As Eric Chavez entered the carniceria, all he could do was lower his head, pull his baseball cap over his eyes and keep quiet.

Rapid-fire Spanish was bouncing off the walls of the butcher's shop, and because the A's third baseman, who was back home near San Diego for an off-day family barbecue over the summer, does not speak the language of his forefathers, he had to let his dad, Cesar, handle the business of securing carne asada for the day's feast.

"Embarrassed," was how the younger Chavez described his mood at the time, a moment of angst followed by a desire to get more in touch with his roots.

But it's not just at the neighborhood carniceria where Chavez endures such an identity crisis. Sometimes, it rears its head at the five-time Gold Glove winner's day job -- at major-league stadiums across the country, where teammates and opponents alike, fairly or unfairly, deride Chavez and his ilk's upbringing.

"We're pretty Americanized," Chavez said. "They're just like, OK, well, we've seen your kind before."

His kind? They are supposed to know all about John Wayne and Pancho Villa; watch "Oprah" and "Cristina," "SportsCenter" and "Republica Deportiva"; be fans of football and futbol; speak English and Spanish.

They are the "lost tribe" of major-league baseball -- the American-born Latino ballplayer. And -- though they are as American as mom, apple pie, baseball and Taco Bell, and seemingly can walk with ease in both worlds to serve as a sort of bridge to the American way of life for their foreign-born brethren across that great cultural divide -- they sometimes find they don't fully fit in on either side. Indeed, they struggle for acceptance from both their American brothers and Latin American cousins despite their dual sensibilities.

"Lost in the mix," was how New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez, himself of Dominican descent, born in New York City and reared in Miami, described the lot of baseball-playing Latinos born and bred in the United States. "Overlooked in a crazy way."

But not ignored. Not with such Americanized and one-name moniker mainstream stars as A-Rod, "Chavy" and Nomar. Still, the likes of Rodriguez, Chavez and Nomar Garciaparra of the Los Angeles Dodgers sometimes weary from the weight of so many expectations.

Call it the De La Hoya Effect.

Wearing trunks that featured the flags of both the United States and Mexico has brought almost as much criticism as celebration for six-time world boxing champion Oscar De La Hoya.

Rodriguez said he felt De La Hoya's pain last winter, when he waffled between playing for the United States or the Dominican Republic in the inaugural World Baseball Classic. Rodriguez's indecision ultimately cost Chavez a shot at playing for Mexico. (El Tri assumed Chavez would play for the United States in Rodriguez's absence and left him off its final roster.) Mexico also lost the services of Garciaparra because of injury.

"There's nothing like hearing your national anthem in another country," Garciaparra said. "We're just a big melting pot anyways. My family is from Guadalajara, but that doesn't mean I'm more Mexican or that I'm more American.

"If you look back far enough, everyone is from somewhere else."

Which makes their stories intrinsically American. Here then, with the World Series in full swing and at the end of Hispanic Heritage Month, are some of their tales.

Latino helpers and heroes

With 23.1 percent of major-league baseball's 2006 Opening Day rosters hailing from Spanish-speaking lands, up from 17.5 percent in 1998 and 7 percent in 1988, and Gonzalez, Hernandez, Rodriguez and Johnson the most common surnames this season, with seven each, the Great American Pastime now is a pastime for all the Americas.

In fact, 84.3 percent of those born outside the 50 United States came from Spanish-speaking lands.

The American-born Latinos have helped foster that trend through the years.

On the field, it was Los Angeles native Bobby Castillo who took an unknown Fernando Valenzuela under his wing in the Arizona Instructional League and showed the left-hander the pitch -- a screwball -- that would spark the cultural phenomenon known as Fernandomania.

The Bee's Paul Gutierrez can be reached at (916) 326-5556 or pgutierrez@sacbee.com.