Game Seven (3 page)

3

BY SIX THIRTY
a.m., I was on my feet again. The sunlight was just starting to push past the curtains as I packed up my baseball gear and got myself ready to go. Only I didn't touch the tip money from the night before. And I didn't go near the refrigerator either. Instead, I left that pork chop where it was, for my mother and sister, who were both still sleeping.

The team was meeting in the parking lot outside our field. That was more than a mile away. So I lugged my bike down the stairs. Then I tied my equipment bag to the back before I rode out into the street.

Almost all the cars on the road here are American, built in the 1950s—Chevrolet, Plymouth, Ford, and Dodge. They're huge cars with wide bodies, fancy grilles, big headlights, and shining chrome everywhere. Some have windshields that wrap all the way around. Others have sleek fins or wings in the back, with long red taillights that make them look like rocket sleds ready to blast off.

It's been that way since the US stopped selling cars to Cuba in 1962, to protest our government. It's like living in some kind of time warp. We see modern sports cars like Porsches, Jaguars, and BMWs in contraband magazines and pirated DVDs of movies. Everyone here knows about them, what they look like. But I guess we're supposed to pretend they don't really exist. We know about the Chevy Nova, too. In Spanish,
no va
means “doesn't go,” so we all thought that was pretty funny. But I don't think anybody here would turn down a new car, no matter how stupid its name.

There aren't any spare parts coming into Cuba either. That doesn't matter. People here will use anything to keep their cars running, like leather belts that once held up pants and electric fuses from toasters. When cars break down totally, people keep them in their yards behind locked fences and make money selling off the parts one by one. And if I had known the police officers were going to confiscate Papi's car, a 1958 Dodge Royal in good condition, I would have pulled out the brakes to sell and left those officers rolling off the road, straight into the surf.

Pedaling closer to the field, I saw a big yellow school bus parked in the lot. The morning sun was getting stronger, glistening off its roof. As I sped through the gate, I noticed the driver inside that bus walking the length of it, opening all the windows before it became a big metal hotbox. Lots of our players were already there, and more were arriving right behind me, by bike and on foot. Just one other vehicle was there. It was a Russian-made car and almost like new, maybe from the 1980s. There was no doubt it was for the top tier of the Junior Nacional coaches to ride in.

Uncle Ramon was standing inside a small circle of those coaches, talking. His back was to me. Just to his right, I could see the bloated face of Coach Moyano, the one responsible for picking the players. Moyano was short and overweight, wearing pants that were baggy enough for two people to use as a tent on a camping trip. I'd seen him a dozen or more times. The bottom half of his eyelids were always puffed out, like he'd never had a good night's sleep in his life. And except for the red Nacionales cap on his head, you probably would have figured him for a butcher or a sanitation worker before a baseball coach.

I was getting off my bike and resting it against a fence when Moyano's eyes settled sharply on mine. I felt like he was looking right through me, judging me inside and out, as he chomped away on an unlit cigar. From the corner of his mouth, he spit a stream of brown saliva onto the ground. Then he said something, and Uncle Ramon turned to look in my direction. That's when I quickly turned away from them both.

A few feet away from me, Luis was lying flat on his back on the paved asphalt. His eyes were closed, his bag beneath his head as a pillow. He was surrounded by six or seven of our teammates, looking equally exhausted after a night of partying. Only most of them were up on their feet.

“Junior,” said one of our guys, reaching out to connect his fist with mine. “I'm glad our best player looks like he's ready to swing for the fences right now.”

“You could wake me up in the middle of the night to hit. I wouldn't care,” I said, bringing my hands and wrists together in front of me, as if I were gripping a bat. “But listen, no more ‘Junior.' From now on it's just Julio.”

“Got it,” he said, before lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. “Man, if you're not picked starting shortstop for the Nacionales, it's a crime.”

I didn't say a word back. But I extended my fist one more time to bump with his again.

“Hey, Cuz,” Luis called up to me from the ground. “My pop didn't want to leave his car here overnight. So we walked all the way. Guess who carried the equipment?”

“Don't have to guess,” I answered. “The sweat stains by your armpits say
you
were the donkey—Uncle's little
burrito
.”

“That should be my official position on this team,” he said, smiling. “You know it's true.”

Uncle Ramon was twice as hard on Luis as on any other player. He had to be. That way the other guys didn't resent Luis being an all-star. In fact, Luis got less playing time than anyone. And his was usually the first name out of my uncle's mouth whenever he needed somebody to take a bucket and gather up over a hundred loose baseballs in the outfield.

The day he picked Luis as part of the team to represent Matanzas, Uncle Ramon had told me in private, “A father needs to do this for his son—find a way to keep him by his side. Right or wrong, that's a father's job.”

That struck a raw nerve in me. And I went home feeling more jealous of their relationship than I could ever remember.

The driver started up the bus with a
ggrrrr-rrrr-rrr
. Then the doors folded open and players began piling inside. I gave Luis a hand, pulling him to his feet. Beneath him, on the gray asphalt, he'd left behind a damp imprint of his body that the sun was already starting to fade.

As I climbed the bus's steps, a dark-skinned man with a bushy mustache and goatee, sitting in the driver's spot, turned up the volume on a boom box jammed between the dashboard and his seat.

“
Muchachos
, my name is Paulo. It's fifty-three miles to Cárdenas,” he bellowed down the rows of seats with a big grin, as salsa music drowned out the sound of the engine. “There's no bathroom on this bus. So take care of your personal business now, before it becomes my business.”

“We pee out the window!” somebody called out.

Everyone cracked up laughing, including Paulo.

“If you do, be very careful,” Paulo replied, without missing a beat. “Birds are hungry to eat little
inchworms
this time of the morning.”

That got an even bigger laugh. Suddenly, it seemed like no one was interested in sleeping anymore. I parked myself by a window in the row right behind Luis. On the open seat next to me, I put my bag with all of my baseball gear. That's when I noticed Uncle Ramon walking toward the bus, while that car with Moyano and the other coaches inside was pulling out of the lot.

“I must be loco to want to ride in this hunk of junk instead of that air-conditioned dream,” announced Uncle Ramon as he climbed aboard. “But I just love to be around baseball players.”

That got a huge cheer, and even Paulo raised his voice in approval.

Then, as the bus jerked forward, I looked out the window and saw that Luis's imprint on the asphalt was almost gone. As we rolled to the gate, I realized the chain on my bike was unlocked. I didn't want to cry out like a baby for the bus to stop. I just hoped the bike would still be there, with its handlebar stuck through the chain-link fence, when I got back.

Since those Nacional coaches had been hanging around, kids were careful whenever they talked about El Fuego being in the World Series. They didn't want to be overheard glorifying a traitor, hurting their own chances of being picked for the junior traveling team. But with Moyano and his crew out of earshot, and Uncle Ramon riding with us, the conversation turned to that subject fast.

“I heard it might be raining at Yankee Stadium. That the game tonight could get postponed,” said one of our players.

I tapped at the transistor radio in my pocket, making sure it was still there.

“It would have to be enough rain for Noah and his ark,” replied another player. “That's a World Series game you're talking about.”

“Tonight's game is a huge one,” said Uncle Ramon. “One team is going to take a two-to-one lead in the Series.”

“Still, it's not Game Seven. When it's tied up, three to three,” said our left-handed pitcher, who stood in the aisle mimicking Papi's windup, “that one's for all the marbles. Everything. With the whole world watching.”

Then he followed through, releasing an invisible baseball in my direction.

My heart jumped a little as I almost put my hands up to catch it.

“Imagine making millions of US dollars to play,” our pitcher added. “Money. Freedom. Baseball. That's the life.”

I let that sink deep inside of me. Meanwhile, a steady
hummm
vibrated up through the wheels and into my seat as we passed over the metal grating of the bridge, leaving Matanzas. Out the window, I could see the river below. And without a shred of wind, the blue water looked smooth as glass, with the bus's yellow reflection sailing across.

“It's not about the money. I guarantee it,” responded Uncle Ramon. “I used to be El Fuego's catcher, before there was
any
money or fame. That was when we played for pride on fields littered with broken bottles, in shorts and T-shirts. We were both crazy for the game. Anyone here know what they call the catcher's equipment—the mask, shin guards, chest protector?”

“I know,” answered Manuel, our catcher. “Tools of ignorance.”

“That's right—because you take an unholy beating back there. You have to be half-stupid to even want to play the position,” said Uncle Ramon, knocking a fist against his own skull, before displaying his two crooked pinkies. “You break fingers, block pitches in the dirt with your chest, and take foul tips off every part of your body. And don't even think about going behind the plate without wearing a cup to protect your jewels.”

“I got hit
there
once,” said Manuel, cringing a little bit. “Even with a cup it hurts.”

“But catchers know the game better than anybody, because we see the whole field in front of us,” said Uncle Ramon. “I used to start out to the mound in the middle of an inning, to tell
El Fuego
what I was thinking. He'd wave me off, saying, ‘The only thing you know about pitching is that you can't hit it.'”

“What did you say back?” asked Manuel.

“Nothing. He was my older brother,” answered Uncle Ramon. “But there was one league game when an umpire from Havana was squeezing the strike zone on him really bad, calling all of El Fuego's pitches on the corner of the plate balls. I turned around to look at him and that umpire says, ‘I'll tell you what a strike is and what's not. Look at me again and you're ejected.'”

“What happened?” asked one of our players.

“The next pitch, I called for one high and outside, just above my right shoulder, where that umpire was squatting behind me. At first El Fuego shook me off. But I called for it a second time, until he finally nodded his head,” said Uncle Ramon. “He put that pitch exactly where I asked for it—his best fastball. Then I lowered my mitt a few inches.”

Luis glanced back at me. We'd heard this story plenty of times growing up.

“The pitch hit that bastard in the middle of his mask—
ping
,” said Uncle Ramon. “Knocked him out cold.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Manuel asked, excitedly.

“They called us both to appear in front of the local sports commissioner. Right after the game, before we could get our stories straight,” he continued. “El Fuego said it was
his
fault. That he crossed me up by reading my signals wrong. That I was expecting a curveball. The commissioner screamed at us for twenty minutes. Then he let us go with just a warning. My brother was pissed at me for a few hours, for causing all that trouble. But later on, he slapped my back and said, ‘Screw that umpire for trying to take away what's mine. He got exactly what he deserved.' We laughed the rest of the night over it.”

Papi's version of that story wasn't exactly the same as Uncle Ramon remembered it. Some of the facts of who did what were a little different. Only the conclusion didn't change: nobody would ever again take away what belonged to El Fuego.

4

MORE THAN AN
hour later, we reached Cárdenas. The bus rolled along the coastline, past rocky beaches, the bay, and empty docks where fishing boats had probably been out on the water since before sunrise.

Then our driver, Paulo, turned the wheel inland, into the countryside. On his lap, he began unfolding a paper map until it looked like there was no way on earth it could ever become a neat rectangle again. Eventually, we pulled up to a baseball field behind an old boarding school with a one-story, flat-roofed dormitory.

The Nacional coaches, including Moyano, who was still chomping on that unlit cigar, were already there, waiting beside their car.

“This is it—the place where you're going to make your mark,” Luis said to me. “Outplay those other shortstops for a spot on the junior team.”

“How about you?” I asked, as Paulo brought us to a stop and the bus's doors opened with a belch of air. “What are you going to do here?”

“Maybe play a few innings. Catch some rays in the outfield,” he answered with a widening grin. “Then hit the beach in my uniform top. Impress the local senoritas. That's my plan—like a little vacation.”

Uncle Ramon was the first one off the bus. He was talking with those big shots while the rest of us unloaded the gear and gathered outside. A few dark clouds were hanging low in the sky over our heads, covering up the sun.

A moment later, Moyano, with his hand on Uncle Ramon's shoulder, spoke to us. “When this tournament is over tomorrow, some of you will be playing for me as Nacionales,” said Moyano, through the chewed-up cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Other teams are here from Cárdenas, Santa Clara, and Puerto Padre. They're your competition. We only want the best of the best. Cuba's best. Our proudest. I won't accept anything less. You know who you are. How you have to perform. You only let yourselves down when you fail, because we'll find someone hungrier to take your place. Remember that. Now your coach will give you instructions.”

As a sprinkle of rain began to fall, Uncle Ramon cleared his throat and stepped forward from Moyano's grasp.

“Dormitory number four, that's ours. It's two players to a room. Breakfast is in the cafeteria, and then we're on the field for practice at eleven o'clock. We play Puerto Padre at twelve thirty. I'll post the lineup inside our dugout soon.”

He seemed to be done talking, so most of us started toward the dorms, including me. Then Uncle Ramon spoke again and my feet came to a halt, gripping the gravel below them.

“For lots of you, this is a dream. But it's a dream that can slip away with age faster than you think. I know all about that,” he said, touching a few gray hairs around his temple. “Don't let this chance pass you by without a fight. Approach it with passion. At least then you'll always be able to live with yourself, no matter what the outcome. Now, go prepare yourselves.”

Walking to the dorms, I felt a kind of electricity revving up and pulsing through me from Uncle Ramon's words. And I could feel that same energy jumping off most of my teammates.

As another raindrop tapped my forehead, I separated myself from the others by falling back a little bit. Then, instead of entering the dorm, I walked behind a large wooden shed filled with gardening tools. I looked around in every direction. When I was sure no one could see me, I took the transistor radio out from my pocket.

I wanted to know about the weather for the World Series.

The reception from the US stations during the day isn't nearly as good as at night. It's constantly cutting in and out. So I pressed the blue plastic radio with the black dials up against my ear, struggling to hear.

Nightly forecast . . . intermittent showers . . . Yankee Stadium . . . Game Three of the Series . . . tied at one . . . the visiting Miami Marlins . . . under way at eight . . . clearing later tonight . . . now a word from . . . all your lumber and hardware needs. . . .

– – –

Luis and I shared a tiny room with two single beds in it. They were perfectly made up, covered in worn-out comforters and pillowcases. A see-through plastic tub, to store belongings, peeked out from the floor beneath each one. There was a nightstand with a lamp on it between the beds. And the one bathroom was down the hall for the entire team to use.

I thought of the fancy hotel suite that Papi was probably staying in, after arriving in New York on the Marlins' private jet. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of wanting to trade places.

My cousin grabbed the bed closest to the door.

“Sometimes I need to
go
in the middle of the night,” he said. “This'll make it easier. I won't wake you.”

“That's fine,” I said, pulling the tub out from under my bed. “This is better than sleeping on a foldout couch. That's all I care about.”

Before Luis unpacked, he put a small framed photo of his mother, Blanca, on the nightstand. He crossed himself. Then, with a click of the lamp, the warm, bright light shone on her face.

Nobody expected my aunt to die. She was completely healthy before getting pneumonia. The doctors said my aunt was so strong that she'd walked around with it for two weeks doing her normal chores—laundry, cooking, a weekend shift in the sugarcane refinery. So when the phone call came from the hospital that Aunt Blanca had died, none of us believed it. We thought there had to be some mistake. But there wasn't.

I swear, Luis cried for a week straight. His eyes would water everywhere—home, church, the funeral, and school. And it didn't look like he had one bit of shame over it either. When Papi left, I cried a lot, too. Only I wouldn't do it in front of anyone. I didn't even want people to see that my eyes were red.

Since then, we've had plenty of sleepovers together, both at my house and his. Luis would always say his prayers before bed. Like a little kid, he'd get on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him and close his eyes. Then his mouth would move with no sound coming out, until he was finished. I never poked fun at him over it. I'd just stay quiet and try to be respectful.

“My son has faith in his prayers,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “I quit praying a long time ago. I believe God already knows what we want. Why should I bother
Him
? I'll work on those things myself.”

I stopped believing in a lot of things when Papi turned his back on us. And if I ever have any praying to do, I save it for when I'm rounding third base, hoping to be safe at home plate.

– – –

The cafeteria was packed with more than a hundred players and coaches. We were stuck in a long line of people holding red plastic trays and moving slowly between two silver rails along a glass counter. Older women wearing paper hats that looked like sailboats were serving breakfast. There were scrambled eggs and bacon, waffles, cold cereal, fruit, and tostada—toasted bread—to dunk in milk or
café con leche
.

I'd been drinking coffee for a few years, and liked it most in the morning.

“That stuff's nasty,” said Luis as I poured myself a cup. “Too bitter.”

“Stick to chocolate milk, little boy,” I needled him. “When you're ready to put some hair on your chest, I'll let you try some of this.”

“I've had it before. Makes me jumpy. I'm hyper enough,” he said, biting into a strip of bacon as we moved forward. “But I like coffee ice cream.”

As we came off the line, the cafeteria looked like it was divided into four separate camps. That's because the all-star teams were sitting at their own tables, dressed in different colored uniforms. But there were only three players who weren't from Matanzas who had my attention. Those were the other shortstops I was in competition with. The most important one was Chico López from Puerto Padre, our opponent that afternoon. He was a show-off with a big ego. They called him “Matador,” because he used his glove like a bullfighter wields a cape. He tried to make even the most routine plays look flashy that way. And on his feet he wore a pair of spikes painted gold, just to stand out.

Once I reached our section of tables, my eyes went searching for Matador.

Only his eyes found me first.

“Behind you, coming off the breakfast line,” Luis said, tapping my shoulder. “That hotdogger's looking right at you.”

His gold spikes were hanging around his neck like a pair of boxing gloves. And the closer he got, the more his eyes riveted onto mine.

“That's a challenge if I ever saw one,” said Luis, sounding insulted. “A challenge to my family.”

“Calm down. He's grilling me, not you.”

Matador stopped a few feet from our table.

“All those millions and your pop can't buy you a decent pair of shoes,” he said, spying my beat-up cleats on the floor beside me while balancing his tray on the fingertips of one hand. “What a pity.”

Luis cursed at him. But I just focused on the black pupils of his brown eyes.

“Nope, no Nike shoes,” I said, dunking bread into my coffee. “Just that glove I wear. You want to try it on one day? See if it fits?”

He sucked his teeth at me with a sharp
thhh
and walked off.

“Want me to knock that tray out of his pretty little hands? I will,” steamed Luis. “I've got nothing to lose. They suspend me, I'll have more time for the beach.”

“That's tough talk coming from somebody with a chocolate milk mustache,” I said.

Then I stared down Luis until he was almost forced to smile.

“Let Matador run his mouth,” I said, poking my eggs with a plastic fork. “He doesn't understand how much it motivates me. None of them do, especially those coaches for the Nacionales.”

After breakfast, we all grabbed our gear and headed for the field house. We changed in a damp locker room, behind and a few steps below our third-base dugout.

I looked into the one mirror there, tightening the belt on my red uniform with the green crocodile swinging a baseball bat. Then I pulled my cap down low over my eyes.

“Crocodiles, let's take the field together!” shouted Uncle Ramon from the doorway, with a clap of his hands. “One team! One mind! Matanzas!”

We moved through a short hall, with our spikes scratching the floor, and then into the dugout. That's when I first caught sight of the field. Maybe it was something that had been building up inside of me, begging to be released—the pressure, the anger. I wasn't sure. But for a moment, seeing that field was like walking out into a brand-new world. Every dark cloud in the sky had burned off beneath the sun. The grass was the brightest green I'd ever seen, still glistening from the rain. There wasn't a single rock or even a pebble on the base paths. And I didn't know how a baseball could ever take a bad hop on a diamond that perfect.

So I stepped out onto the grass. It was cut about an inch high all the way across in two different directions, looking like a checkerboard. The soft cushion felt great beneath my feet. It reminded me of walking on the thick carpet in the hotel lobby where Mama worked.

I decided to loosen up my legs by jogging in the outfield. Soon Luis was running beside me. The outfield fences were a few feet lower than the ones back home.

“I love these low fences. Watch this,” said Luis, increasing his speed.

Luis headed straight for the fence in full stride. Then he planted his foot at the bottom and scaled it with a flying leap. He threw his arm way over the top, as if he were bringing a home run back into the park.

“I could have jumped right over if I wanted,” said Luis, grinning and hanging on top of the fence by his armpit.

He seemed so happy to be up there, I went sprinting for that fence myself. Then I leaped and took flight, joining him. The two of us just hung there for a while, laughing and looking over both sides. It wasn't until Uncle Ramon called the team together for fielding practice that I even thought about coming down.

I put my glove on and took about twenty ground balls at shortstop, firing a half dozen of them over to first base. A few minutes later, Uncle Ramon walked to the mound to pitch batting practice. So I raced into the dugout to grab a bat and take my swings. Pinned to the wall was the starting lineup. In the leadoff spot, Uncle Ramon had written my name in thick black marker.

PLAYER POS.
1. Ramirez Jr. SS

As I stepped back outside with a bat on my shoulder, I heard my name—“Julio!”—and clapping from the stands. Maybe forty or fifty people were already there, watching practice and waiting for the first game to begin. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. Following the echo of the last few claps, I saw it was Uncle Ramon's friend Gabriel. He was wearing a flower-print shirt, shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. And I couldn't help thinking he looked as out of place there as that fat slob Moyano did being a baseball coach.