by Mike Lupica
“So nothing’s changed,” Amelia said, making no attempt to hide her disappointment.
“I’ll just keep preparing our case for when our time comes,” Mr. Gasson said. “Part of it involves your medical condition, Amelia. When I get my chance, I’ll explain to the judge that the best treatment you can get can only be found in the best city in the world.”
It made Amelia smile. “Glad we can put lupus to good use for a change.”
A tangible calm settled over the room then, in stark contrast to all the noise and liveliness of the party. They sat together on the couch.
“I know it’s like this unspoken thing,” Nick said. “But the conditions in the detention center are awful, aren’t they?”
“I don’t want to lie to you,” Mr. Gasson said, though it pained him to be so candid, “but the facilities are not what I’d deem satisfactory.”
Nick shifted uncomfortably. It was the answer he expected, but not the one he wanted to hear.
“It would take a miracle for him to get to Yankee Stadium, right?”
“Miracles happen,” Mr. Gasson said, urging Nick not to lose hope. “And if I can make one happen, I will.”
They thanked him again before he left, and then Nick figured he’d better get to his laptop while the night was still fresh in his mind. It was important to get the details down exactly right so he’d never forget a single moment.
Because of his misgivings at the start of the season, it wouldn’t have occurred to Nick to expect this day to arrive. He hadn’t given thought to how he’d feel if he won the MVP award; never gave himself permission to imagine it. Yet here he was, preparing for one of the most important events of his life. Doing it all without the one person he’d hoped to share it with: his dad.
Nick wrote it all down with no intention of showing it to anybody. He was careful to save it in a hidden folder on his desktop so there was no chance of anyone discovering it. Not even Amelia.
If he didn’t tell anybody, the wish could still come true.
That’s how it worked, right?
42
For the next few days, Nick called Mr. Gasson right around lunchtime to check for an update, holding out hope that somehow his dad might still make it to Yankee Stadium.
Mr. Gasson explained how he was taking a new approach with the deportation officer assigned to Victor García’s case. It was possible he could get Nick’s dad released into custody just for one night, to see Nick throw his pitch.
“It’s another long shot, Mr. Gasson said. “But it’s not unheard of to release a detainee for special circumstances like weddings or funerals or graduations. I’m trying to convince them that your dad ought to be able to see a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for his son.”
* * *
• • •
Ten days went by like ten minutes, and suddenly it was the day of the pitch. Nick hadn’t heard from Mr. Gasson yet, but he wasn’t ready to let go of his belief that miracles could still happen.
They arrived at the Stadium in the early evening, about an hour before the game was scheduled to start. Nick, with his mom, Amelia, Ben, Diego, and Marisol as his own personal entourage. The first thing Nick did when he arrived was leave a ticket for his dad at will call.
Just in case.
He left another for Mr. Gasson.
A woman named Debbie from the Yankees’ promotions department was waiting for them near Gate 4. She welcomed them and walked them through security into the Stadium. Coach Viera and the rest of the Blazers would be showing up later; their seats were right behind third base. After Nick threw out the first pitch, he would be sitting right next to the Yankee dugout with his family and friends, in the richest seats the Yankees had.
Debbie asked if Nick would be all right throwing to the Yankees’ catcher, but Nick asked if he could throw to Ben instead.
“We’re kind of a team,” he said.
“Fine with me,” Debbie said, jotting it down in her notebook. “The optics will be terrific.”
“Optics?”
“Just two young guys having a game of catch at the most famous ballpark in the world.”
Debbie pointed to what Nick had in his hand.
“I see you’ve even brought a catcher’s mitt for Ben.”
“Actually, it’s my dad’s,” Nick said.
Debbie’s brows furrowed. “Is he coming?”
“Hoping he’s on his way.”
“Oh, so he’s coming from work,” Debbie said.
Nick looked down at his feet. “Not exactly.”
Then he checked his phone. It was 6:15. He was throwing out the first pitch just before seven o’clock, ten minutes or so before the first pitch of the game between the Yankees and the Tampa Bay Rays.
He said to Debbie, “I hate to ask for anything . . .”
“Ask away,” Debbie said. “It’s your night.”
“My dad would be coming from New Jersey,” he said. “If he gets here in time, would it be all right if he was the one catching my pitch?”
“Well now,” Debbie said, “that would be a dream optic, wouldn’t it?”
You have no idea, Nick thought.
He turned to Ben, hoping he’d understand if, at the last minute, Nick’s dad filled in as catcher.
“I’ve caught every pitch you’ve thrown all season,” Ben said. “But trust me, this one time I’d be happy for Mr. García to take my place.”
Debbie had one of her assistants show Graciela, Amelia, Marisol, and Diego to their seats in the first row, while she led Nick and Ben past the visitors’ clubhouse and down an entranceway out to the field. They came out on the third-base side of Yankee Stadium.
The stands weren’t nearly full yet, but Nick didn’t care. He and Ben stood gazing out at the field, soaking it all in at once: the bright green of the turf practically glowing under the white lights projecting out, the crisp blue of the outfield walls, the huge screen in center field flanked on both sides by various advertisements. Then, out where he knew all the monuments and plaques were exhibited in Monument Park, the most famous museum in baseball outside of the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York.
Out here, Nick didn’t have to check his phone. There was a big clock in the outfield.
It was 6:40.
Still time for his dad to make it somehow.
Not much.
But still.
If Mrs. G was right, and this was the way his story was supposed to end, then Victor García should come running onto the field any minute.
Announcers always talked about how one of the charms of baseball was the absence of a clock. But right now, Nick felt as if he were trying to beat one.
Debbie excused herself to handle some official Yankee business, leaving Ben and Nick to admire the field. They stood with their feet planted, marveling at their surroundings and thinking of how crazy it was that they were here.
Eyeing the front row, where his mom, Amelia, and Marisol sat, Nick noticed Diego wasn’t with them and pointed it out to Ben.
“Where do you think he is?” Nick said.
“Knowing him?” Ben said. “Probably getting ice cream.”
“Hey!” Diego shouted from behind them. “You should know I wouldn’t have ice cream without eating a hot dog first.”
Nick and Ben turned over their shoulders to see Diego standing beside Debbie at the entrance to the field, the hot dog in his hand smothered in ketchup and mustard.
“I was told,” she said coyly, “that the three of you are a team. Didn’t think tonight should be an exception.”
Now they each stood there, taking in the sights and sounds of Yankee Stadium together.
Diego looked to Nick and Ben. “Think they’d mind if I ran out to center field?”
“Uh, yes,” said Ben.
Nick just rolled his
eyes. Classic Diego.
He’d hoped to see Michael Arroyo on the field, but it was getting close to game time, and he was probably in the locker room suiting up. Since their conversation several weeks prior, neither Michael nor Carlos Arroyo had reached out to Mr. Gasson.
Nick had to face facts. No matter how good their intentions were, maybe there was nothing they could do to help his dad.
In the end, though, Michael was still his hero, and Nick still wanted him to see his pitch from the Yankee dugout.
He checked the clock again.
It was 6:50 now.
He squinted into the stands where his mom was, noting the empty seat beside her, still imagining the scene playing out the way he’d written it, with his dad running down the aisle . . .
But then Debbie said, “It’s time.”
Time. All Nick needed was a little more time. Debbie walked him and Ben toward the pitcher’s mound as the voice of the Yankees’ public address announcer came over the speaker.
“Tonight’s first pitch will be thrown out by twelve-year-old Nick García,” the voice echoed through the Stadium, “the Most Valuable Player for the Dream League tournament that concluded last week, cosponsored by the Yankees and Major League Baseball.”
Nick took one last look over at the first row.
The seat next to his mom was still empty.
“He’s not here,” Nick said to Ben. His dad should’ve been on the field by then, ready with his catcher’s mitt, crouching behind home plate.
“But you are,” Ben said, pulling Nick back into the moment. He left Nick on the mound and walked in the direction of the batter’s box.
Then Debbie handed Nick a brand-new baseball. Looking down, he saw that it had already been signed by Michael Arroyo: For Nick, who will someday pitch from this mound for the Yankees. Your friend, Michael.
Nick angled his head toward the Yankee dugout. And there Michael was, standing on the top step, smiling, pointing at him with both hands.
Nick went and took his place on the rubber. The mound felt so much higher than the one at Macombs Dam Park, as if Nick were standing on top of a mountain.
But even here, in the great baseball place, things got quiet for Nick. He blocked out the rumble of the crowd so that all he could hear was the beating of his own heart.
He took one last look around, absorbing every last detail. This part of the dream looked almost exactly as he had imagined it would. Almost.
Nick looked in at Ben. No mask on him tonight. Nick could see the big smile on his face, as he set Nick’s target with Victor García’s glove.
Then, for the last time this season, Nick brought the heat.
THREE
MONTHS
LATER
43
It was the first week of December, a little over a month after the Yankees had won another World Series.
Officer Pérez had gotten Nick and Marisol tickets to Game Six, so they were lucky enough to be there in person when Michael started and won the deciding game.
Now, almost four full months after Victor García was taken to New Jersey, came what Nick and his mom and sister hoped would be a different kind of ending. After all this time, Victor still forbade his family from seeing him at the detention center, wearing his orange jumpsuit like a common criminal, in the terrible conditions Mr. Gasson described. Nick could never decide whether it was pride on his father’s part, or anger, or shame, or all those things combined that made him so insistent his family never come visit.
But today, they would get to see his face at least, on the large monitor that was set up in the courtroom of the immigration judge. The one who would preside over Victor’s bond hearing, here at the courthouse on Varick Street, near the Holland Tunnel.
They’d be able to see Victor García even if the only people he’d be able to see through the screen were the judge, Mr. Gasson, and the ICE attorney appointed to his case.
It wasn’t long after Nick and his mom and Amelia had taken their seats in the spectator area, a row behind Mr. Gasson, that Victor’s face popped up on the screen.
“My Victor,” Graciela García said softly.
Amelia, looking pale and tired—likely from the hour-and-a-half-long subway ride it took to get there—reached over and grabbed Nick’s hand.
Soon they would find out if their dad would be released from custody, free to officially petition for what was called a “cancellation of removal,” as in removal from the United States.
Mr. Gasson kept reminding them that the process could take years, and that thought made Nick’s head swim. For now, he tried to stay clearheaded on what they all wanted to see happen today: the judge ruling in favor of his dad coming home.
Today it was up to Mr. Gasson to control what he could control.
At last, a door at the back of the courtroom opened, and the judge, an older man wearing round spectacles and a black robe, walked in and took his seat at the bench, calling the hearing to order. He gave Mr. Gasson the floor to proceed with his case.
Mr. Gasson presented the judge with all of the letters of support he’d collected for Victor García: from both the owner and the manager of the restaurant where he worked, a few of Victor’s other colleagues, and some friends and neighbors in the community who knew Victor García’s character well. Mr. Gasson presented Amelia’s medical history into evidence, and Victor’s tax records as well.
“Yes, Your Honor, Mr. García pays his taxes,” Mr. Gasson said. “He believes it is the American thing to do. Another misconception about noncitizens is that they don’t pay their taxes. But Mr. García does.”
Mr. Gasson sat at a table across from the judge and continued to speak about Victor García’s life in New York, and why he’d chosen to stay in the city after his tourist visa expired.
“He was afraid that if he left he would never be allowed to return,” Mr. Gasson said. “This wasn’t criminality, Your Honor. This was a young man driven by the dream of a better life than the one he had left behind.”
Mr. Gasson explained that Nick’s dad had only jumped the turnstile that day out of desperation. He couldn’t risk losing the chance at a good paying job, something that would have allowed him to further acclimate to American life. He went on to describe the truth behind the fight in front of the urgent care clinic, how the man attacked Victor on a night when he was preoccupied with his daughter’s health.
Mr. Gasson spoke for a long time.
Then it was Victor García’s turn.
He appeared much thinner than the last time Nick had seen him. And the four months he’d been away seemed to accelerate his aging. He looked older and even grayer than Nick remembered.
But he was still his dad. A man of few words even now, with his freedom on the line.
“I have made mistakes, Your Honor,” Victor García began. “But those mistakes do not change the fact that the only thing I love more than this country is my family. I have tried to honor them, and America, through my work ethic and by the way my wife and I have raised our children, how we’ve taught them to dream. The way I myself have lived the immigrant dream so many before me have lived.”
The ICE attorney spoke next. He was a bald man in a gray suit, who sat at his own table facing the judge. He argued, in what Nick thought was an unnecessarily cruel way, why the government believed Victor García should remain in New Jersey. He pointed out that Victor had now broken the laws of the land on three separate occasions: when he had originally overstayed his visa, when he had jumped that turnstile, and when he had gotten into the fight in front of the hospital. He didn’t stop there, accusing Victor García of being a threat to the community and a strain on America’s resources, before adding that having a sick daughter didn’t change or excuse these facts.
“We don’t make these laws, Your Honor,” the ICE attorney said. “It is simply our job to ask that they be enfor
ced. Frankly, Mr. García believes he’s honoring his country by only following the laws he likes, and ignoring the ones he doesn’t. America doesn’t work that way, at least not for Americans who actually respect our country’s laws.”
Nick looked down and saw his own fists clenched, the way his dad’s had been that night in front of urgent care. The night that had started them on the road to this room. The ICE attorney was making his dad sound like a dangerous man, someone who should be locked up and kept away from society. He was twisting the story to serve his own purposes. But then, Nick knew he should have expected this. Mr. Gasson warned them they weren’t going in without a fight. The ICE attorney was bringing his case, same as Mr. Gasson. That’s how the legal system worked. Nick just had to be patient and hope the judge found their case to be the stronger one.
The judge then gave Mr. Gasson the opportunity to respond. For some reason, Mr. Gasson looked at his watch and turned toward the door to the courtroom. Nick thought he looked upset about something, or annoyed, but couldn’t figure out why.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Gasson said, clearing his throat. “I do have a few more things I’d like to say to the court.”
“I am not only here to speak on Victor García’s behalf today,” he said as he lifted himself out of his chair. “I speak for all those like him, who were drawn to the possibilities of America, who came here in search of a better life, whose stories are as American as yours or mine. The true greatness of this country can be found in its history, a history written by immigrants like Mr. García. He isn’t a flight risk. He isn’t a danger to his community. He is a proud and productive member of that community, and should be able to return to it, and his family, tonight.”
He turned toward Nick and his mom and sister and gave them a weak smile, a message to hold on and keep hoping.
“It’s worth remembering today how our national anthem concludes, ‘the land of the free and the home of the brave,’” Mr. Gasson said. “Victor García is brave, Your Honor, as brave as anybody I know. It is time to finally set him free.”
