Strike Zone

by Mike Lupica

  He didn’t, though. And he didn’t realize he was crying until he made it inside the apartment.

  16

  The four of them sat at the kitchen table: Nick, his parents, and Amelia. Nick had just finished recounting what he’d witnessed on the way home.

  Nick’s mom said she heard about it after receiving a text from a friend who lived in the building.

  “The young man is from Ecuador,” Graciela García said. “He’d been deported once before, after defending his wife from a man harassing her on the street. But somehow he made it back into the country. He still had a record, though. That’s how ICE and the police were able to track him.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a very serious crime,” Amelia said, “defending his wife.”

  “For people like us,” Victor García said, “all crimes are treated as serious crimes now, no matter how minor.”

  “Even if all you were trying to do was get to a job interview,” Nick said.

  His dad nodded gravely.

  “Why do they bully people like this?” Nick asked in earnest.

  “Because they can,” his father replied.

  “It could happen to you,” Amelia said. It was what they were all thinking. Now she had said it.

  “Yes,” her dad said. “But it won’t.”

  “But it could,” she said. Nick was glad Amelia was speaking what he couldn’t bring himself to say. Perhaps Amelia did share his fears.

  “But it won’t. I won’t let it.”

  They sat in silence. This was a family conversation they’d had before, and Nick and Amelia always knew how it went. Their dad would reassure them he was being careful. He’d urge them to be cautious about whom they spoke to, whom they trusted, and to be suspicious of anyone they didn’t know. Then he’d say he was hopeful that soon new politicians would take control of the government in Washington, DC, people who knew how much immigrants have contributed toward making America the kind of place where people want to come and live.

  “I read something President Ronald Reagan once said,” Victor García began. “He said, ‘Anybody from any corner of the world can come to America to live and become an American.’”

  “That man I saw being put into the van tonight—do you think he thought of himself that way?” Nick asked.

  “He risked everything to come back here,” his mom said. “I don’t see how he could think of himself any other way.”

  There was nothing more to say, at least not tonight. Amelia went to her room. Nick went to his. He didn’t know how the Yankee game ended, and for this one night, he didn’t care.

  Nick got ready for bed on autopilot. As he flicked off his light and closed his eyes, he saw the man in handcuffs, his wife crying, the old man, and the blue vests.

  He lay there like that for a long time, knowing it would be hard for sleep to find him tonight.

  He was still wide-awake when he heard the door creak open, and saw the silhouette of his father in the doorframe. With the light from the hallway, Nick could see him wearing a gray T-shirt and running shorts.

  “I am so sorry you had to see that,” Victor García said.

  Nick felt a lump begin to rise up inside his throat, but he forced himself to swallow it down. He didn’t want to feel sorry for himself. Amelia never did, and Nick wasn’t going to, either.

  He wondered, in the dim light, if his dad could see him squeeze his eyes shut before opening them again, willing the tears away.

  “I am so sorry,” his dad continued, “that I am putting our family through this.” He sighed. “My children are citizens and their parents are not. Qué mundo.”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  “But I did,” his dad said, his voice soft.

  Nick didn’t want to blame his dad for one mistake, and found it extremely unfair that he’d have to pay for that mistake every day of his life.

  “Things will get better,” his dad said. “We all have to keep believing that.”

  “It’s so hard sometimes.”

  “I know,” Victor García said. “One of the definitions of faith is believing in what you cannot see.”

  “I know what I saw tonight,” Nick said.

  At the kitchen table earlier, Nick had hesitated to tell his family what he knew about the head ICE agent—he didn’t want to scare anyone. But in the end, he decided it was best if someone else knew. It was funny, Nick thought: “ICE Man” made him sound like somebody who belonged in a comic book. Or maybe an Avengers movie. A bad guy masquerading as one of the good guys.

  “You’re sure it was the man you saw outside our building?” Victor asked now in Nick’s bedroom.

  “Pretty sure, Dad.”

  “If you see him again, anywhere in our neighborhood, you tell me,” Victor García said. “If I am at work, you call me or tell your mother.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now go to sleep.”

  “I can’t.”

  They were on familiar ground now.

  “Funny. You’ve always managed in the past,” his dad said, before closing the door, leaving Nick in darkness.

  It wasn’t until he awoke the next morning that he found out the Yankees won and Michael Arroyo hadn’t given up another run before leaving the game after the eighth inning.

  There were so few things to count on these days: the love of his family, his ability to throw a baseball, friends he could trust.

  And he could count on Michael Arroyo.

  Michael had once been afraid in the Bronx the way Nick was afraid now. Maybe Michael had needed faith, too. Faith to believe he’d ever have the kind of life he had now.

  Nick tried to envision that kind of life for himself. The life he should have. But all he could see, even in his dreams, was the ICE Man, standing between him and Yankee Stadium.

  17

  Marisol called the next day to tell Nick she was meeting a friend at the tennis court the following morning, and asked if he wanted to come along.

  “It’s about time I see you in action,” he said.

  “Took the words right outta my mouth.”

  Most of the time she played at the Stadium Tennis Center, a big place with indoor and outdoor courts at 152nd Street near the Harlem River.

  “Do I have to carry your rackets?” Nick asked when he met her on the corner of 161st and Grand Concourse.

  “Do you ask me to carry your bat and glove?” was her retort.

  “Stupid question, huh?”

  “Nah, it was cute,” Marisol said, and Nick could feel himself blushing all the way to his ears.

  Marisol played tennis almost every day. When she wasn’t taking lessons with her coach or playing matches, she hit with her friend Nicole, who also played singles on their summer travel team. They played more matches than the Blazers did games in their tournament. But at the end, the top two teams would play a championship match at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, which hosted the US Open, right across the street from the Mets’ ballpark, Citi Field.

  “I can’t even imagine,” Marisol said to Nick as they made the walk to the Stadium Tennis Center, “what it would be like playing in the stadium there.”

  “I can imagine it,” Nick said. “Totally.”

  “I guess it would kinda be similar to you pitching inside Yankee Stadium,” Marisol said knowingly.

  They were waiting for the light at 155th Street. Nick bristled at her words, and turned to face her.

  “You know about the MVP award?” he said incredulously.

  “I know,” she said, with a teasing twinkle in her eye.

  “Who told you?” Nick said. “Ben or Diego?”

  “Neither,” she said. “One of the guys my dad works with is on the board of the Dream League. He told my dad.”

  Great, Nick thought. Like I need another cop knowing my name.


  “Anyway,” Marisol said, “my dad was the one who told me you might get the chance to throw out the first pitch. He said now we both have something extra to play for this summer.”

  “I’m not the only player in the league who could win the MVP,” Nick said, trying to play it smooth.

  “But won’t you have the best chance if your team wins the championship?” she asked.

  “It might help,” Nick said. “But sometimes they pick a player who’s not on the best team. Eric Dobbs, another pitcher, is really, really good. There’s this big guy, Benny Alvarez, who I’m sure is gonna lead the league in home runs.”

  “But if you’re the best pitcher on the best team, it’s got to be you, right?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Doesn’t always work that way,” he said. “Mike Trout, who plays for the Angels in the big leagues, has won multiple MVPs, and the Angels weren’t close to being the best team when he did.”

  “Well, if I had a vote, you’d get it,” Marisol said.

  Nick smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “Hope the coaches who vote feel the same way.”

  Then he dropped the subject and promised to focus on her tennis for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  • • •

  Nick couldn’t believe how big the Stadium Tennis Center was: twelve courts side by side under a dome, with more courts outside. Nicole was waiting for Marisol on one of the outdoor courts. She said it was too nice a day to play inside. Nicole had a long blonde ponytail swinging down her back and was even taller than Nick. Marisol tied her own dark hair into a braid before introducing them courtside.

  “So you’re the pitcher I’ve been hearing so much about,” Nicole said in singsong.

  “Oh, have you?” Nick said, grinning at Marisol.

  “Nicole,” Marisol said. “Try to remember that you’re supposed to be my friend?”

  “Did I say something wrong?” Nicole said, covering her mouth in feigned embarrassment.

  “You’ll find out as soon as we’re on the court, Miss Chatty,” Marisol said.

  “Bring it.”

  “I always do.”

  Nick didn’t follow tennis, and probably knew less about it than Marisol knew about baseball. But he only had to watch for a few minutes to appreciate how much athleticism and focus was involved. His head whipped back and forth to each side of the net, watching Marisol and Nicole going at it. He was impressed by how hard they hit, and noticed they put a spin on the ball just like Nick did when he secretly practiced throwing curves. Marisol had been right about one thing: in tennis, the action never let up for very long.

  But it wasn’t just tennis that was amazing to him. Marisol was amazing. Nick could tell, even without knowing much about the sport, that Nicole was a good player. But she was no Marisol Pérez.

  She was like a power pitcher and a power hitter all in one, and she never seemed to get tired, running after the ball and trying to move Nicole from side to side. She came sprinting in for balls near the net, then immediately backed up to the baseline when Nicole managed to get a ball over her head.

  Every once in a while, she gave out a whoop or shook a fist when she hit a winner. Nick never got the feeling that she was trying to show up her friend. It was more a feeling of pride for herself.

  She and Nicole were doing what Nick, Ben, and Diego did in baseball: getting after it.

  Marisol had explained the scoring in tennis to Nick on the way over, and he thought he had it down, even if it made absolutely no sense to him: 15–love, 15–30, 30–40. Deuce.

  “What’s wrong with one-zero, two-zero, three-zero?” Nick said.

  “It kind of started out this way in France, in olden times,” Marisol explained. “I read up on the history of the whole ‘love’ thing.”

  “Love?” Now there’s a word, Nick thought.

  “It had something to do with zeros being the shape of eggs and the French word for eggs sounding like ‘love,’” Marisol said, throwing her hands up. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea.”

  “But you said that when there’s a tiebreaker, you just count up the points until somebody gets to seven and wins by two.”

  “Maybe it’s because the tiebreaker was invented in America!”

  “You know what else was invented in America?” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “Baseball.”

  “Does everything come back to baseball with you?” she said teasingly.

  He grinned. “Nah. I’m totally a tennis guy now.”

  “Ha!”

  “Hey! I could surprise you,” Nick said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet you’re full of surprises.”

  “What’s that mean?” he said.

  “Just throwing that out there,” she said. “Like a curveball.”

  Nick was absorbed in the match, rooting for Marisol but trying not to be obvious about it. When a ball rolled off the court, Nick acted as a ball boy, running after it. It was all fun, and Nick enjoyed the reprieve from worrying about what happened two nights ago. Like the anxious part of his brain got a chance to shut down for a few hours. It felt good to get out of himself and into a sport that wasn’t his own.

  Marisol won the first set against Nicole, and Nicole came back to win the next 6–4. Finally they decided to play a tiebreaker, which Marisol ended up winning 7–5, passing Nicole, who’d come to the net, with one last screaming forehand. After the move, Nick couldn’t help himself. He stood up and applauded.

  “Guess we know who you were pulling for, baseball man,” Nicole teased.

  “I root for him when he plays,” Marisol said, trying to avoid the awkwardness of before by saving Nick the embarrassment.

  Nick didn’t care how long the walk home took from the tennis center. He was with Marisol. He knew he would always stress a little in her presence, nervous something might slip out of his mouth that he’d regret. But he couldn’t deny that being with her made him happy.

  Something was nagging at him, though. And maybe it was that he wasn’t being 100 percent truthful with her. She didn’t know the whole story, the part of himself he reserved for his family, and sometimes Ben and Diego. Nick didn’t feel as if he were deceiving her, exactly. His father did tell him to be cautious about divulging the family’s personal information. But Marisol felt like family. It didn’t seem right to keep things from her.

  But he couldn’t tell her about his dad’s crime. Marisol was a policeman’s daughter, and Nick was unsure about police protocol. If Nick told her about his dad’s past and all the rest of it, maybe it was Officer Pérez’s duty to tell his superiors. Or maybe he’d be obligated to simply arrest Nick’s dad himself. Nick couldn’t compromise his own family like that, and didn’t want to put Marisol in a difficult position.

  They were getting near Yankee Stadium when Marisol said, “Did you hear about the man they arrested last night?”

  Nick’s face grew hot. “You know about that?”

  “My mom said everybody in the neighborhood is talking about it,” Marisol said. “Your parents must know.”

  “I was there,” Nick said.

  “Are you serious?” Marisol said. “You saw it happen?”

  “Yeah.” Nick wished Marisol would drop the subject, but that was highly unlikely.

  “It must have been crazy,” she said.

  “It was sad, actually,” Nick said. “The man’s wife—at least I think it was his wife—was there, too, crying while they took him away.”

  “But he’d been arrested before, right?” Marisol said, like it was a simple matter. “My dad always says that if you got arrested, you did something.”

  Nick’s stomach twisted up inside. Marisol always saw everything in plain black and white. To Nick, it was much more complicated than that.

  They were walking past Nick�
��s field now. Nobody was playing, and Nick wasn’t sure whether there was a game scheduled for later. But anytime he came here and the field wasn’t in use, it always felt like a waste of a perfectly good ball field.

  Nick told Marisol what he had learned about the man from Ecuador. How he’d been deported for defending his wife, and came back to America to be with her.

  “But it all started because he broke the law,” Marisol said.

  Nick didn’t want to be having this conversation with her, afraid more than ever that he might say too much. He wanted so badly to explain to Marisol that not every crime is done with malice. But he stopped himself before the words could come flying out of him.

  What he did say: “I don’t even know the man, but to me it doesn’t seem like what he did should be enough to ruin their lives.”

  Marisol, rackets tucked in the case under her arm, stopped now, behind the screen near home plate, a curious look on her face.

  “You seem to have given this a lot of thought, for someone you don’t even know,” she said.

  “Like you said,” Nick replied, “everybody was talking about it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They took a right at 161st and walked underneath the subway tracks. When the roar of the train pulling into the station subsided, Marisol said, “You can confide in me, you know. If there’s anything you want to tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “If I tell you, then they won’t be secrets,” Nick said, trying to make a joke but also desperate to change the subject again.

  “For real?” Marisol’s face grew serious. “I’d be really hurt if you kept something big from me.”

  And probably end up hating me, too, Nick thought.

  “Okay! For real,” he said, ready to end this conversation. “Now, let’s talk about funny things.”

  “Like what?” she said.

  “Like that little squeak you make when you lean into a shot.”

  He tried to imitate it, and thought he’d done a pretty decent job. She tried to punch his arm, but he dodged her and ran up the sidewalk. Marisol chased after him—Marisol, who didn’t want him keeping secrets from her.