Editor's note: This story is available in Spanish here.

On the first day of Carlos Ruiz's career, he marveled at how much smaller he was than most players. He had arrived at the Philadelphia Phillies' complex in the Dominican Republic in 1998 as perhaps the most unheralded player in the organization.

Ruiz had signed for a measly $8,000, which meant he was picked up on a lark because he was converting from a second baseman into a catcher, a position he had never played. To even get to the Dominican, Ruiz had to convince his beloved mother, Inocencia, a schoolteacher, that the trip was worthwhile because on the surface it seemed pointless.

Ruiz, then 19, was dropping out of college, where he was working toward a degree in physical education, to chase a dream. There could not have been a player in the organization with worse odds of reaching the majors.

But dreams exist for a reason, to entice one to reach for the unattainable, to strive for the impossible. So off went Ruiz, the unlikely Panamanian professional baseball player (only seven were on Opening Day rosters this year), to a foreign land. The cultural adjustments Ruiz would have to make in the Dominican were massive: different foods, different dialects, different people, different culture. It would be an entirely different life.

The competition would be fierce. Ruiz's Dominican teammates were faster, taller, stronger and carried a spectacular bravado while he was short, thick and timid. Yet Ruiz -- listed at 5-foot-10 but likely closer to 5-foot-8 -- was determined to show all those bigger players that he was as good as any of them.

When the team lined up together for the first meeting, Ruiz appeared almost as a child even though he was older than most of the other players. For certain, not many there on that first day would ever think that the quiet Ruiz, who hardly spoke a word on that first day, would ever make it out of the academy, much less make it to the majors.

He would prove all of them wrong.

The first day of Ruiz's professional career bears remembering again and again to truly understand how unlikely his career has been.

By any variety of measures, old-school (batting average) or new-school (wins above replacement), Ruiz is the best statistical catcher in baseball this year. At a time when the position is floundering offensively -- last year catchers had the worst OPS of any position -- Ruiz's statistics (.340/.404/.566 at midweek) make him a top-10 player in most statistical categories. When the catching position has evolved into one played by sleek, tall athletes like Buster Posey and Matt Wieters, the pudgy, stocky Ruiz has become the benchmark.

"It's remarkable what he's done," says Kansas City Royals executive Mike Arbuckle, previously the longtime minor league coordinator in Philadelphia.

Arbuckle estimates that every year, teams pick about two players to convert to catcher, yet many of them had previously played the position at some point in their youth. It's almost a miracle when any of those converts reaches the majors in any role.

For Ruiz to become an All-Star, the Phillies had to build a catcher from scratch. It would be a lengthy and difficult process that would require Ruiz to put in countless hours, and he still might not make it. The risk and investment was minimal for the Phillies. If it didn't work out, they would try to find another gem the next year with another pair of converts. But Ruiz had put his entire future on what seemed to be a monumental gamble.

"You know, on that first day, I really enjoyed playing the position," Ruiz remembers. "It was something that I think was destiny. Things in life happen that way."

Twice before 1998, the Phillies had turned down the opportunity to sign Ruiz, once as a pitcher, the other time as a second baseman. Panamanian scout Allan Lewis attempted for a third time when Sal Agostinelli joined the organization in 1998 as the international scouting director.

Although Agostinelli did not see Ruiz as a prospect when he worked him out, Lewis suggested that perhaps they try him at catcher. After a few drills, Ruiz showed enough physical skills behind the plate to suggest he might adapt to the position. He was signed for $8,000 and assigned to the Dominican.

Ruiz survived life in the Dominican by picking up the basics of catching and by showing a capable bat.

On the first day of his professional career in the Dominican, Ruiz couldn't even catch a popup. During one of the early drills on that first day, a coach hit soaring popups into the bright Caribbean sky. Ruiz spun around and fell backward, and the ball ended up on the ground.

The ball had seemed so impossible for Ruiz to spot. It had appeared to bend in directions he had never seen. As an infielder, he could easily read the spin on the ball. But when it came from such an awkward angle, Ruiz was lost. It was easy to be discouraged because the task seemed so impossible.

“ It was something that I think was destiny. Things in life happen that way. ” -- Ruiz on becoming a catcher

But for the next several weeks, Ruiz focused on those popups until he could consistently catch them.

After two seasons in the Dominican, he put himself in a position to play his first year in the United States, although he was still unknown to most front-office officials.

In the spring of 2000, newly appointed minor league catching coordinator Mick Billmeyer arrived in Clearwater, Fla., to work with the Phillies' young group of catchers in extended spring training. He knew very little about Ruiz. He had little reason to do so.

There were no specific instructions that Billmeyer was to exclusively work with Ruiz. He was just another catcher. Maybe even less than that. There were many other priorities.

During the first team meeting, Billmeyer immediately took note of the Latino catcher who did not say a word. He approached Ruiz and realized that the young backstop hardly spoke English. This was going to be a challenge but one that Billmeyer eagerly took on. Perhaps as part of the dedication to his job, perhaps because Ruiz, despite not saying much, seemed to pay close attention to every word he said, Billmeyer became intrigued with the Panamanian kid.

To measure Ruiz's abilities, Billmeyer asked Ruiz to get into a crouch.

"Are you ready?" Billmeyer asked. Ruiz nodded.

Billmeyer nudged Ruiz on his head, and he fell onto his back.

"No balance," Billmeyer told him, pronouncing the words in Spanish.

It was a monumental moment. Ruiz learned not only that he had much to learn but also that there were people willing to work with him. Both laughed at Billmeyer's attempt to speak Spanish, but it was a bonding moment. The coach showed he was willing to speak to Ruiz in his language.

After Ruiz got up from his fall, Billmeyer got into a crouch and showed Ruiz that his knees needed to be pointed toward second base and shortstop and not toward the sky. That would give him the balance he would need to move ably behind the plate.

Billmeyer and Ruiz developed an unlikely friendship. To better understand the world through Ruiz's eyes, Billmeyer attended Ruiz's English classes. During off times, Billmeyer attempted to learn Spanish. Billmeyer would try out his Spanish during drills.

"I'd go out there and speak in broken Spanish and tell him to get it together," Billmeyer said. "I wouldn't want to take anyone with me because I wanted to show him that I could do it."

In broken Spanish, Billmeyer taught Ruiz how to properly throw to second base. At first, Ruiz wanted to just throw with all his might, regardless of the mechanics. Often that approach would injure his elbow and he'd have to sit for several days.