How Oklahoma State pitcher Victor Mederos and his family defected from Cuba to obtain better life
Jacob UnruhOklahoman
STILLWATER — Odalys Martos closes her eyes, clasps her hands together and prays again and again.
Her lips move, but there is no sound.
“It’s my son, God, please,” she prays in Spanish.
Odalys rarely sees a pitch her son Victor Mederos throws for the fourth-ranked Oklahoma State baseball team, even as she sits nearby in the orange plastic seat at O’Brate Stadium. She sometimes opens her eyes. When she does, she looks up to thank God that Victor is unharmed.
He pitches. She prays.
She prays for Victor to have energy. She asks for him to be strong. She believes she can see God through him.
“He’s just representing God every step of the way,” she says in Spanish through her oldest son, Vitin.
Odalys credits prayer as protection for her family, and not just when Victor pitches. As much trust as she puts in her faith, prayer is what she believes guided her and her two sons on a life-altering, death-defying journey.
Fourteen years ago, they defected from Cuba. They risked everything. Crossed five borders. Traveled more than 3,000 miles.
They sought a better life in the United States, and they found it.
“Just being here and being able to pitch on Saturdays, being able to just enjoy life and not have to worry about what I’m going to eat today and what I’m going to do,” Victor said, “forget about everything else, just being able to live a normal life is already a lot.”
Past the midway point of the season, the right-handed pitcher and top-100 MLB draft prospect has turned heads with his powerful fastball and energy. But without his family risking it all, there is no Victor Mederos on the mound each Saturday.
Victor is free. So is his family.
“We have a purpose,” Victor said.
Victor and his family survived. They created a new path and strengthened their family while becoming American citizens.
“It was really hard because sometimes you let people think you own a future, but there is nothing guaranteed in life,” Victor Mederos Sr. said in Spanish through Vitin. “You have a vision and you see a future, but there is nothing 100%. You just gotta take a risk.
“Thank God everything came out the right way.”
A plan of action
Victor Sr. knew there had to be more in life.As a teacher, he made little money in Cuba. Even his wife, Odalys, a lawyer, brought home scant money. With a growing family in a country ruled by communism, they were barely getting by.
Victor Sr. began looking for a way out.
He just didn’t tell anyone when he came up with a plan. He feared he could be talked out of it.
Hope of a better future was too important to wait.
So, one morning in 2001, Victor Sr. disappeared. He secretly boarded a boat and cruised away.
“It was super hard,” Victor Sr. said. “I was always thinking everything is really dangerous.”
Vitin — also named Victor — was 10. Victor — actually named Victor Victor — was just 2 months old.
And their father was across the Gulf of Mexico in the Florida Keys. Though just 90 miles away, there was a whole new world separating the family. He called that evening to explain his plan for a better life.
He hated being away. But this was best.
“At the end of the day, they might not see it, but they were still kids,” Victor Sr. said. “It was just leaving two kids in a world they had to face by themselves. It was really hard just thinking about the best for them.”
Vitin was suddenly the man of the house, and he was angry. He refused to talk to his father at first.
Vitin still remained strong for his mom and brother. He became like a father figure to Victor throughout the next few years.
Vitin was the first kid his age in the neighborhood allowed to ride a bike to school. He designed a wooden seat, fastened it to the front and took Victor to kindergarten each morning, pedaling half an hour before turning back another hour to his own school. Vitin also picked up Victor from school and watched over him until Odalys returned from work.
“We were always together,” Vitin said. “It was different. There was 10 years difference, so I never saw him as my little brother. To me, he was just my kid. I gotta take care of him, I gotta provide for him, I gotta look out for him. It was that type of relationship.”
Victor Sr. settled in Miami, Florida, and checked in almost daily. He worked at a grocery store, took on construction projects and did any other jobs he could find. He sent money to his family. He also saved.
The next step in his plan required more money.
Victor Sr. was going to reunite with his family.
‘This is real life’
Victor Mederos was having the time of his life.The ranch in Costa Rica was a dream for a 6-year-old. He rode horses. He did not have to go to school for the few months he was there.
“It was probably the best part of my childhood,” Victor said.
The ranch — owned by Victor Sr.’s friend — was more than fun times. It was a hideout.
For three months, Victor and his mom, Odalys, lived on the farmland waiting for Vitin to arrive. He was still in Cuba, alone and unable to leave on the visa his mom had acquired because he was approaching the initial age for his military obligation.
With less than a month remaining on the visa, Vitin was finally allowed to travel. That was the window the Mederos family needed.
When Vitin arrived, so did Victor Sr.
Victor Sr. paid $9,000 to a man named “Cappy” — a nickname given to the man the family only knew once served in the military — to guide his family across five borders into the United States.
On Jan. 1, 2008, Odalys, Vitin and Victor started an 11-day, 2,500-mile journey. Victor Sr. returned to Miami and anxiously waited, unbeknownst to him what was ahead for his family.
The family had no idea some details from their journey would still be impossible to share more than a decade later.
But things got scary almost instantly.
The Mederos family was with a large group of people. The group was quickly stopped at a checkpoint. The family was quickly separated from the group, deemed safe because they were paid in full and with “Cappy.” The others had to come up with the money fast or else.
“Most of those people, we didn’t even see them anymore,” Vitin said.
