light colored negro, and when his friends explained that he was an Indian the Americans laughed and said ‘There are no Indians in Cuba—the Spaniards killed them all 400 years ago.’
“So Canella kept right on playing in Cuba, and he seemed to improve each succeeding season. At least he became so terrible that even the Havana and Almendares clubs sought excuses to avoid meeting him, and the weaker clubs would face him and get shut out every time. Finally, some influential Cubans managed to make an American magnate understand that Canella was no Negro, and all was arranged for his tryout in the coming spring. And then came the news that Canella’s arm was gone, and he could never pitch again.
“It seems that the Indians of Sibboney [sic] still practice the games of their forefathers, and of their favorite sports which is throwing the javelin, Coming home for a visit, Canella saw the young men of the tribe practicing the spear throw. Laughingly, he said ‘It is many years since I have done thix—let me try.’ And picking up a slender spear, he hurled it with all his might—and something went snap, crack, in his upper arm as he let go of the javelin. The arm, so long accustomed to throwing the baseball, gave way when he tried to throw the spear, and never since has Canella been able to throw a ball from the pitching slab as far as the catcher. It was a shame because Cinnamon Canella was the greatest pitcher, the finest batter, and the fastest base runner that I have ever gazed upon.”