It is the foundational truth of Dominican baseball.

“One hundred per cent of the players that come out of the Dominican Republic are from poor families,” Pedro Martinez says. “No one that is in a wealthy position would be willing to take the amount of adversities that you have to overcome and the amount of work that you have to put in to get to the big leagues. All of us had to go through struggles. That number — zero wealthy persons to make it to the big leagues — it is for real.”

Well perhaps not quite zero. Jose Bautista, for one, grew up in upper-middle class comfort. So did Alou, the son and nephew of major leaguers. And now this guy.

Manchester, New Hampshire is about an hour’s drive north of Boston’s Logan Airport. The home of the Toronto Blue Jays’ Double-A affiliate, the Fisher Cats, it is an old mill town just now edging towards the kind of hipster renaissance that has transformed many a former industrial wasteland. These lofts, for instance, in an imposing brick building that was an early 20th Century warehouse, with exposed beams and roughed out interiors, would be just the ticket for young urban professionals. Or, in this case, for a young Dominican ballplayer and his grandma.

The Lede Each week, Jeff Blair and Stephen Brunt tackle the most impactful stories in the world of sports and their intersection with popular culture. Come for the sports; stay for the storytelling and cigars.

Altragracia is the constant — with her son in Montreal and Los Angeles and Arlington and Baltimore; with her grandson for the minor-league stops in Bluefield and Lansing and Dunedin and here, and soon enough on to Buffalo and Toronto. “We went up to Los Angeles with Wilton, and then later God sent us grace, and he got signed together with Vladdy in Montreal,” she says through an interpreter. “The brothers met in Montreal, and I ended up staying with Vladdy. I stayed with him, and I thought my mission was over, but apparently not. I’m no longer with the dad, now I’m with the son until God wills it, and for as long as He gives me strength and health to help him. I think I still have plenty of both.”

She stands over the stove stirring a pot of thick fish stew, as Vladimir Jr. leans in to look at what will become his pre-game meal.

“Baby, come here and help me serve,” Altagracia says.

“Hugs and kisses, Grandma,” Junior answers. “Don’t get burned.”

As a term of endearment, she calls him “El Negro.” Back in Don Gregorio, everyone calls him that. It’s a nickname that will no doubt be lost between the Dominican and the big leagues, and that would surely make North Americans squeamish, but it speaks to a place where skin colour is deeply tied to social and economic standing, where the lighter, more Spanish-looking segment of the population dominates the political and business elite, and where the very dark-skinned Haitians are regarded as the lowest of the underclasses. Vladdy Jr. is dark, so he is “El Negro” — or simply “Negro.” It sounds benign in the loving voice of his grandmother, but in a larger sense it is not.