MARACAY, VENEZUELA—Angel Guillen turns 16 in January, but his fresh face and braces make him look younger. He’s 6-foot-2 and long-limbed, thin as a praying mantis.

On the pitcher’s mound, however, he wields his right arm like a whip. His fastball can reach 86 m.p.h. but he hopes to hit 90 by July 2, the first day 16-year-olds in Latin America can sign contracts with Major League Baseball clubs. The lucky few become instant millionaires.

Guillen starts training at 7 a.m. each day at the AQ Sports Agency baseball academy. The last of three workouts ends just before dusk. Academy founder Alexis Quiroz moved practice up 30 minutes because players were mugged walking home after dark.

Guillen’s coaches — and pro scouts — are focused on the slender pitcher’s power, poise and potential to improve. He’s a 140-pound kid with long fingers who with training might ripen into a 200-pound man.

“La bola tiene vida,” says head coach Rafael Jimenez, admiring the “life” of Guillen’s pitches. “Mucha vida.”

Guillen and his young teammates dream of becoming part of Venezuela’s unprecedented baseball boom. The country of 27 million is rapidly becoming baseball’s most important source of foreign talent. This year, players from Venezuela won most valuable player awards in the American League, the National League Championship Series and the World Series. Their success is part of the country’s identity, rivalling oil as its favourite export.

But while Venezuelan talent has never been more abundant or sought-after, getting players to the major leagues has never been harder.

Today, there are just four.

“More and more teams have left Venezuela because of safety concerns,” says Blue Jays general manager Alex Anthopoulos. “. . . It’s not a reflection on the players.”

The talent is tough to ignore. In 2010, the Blue Jays set a Venezuelan record by giving 16-year-old pitcher Adonis Cardona a signing bonus of $2.8 million.

“You’re going to fish where the fish are at, and they know the fish are here,” says Jimmy Meayke (pronounced “Mikey”) a consultant who co-ordinates Major League Baseball’s activities in Venezuela. “The Dominican Republic is the biggest source of (baseball’s foreign) talent right now, but it can change.”

But even Venezuelan baseball’s biggest boosters aren’t sure when that will happen. The decision to end practice early for Guillen and his teammates is but a hint of the risks.

“We have talent like the Dominican,” says Felix Luzon Jr., operations director at Caracas-based 9 Stars Sports Management. “The reason major league teams don’t come here is the security. It’s a different struggle.”

David Torres, uncle of American League MVP Miguel Cabrera, operates a baseball school here. Quiroz, a lawyer and sports agent, opened his academy two years ago. Retired Detroit Tigers star Carlos Guillen (no relation to Angel) recently established an academy, his big name and bankroll raising the stakes. There are still more academies in Maracay, as well as in neighbouring Tumero and, a half-hour west, the state of Carabobo.

The Dominican Republic produces more major leaguers than any country outside the U.S. — 137 Dominicans played in the majors in 2012, according to baseball-almanac.com. But a record 105 Venezuelans appeared in the majors this year, up from 55 a decade ago and just 12 in 1992.

Average signing bonuses for Venezuelan teens rose from $100,000 in 2009 to $292,000 in 2010.

“Things have changed a lot,” says infielder Ray Olmedo, a Maracay native who has played for the Chicago White Sox, Blue Jays and Cincinnati Reds. “I signed for two baseballs and a broken bat.”

A promising 14-year-old in North America probably plays with a club team and refines his game with a private coach. But at 14, top Venezuelan players are essentially professionals.

Kids in Quiroz’s program work 40-hour weeks, drilling on-field skills every morning, strength training most afternoons and enduring sprint sessions in the early evening. Academic tutoring is available, but the teens take a two-year “sabbatical” from school, leaving their families to live in rented houses near the ballpark.

“It’s a sacrifice,” Angel Guillen says. “But sacrifices are how you learn.”

Venezuela has the most comprehensive system of youth leagues in Latin America. The three main organizations — Criollitos, Federacion and U.S.-based Little League Baseball — coach more than 4 million kids year-round.

This enriched education pays off when teens sign contracts and merge the individual brilliance the academies emphasize with the subtle skills and team strategies pro baseball demands.

“The result is that these kids advance in a very short time,” says coach Jiménez, a former New York Mets scout. “(Major league teams) don’t have to work much. They don’t have to teach much. That’s why you see so many Venezuelans in the big leagues.”

This summer, the Jays again signed one of the top teens in Latin America, paying $1.45 million to Venezuelan infielder Franklin Barreto.

“These guys haven’t even thrown a ball in the minor leagues and they’re already millionaires,” says Omar Vizquel, the former Blue Jay who retired in October as the longest-serving Venezuelan in major league history. “There’s more competition but there are also more tools. It’s because of the money. There’s a lot of money to invest and a lot more money for people to develop players.”

But the financial foundation of Venezuela’s academies is starting to look shaky.

If a player signs a pro contract his academy typically receives a 30-per-cent commission, but the five-figure deals most players get rarely cover a trainer’s costs — academy owners pay for food, housing and coaches’ salaries. If a player graduates without signing, the trainer collects nothing.

Quiroz racks up reward points at the Sports Authority buying equipment. He has spent $30,000 manicuring the municipal diamond where his players practice. Running his academy costs $100,000 a year. He still hasn’t recovered the $300,000 invested so far.

A big contract for Guillen could put the AQ academy in the black, but a recent rule change by Major League Baseball threatens that possibility.

Teams like the Blue Jays now face a steep tax if they spend more than $2.9 million on Latin American prospects each year. The move isn’t stopping seven-figure deals, but it means the growing number of trainers now compete for a finite pool of money.

“It’s not easy to sign $300,000 in ballplayers each year,” says Quiroz, who maintains a law practice and an electronics business. “I (train players) because I love it. It’s not a project for me to make money.”

Felix Luzon Sr., president of 9 Stars, draws a parallel to the industry that constitutes 97 per cent of Venezuela’s exports.

“The petroleum industry, just like baseball, has a high risk centred on exploration,” he says. “But if you don’t have the product in your hand you can’t sell it. It’s the same with baseball, but baseball can be more difficult because petroleum isn’t a human being. If these kids lose their way, you’ve lost what you’ve already invested in exploration and development.”

Last year, 9 Stars coaches auditioned more than 800 players. They accepted only two.

Once there, Quiroz stops his Toyota SUV across from the duplex where Miguel Cabrera grew up. Behind the homes stands El Polideportivo David Torres, the city-owned stadium where the Detroit Tigers superstar learned to play.

You follow Quiroz inside the park. To your left looms a verdant mountain peak. In front of you, disrepair.

Between the patchy outfield grass, the trash scattered near the foul line and the rutted, all-dirt infield, this hardly looks like a training ground for future pros. Yet Torres still runs an academy here.

Walking across the outfield Quiroz says what you’re thinking.

“It shouldn’t be like this — so uncared-for.”

Then, something else.

“We should leave. This isn’t the safest neighbourhood.”

In Venezuela, this fine-tuned sensitivity to the possibility of violent crime is far from paranoia. It is common sense.

Last year, Venezuela recorded 67 homicides per 100,000 inhabitants, according to the Venezuela Violence Observatory. By comparison, the rate in drug-war-ravaged Mexico was 32 per 100,000.

In 1999, Venezuela recorded 4,550 murders. Last year — 19,336.

“It’s really hard,” says 16-year-old Adel Rodriguez, who trains with Quiroz. “You want to go to the mall and it’s not safe. You have to hide anything valuable. You never know when you’ll become a victim.”

And in a country where kidnappings for ransom aren’t unusual, major-league players’ wealth can make them targets. Last November, Washington Nationals catcher Wilson Ramos was abducted in his hometown of Valencia and held hostage for two days before being rescued by government commandos.

“Valencia’s a really pretty, really beautiful city,” says native son and former Jays pitcher Henderson Alvarez. “But because of the crime it’s not really safe. In all of Venezuela, they’ve killed a lot of innocent people.”

In Caracas and Maracay — about 100 kilometres west of the capital — you won’t see gun battles in the street. But the effects of Venezuela’s violent crime are obvious. Like the electrified wire guarding nearly every home in middle-class neighbourhoods. Or the way people from those areas discuss their own kidnappings — casually, the way you’d describe having a cavity filled.

Or the layered definition of the term “secure taxi,” which signifies the driver won’t rip you off, but might signal that along with honesty he possesses a pistol or a black belt in karate. It could also mean your honest chofer drives a rusty Ford Conquistador because he has twice been carjacked for nicer rides.

Violence also forces Venezuelan baseball stars into difficult choices about their off-seasons. Pablo Sandoval of the San Francisco Giants and Houston Astros standout José Altuve will return home to play with Valencia’s winter league team, but la delincuencia keeps others in the U.S.

“Every year I spend a little less time in my country because of that,” says Elvis Andrus, a Maracay native and star for the Texas Rangers. “It’s sad. The quality of life goes down a little bit every year.”

The inflation rate was reported at 19 per cent in August — a vast improvement over previous years. Combine that with government-imposed cost controls and Venezuela’s consumer marketplace becomes a puzzling patchwork of surprisingly high and comically low prices. A combo at McDonald’s costs the equivalent of $16, but state-run service stations sell gasoline for two Canadian cents a litre.

So, if you’re in Caracas with 25 bolivares ($5.80) in your pocket, you’ll struggle to buy lunch but you can fuel your car for a month.

Luzon Jr. says his academy’s biggest expenses are scouting players and feeding them. If food prices keep rising he may raise 9 Star’s cut of signing bonuses to 35 per cent. Players with seven-figure deals could absorb that, but most sign for significantly less and would feel squeezed.

“When you sign a player for $20,000 he can’t even buy a car to drive to work,” Quiroz says.

The government price controls mean producers of goods such as cornmeal or coffee can suffer losses, prompting them to switch to more profitable products. This leads to shortages of staple goods, even in comfortable neighbourhoods.

Ask people — from cab drivers to sports agents to expatriate professionals — about the Venezuelan economy’s paradoxes and they often offer a shrug and a one-word answer.

Chavez.

While Chavez’s oil revenue-funded social programs gained him support among the country’s poor, business takeovers have earned him enemies among Venezuela’s middle and upper classes. His friendships with states such as Cuba and Iran have made U.S. officials suspicious.

Major league stars are sharply aware of how bitterly politics have split their homeland, and they’re cognizant of the risk implicit in choosing sides. Favouring Chavez means promoting socialism — an unlikely position for a pro athlete in the U.S. But supporting the opposition means alienating the people in power at home.

So Venezuelan major leaguers tend to espouse a carefully calibrated neutrality.

“We’ll see how the country keeps evolving,” says Andrus. “As Venezuelans, we all need to respect the president.”

When Chavez developed a cancerous tumour in 2011, he had it removed in Cuba. Venezuela also sends cash and petroleum to Cuba in exchange for doctors, with more than 30,000 currently working here. The trend has prompted sarcastic suggestions that the countries are merging into a socialist superstate known either as “VeneCuba” or “CubaZuela.”

Chavez hasn’t expressed plans to ban pro sports the way Fidel Castro did in 1961. When Venezuelan Pablo Sandoval hit three home runs in a World Series game, Chavez even sent him a Twitter message asking for a fourth.

Few think Chavez plans to nationalize pro baseball, but they aren’t sure he won’t meddle. Either way, his hostility to the U.S. makes major league teams feel unwelcome.

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“Clubs don’t feel secure making an investment here. A lot depends on what happens on the seventh,” says consultant Meayke, referring to the Oct. 7 election in which Chavez confronted centrist governor Henrique Capriles Radonski.

Chavez won by 1.5 million votes, securing six more years in power.

“I hope teams come back to Venezuela like they were before,” says Blasini, who trained a teenage Sandoval. “Right now we can’t compete with the Dominicans because all the organizations are there.”

That’s the dilemma Meayke hopes to remedy.

“My biggest mission is trying to sell my country to these clubs, telling them they can operate here safely,” he says. “But we can’t tell the clubs how to operate. We can facilitate . . . but they have the final call.”

On Maracay’s main streets you see new, bright-red buses, sent from China, which buys 640,000 barrels of discounted Venezuelan crude oil daily. On Caracas’ western edge, construction crews working under Venezuelan and Russian flags erect massive highrise housing developments.

In exchange for the natural resource they extract every summer, do big-league clubs have a similar duty to restore Venezuela’s crumbling baseball infrastructure? Are they obligated to operate academies that would create local jobs?

Maybe, except for stories like this: In mid-September, the president of the Venezuelan professional baseball league, José Grasso Vecchio, was outside an ice cream shop in a posh Caracas neighbourhood when he was robbed at gunpoint.

Across the wide avenue lies Carlos Guillen’s academy. Eleven of its players have turned pro the last two summers. Twenty prospects are set to graduate next year. Quiroz’s 2013 class is a third that size, but just as dedicated.

Angel Guillen has his eyes on July 2 — and a potential seven-figure bonus.

As they walk, the teens are aware that last month a gunman held up some players strolling home from this same park. Approaching an intersection, their pace quickens. They round the corner and vanish into the heart of Maracay.

Practice starts tomorrow at dawn.

Morgan Campbell won a National Newspaper Award for sports reporting in 2003. mcampbell@thestar.ca

Best Venezuelan Blue Jays

Luis Leal

(Pitcher, 1980-85)

Luis Sojo

(Infielder, 1990, ’93)

Kelvim Escobar

(Pitcher, 1997-2003)

Henderson Alvarez

(Pitcher, 2011-12)

Marco Scutaro

(Infielder, 2008-09)

Omar Vizquel

(Infielder, 2012)

Dominican Republic vs. Venezuela

The Dominican has long been baseball’s biggest source of foreign talent. But Venezuela is steadily closing in.

1992

DR: 62

V: 12

1997

DR: 102

V: 42

2002

DR: 127

V: 55

2007

DR: 145

V: 80

2012

DR: 137

V: 105

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