The phone rings, the dream comes true, the call-up every single minor league player has yearned for since they first picked up a bat. Eliezer Alfonzo Jr. gets that call. Nine years, ladies and gentlemen. NINE YEARS toiling in the Detroit Tigers’ system, grinding, traveling on buses, playing in anonymous towns, all for that singular moment. He signs with the Dodgers, continues to rake in Triple-A, and then, finally, the Los Angeles Dodgers, one of the most storied franchises in baseball, extend their hand. He is set to make his Major League debut. It should have been a moment of unadulterated joy, a culmination of a lifetime of sacrifice, a testament to perseverance. Instead, what I witnessed on Sunday was an unmitigated tragedy, an affront to human decency, and a stain on the Dodgers organization that I, Ryan Craig, simply cannot comprehend.
I have watched this game for decades. I have seen players rise to unimaginable heights, I have witnessed heartbreaking defeats, I have celebrated the triumphs and mourned the losses. But I tell you, America, I have rarely seen a situation handled with such a profound lack of empathy, such a startling disregard for the human element, as what transpired with Eliezer Alfonzo Jr. this past weekend. This man, a 26-year-old catcher, is called up on Saturday. The very next day, Sunday morning, he receives news that would shatter any man: his stepmom, Patricia, and his younger sister, Eliana, have been found dead in the wreckage of a hotel in Venezuela, victims of a devastating earthquake. They had been missing for nine agonizing days. And what does the Los Angeles Dodgers organization do? They send him out to play.
Let me tell you something about that decision, about the optics of it, about the soul of it. It is not just wrong; it is an act of negligence. It is a dereliction of duty by those entrusted with the care and well-being of their players. I understand the business of baseball. I understand the relentless pursuit of victory. But there are lines, sacred lines, that you simply do not cross. And the Dodgers, in their infinite wisdom, not only crossed that line, they absolutely OBLITERATED it.
I listened intently to manager Dave Roberts before the game, his voice heavy, almost apologetic. He said, and I quote, “Don’t really know what to say about it outside of my heart goes out to him and his family. He is in there. He’s in play today, but obviously, heavy heart’s not even justifying. I don’t really want to go too far because I’ll get emotional. I know it’s tough. Very tough.” Let me dissect that for you, America. “Don’t really know what to say about it.” I’ll tell you what to say, Dave Roberts: “Eliezer, take all the time you need. Your family, your grief, your humanity, comes before any baseball game.” That’s what you say. “He is in there. He’s in play today.” Why? Why, for the love of all that is good and decent, *why* was he in play today? Because Will Smith has a neck injury? Because Chuckie Robinson was the backup? Are you telling me, Dave Roberts, are you telling me, Andrew Friedman, are you telling me, Mark Walter, that the mighty Los Angeles Dodgers, with their limitless resources, their vaunted farm system, their endless pipeline of talent, could not find another catcher to put behind the plate for one single game? I find that utterly, unequivocally, and shamefully unbelievable.
This isn’t about the game of baseball anymore. This is about common human decency. This is about recognizing that your employees, your athletes, are not mere cogs in a machine. They are human beings, with families, with emotions, with hearts that can be shattered into a million pieces. To ask a man to step onto a Major League field, to perform at the highest level of his profession, to realize a lifelong dream, while simultaneously grappling with the unimaginably raw grief of losing two beloved family members in such a horrific manner, is not strength. It is cruelty. It is an act of profound insensitivity.
I remember watching Carlos Correa in 2022, when his grandmother passed away. He spoke with such raw honesty, and I recall his words perfectly: “It’s been a tough week. … Baseball takes a backseat when something like that happens.” That is a man, a professional athlete, acknowledging the reality of life. He took time. He mourned. He was allowed to be human. And what about Eliezer Alfonzo Jr.? He was shoved onto the biggest stage of his life, his heart undoubtedly heavier than any catcher’s mitt he’s ever worn, his mind surely thousands of miles away, among the rubble and the tears in Venezuela.
This was his debut. His *debut*. The moment that Mike Trout, one of the greatest players of this generation, described so perfectly when he said, “You dream about this day since you were a little kid.” Every single child who ever picked up a bat, every single kid who ever imagined themselves in the big leagues, dreams of that moment. They don’t dream of it being tainted by unimaginable sorrow. They don’t dream of having to compartmentalize the death of their family members just to stand behind the plate. This was supposed to be his triumph. Instead, it became a public spectacle of his grief, a perverse test of his emotional fortitude, forced upon him by an organization that seemingly prioritized a single game over the well-being of a human soul.
I understand the competitive nature of professional sports. I understand the “next man up” mentality. But there are moments, America, there are indelible moments where the score on the scoreboard means absolutely nothing compared to the score in the ledger of human kindness. The Dodgers, an organization that prides itself on its class, its prestige, its pursuit of excellence, failed spectacularly on Sunday. They failed Eliezer Alfonzo Jr. They failed his family. And they failed the very spirit of the game itself.
I ask you, what message does this send? What message does it send to every other player in that clubhouse? What message does it send to every single minor leaguer dreaming of their call-up? That no matter what happens in your personal life, no matter the depth of your sorrow, no matter the devastation you are experiencing, the game, the organization, your contractual obligation, it all comes first? Is that the standard we are setting? Is that the legacy we want for this sport?
THIS IS NOT ABOUT TOUGHNESS! THIS IS NOT ABOUT GRIT! This is about basic, fundamental RESPECT FOR HUMANITY! To expect a man to perform at peak mental and physical capacity, to make split-second decisions, to block pitches, to call games, to hit in a Major League lineup, while his heart is actively being torn apart, is not just unrealistic; IT IS CRUEL! IT IS INEXCUSABLE!
I have seen players battle through injuries, I have seen them play through slumps, I have seen them overcome adversity on the field. But this? This is an entirely different stratosphere of burden. This is a burden that no professional athlete, no human being, should ever be forced to shoulder, especially not in their moment of greatest professional triumph. The Dodgers had a choice. They could have delayed his debut. They could have offered him immediate, unconditional support and bereavement leave. They could have made a statement to the world that some things are more important than a single regular-season game in June. They chose not to.
And for that, I am telling you, America, they are wrong. They are profoundly, unequivocally, and shamefully wrong. Eliezer Alfonzo Jr. deserved better. His family deserved better. The game of baseball, in its truest, most human form, deserved better. And I will not stand by silently while such a blatant disregard for human suffering is allowed to pass without the strongest possible condemnation. This was a dark day for the Los Angeles Dodgers, and a darker day for the soul of professional sports.
