Gus Garcia-Roberts follows Belfi Rivera, a Major League Baseball prospect from the Dominican Republic, through an unregulated recruitment system that exposes young athletes to a network of predatory figures (and at least one former World Series MVP and prominent Fox Sports analyst). It’s a system that operates in plain sight and has for years, but Garcia-Roberts’s superbly reported narrative, which centers on Rivera and his vulnerable family, make those operations positively harrowing.

As a child, Belfi never cared for baseball. He started playing at 7, he told me, because a local coach would drag him from his house and cuff him on the head if he tried to escape to a nearby river to be with his friends. But even as a young boy, he understood the sport likely represented his family’s one shot out of grinding poverty. During that video call in 2021, it seemed that he had clinched it. 

But in two and a half years, the $1.8 million Belfi was promised would be almost all gone. Carmona received $630,000, which represented his 35% commission. But more than $950,000 went to someone who had no hand in teaching Belfi how to play baseball. His name is Santo Caraballo, one of the most notorious moneylenders profiting from Dominican baseball. His business partner is a national hero and, 10 years after his retirement, still a commanding figure within Major League Baseball: David Ortiz, known universally as “Big Papi.”

Leave it to Arundhati Roy to deliver a scorching, dizzying essay on the perils of artificial intelligence that references Greek mythology, Francis Ford Coppola, the Bible, India’s industrial history, and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Plus, Emily Dickinson features in the lede:

The auguries are raining down hard. Think or Sink. Comply or Die. Look Up or be Left Out. And so, with these not-so-gentle threats, it has come to pass that the Age of AI—Actual Idiocy, Actual Super Idiocy, Recursive Snowballing-Idiocy—is upon us. Heck, I’ve already used two dashes in this opening paragraph. That, as they say, is a tell. So, perhaps I haven’t written this essay at all. You’d have to use an AI app to check if it’s actually AI, and whether I’m really, or not really, or only partially me. You can no longer use your instincts. You have to use the App. Now that AI owns the em dash, what will future generations make of Emily Dickinson and her love of them? Has she been fed to the machine, too? Will they love her less? Are we being gradually locked out of language? Does it matter anymore?