Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  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.

  5

  SOON IT WAS Matador and his Puerto Padre teammates’ turn on the field. I sat in our dugout watching him take ground balls. The growing crowd in the stands was really into it. There were oohs and aahs every time he flashed leather, and even I was impressed with his glove.

  Then Matador finally booted a ball, trying to be too slick.

  “Why are your spikes yellow? So you can have some mustard on that hot dog?” Luis, who wasn’t in our starting lineup, shouted. “I hope that one tasted good!”

  The players on our bench loved that remark.

  “Bueno,” said Uncle Ramon, clapping quietly. “I knew there was a reason I picked you for this team, son.”

  Luis was grinning from ear to ear. Matador glanced into our dugout, spitting sunflower seeds from his mouth and pointing to the ground with his middle finger. Most of our guys were pissed at that. So was I. Only I kept my expression blank, not wanting to show any emotion or get involved in that nonsense.

  After the players from Puerto Padre took batting practice, a professional-looking grounds crew came onto the field. I guess they worked for Moyano and the Nacionales. They used a bucket of chalk dust to mark the lines between fair and foul territory, and a rigid template to draw the batter’s box. Then they cleaned the footprints from all the bases and home plate, leaving them sparkling white. Their work was almost perfect, except for a few inches down the right-field line. That’s where their straight line bent a bit, becoming uneven. None of the coaches or players complained about it. But I saw it plain as day, and deep down, it really bothered me.

  Uncle Ramon went out to home plate, to meet with the umpires and exchange lineup cards with the coach from Puerto Padre. For some reason Moyano was out there, too. That blowhard was dominating the conversation. And everyone there seemed to be listening intently, as if all of the baseballs in Cuba belonged to him.

  A few minutes later, Puerto Padre took the field. A bunch of younger kids marched out in their school uniforms. One of the boys held the Cuban flag and two others had drums hanging from their necks. The instant they started to beat the rhythm of our national anthem, everyone took off their caps and hats. Then those kids started singing. So did lots of people. I just moved my mouth without any words really coming out.

  “Hasten to battle . . . do not fear a glorious death . . .”

  My mind was mostly on the game. But for a few seconds, I thought about how Papi took his cap off now to the US anthem and sometimes the Canadian one whenever the Marlins played there.

  Our anthem was written by a general during a war. Eventually, he was captured by the Spanish, and he sang it while they lined him up in front of a firing squad.

  “To live in chains is to live in dishonor . . . hear the call of the bugle . . . hasten, brave ones . . .”

  When the singing was finished I stuffed my cap into my back pocket. Then I put on a protective batting helmet.

  I moved closer to the plate, taking a few practice swings with a weighted donut on my bat. It was like whipping around a heavy tree branch. But once I popped that donut off, my swing felt lightning-fast.

  “Be a hitter, Julio,” said Uncle Ramon, coaching third base.

  Their pitcher took his final warm-up toss before I stepped into the batter’s box. Digging my heels into the dirt, I purposely wiped out the chalk line behind me. That way I could plant my back foot where I wanted, and not be trapped inside that small space.

  No pitcher wants to begin the game by falling behind in the count. So I was sure he’d throw me a first-pitch strike. I stayed loose and relaxed during his windup, zoning in as the ball escaped his hand.

  With that pitch halfway to home plate, time seemed to slow down. I could see the baseball clearly—the white covering and every red stitch across its seams. An instant later, I heard the crack of the ball off my wooden bat. It was slicing over the second baseman, heading for the gap between center and right field.

  Sprinting down the first-base line, a split second before I made the turn toward second base, I heard a horn blow from the stands, maybe a trumpet or a bugle. The sound of it jolted me forward a step. Picking up my head, I saw that the right fielder had cut off the ball. But the decision inside my head was already made for me.

  The voices and crowd noise filled my ears as I streaked for second, reaching with every stride.

  “Rápido! Rápido!”

  A few feet from the bag, I dove headfirst, with my arms out in front. I went sliding through the dirt until I was almost swimming in it.

  My hands grabbed the base before Matador slapped his tag on my shoulder.

  I stood up as fast as I could, even taller than Matador now with that base safely beneath me. Then I smacked the front of my uniform clean, creating a cloud of dirt that settled on Matador
’s gold spikes.

  That’s when that horn in the crowd blew again.

  My eyes searched the stands, trying to find it. There were probably close to four hundred people there now. It sounded like it was coming from where Gabriel was. Only I could see that he didn’t have one.

  The next batter ripped a base hit into the right-field corner, more than a foot inside that crooked foul line. I steamed around third base with Uncle Ramon’s right arm spinning like a windmill to urge me on. I scored the game’s first run and didn’t slow up until three strides past home plate.

  Waiting on the top step of the dugout, Luis was the first one to give me a high five.

  “That’s how to start things,” he said as I plopped myself down on the bench, trying to catch my breath.

  My heart jumped at another blast from that horn. Only I was too winded to get up and see where it was coming from.

  We scored two more runs that inning to take a 3–0 lead.

  In the bottom of the first, Matador came to the plate for Puerto Padre. He was a slap hitter who choked up on the bat with a tight, white-knuckled grip. He’d step partly out of the batter’s box after every pitch and go through his usual routine. First he’d tap at his gold spikes with the bat. Then he’d lean back and readjust his helmet. Finally, he’d hold his hand up to the umpire to show that he wasn’t ready yet, while he reset his stance.

  “That whole show of his is about calling attention to himself,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “If Matador ever tried that with your father on the mound, he’d get drilled in the rib cage with a fastball.”

  Matador chopped down on the ball, sending a two-hopper my way. I could see him motoring down the line. I knew I had to charge the ball and get to it as quickly as possible. The thick grass slowed it up, and I was running out of time. So I made the decision to forget about my glove and barehand the ball. It spun sharply into my palm, biting at my skin. Then I positioned my fingers around the seams and, in one motion, gunned the ball to first on a frozen rope.

  I heard the pop of the first baseman’s mitt an instant before those gold spikes hit the bag. I was already smiling in Uncle Ramon’s direction when the umpire called Matador out. If there’s anything Papi handed down to me, it’s this cannon I have for an arm. But for the next few minutes, inside my right hand I could see and feel the imprint from the stitches on that ball.

  I came to bat in the next inning with two runners on base. Puerto Padre’s pitcher had been getting roughed up, and I could see how angry he was. Matador called something to him, too low for me to hear.

  It didn’t take long, though, for me to guess what he’d said. Not after the first pitch knocked me back off the plate with a whistle. It was chin music, meant to make me start thinking instead of reacting. Only I wouldn’t bend to anything like that, and just dug my heels in even deeper. I slammed his next pitch over the center fielder’s head, up against the wall Luis and I had climbed.

  There was no hesitation as I rounded first. I was intent on at least a triple. Hitting second base, I was in full flight as I passed Matador, who’d drifted into the outfield, waiting for a relay throw.

  Flying for third, my head rose up and the breeze took my helmet off. As I felt it go and saw Uncle Ramon giving me the stop sign—to come in standing up without having to slide—I dropped my hands behind my back, catching my helmet before it hit the ground.

  Confidence was soaring through me. I stood on third base like I owned it, as if no one could ever take it away. Not Matador. Not an umpire. Not even Moyano. I felt like Superman in a baseball uniform. Then Uncle Ramon pointed to the helmet in my hands. I wanted to toss it aside. Only something in me thought better of it. I spread the earflaps wide and put it back on my head.

  Three innings later, we were leading 9–0 when Matador came to bat with two outs and the bases loaded. I wanted to whisper to our pitcher to drill him in the ribs. But that would have given Puerto Padre their first run. And I liked looking at their row of goose eggs on the scoreboard.

  Instead, I pounded a fist into my glove, keeping ready on my toes.

  The next pitch was a mistake. It was a slider, left up and out over the middle of the plate. I swear I saw Matador’s eyes light up as his bat rushed forward. He hit a lined shot headed straight for me.

  It was rising in a hurry and I had just a fraction of a second to set my feet.

  I leaped straight up into the air.

  I was up so high I would have believed there were springs on the bottom of my shoes and not spikes.

  My left elbow nearly came out of its socket as I thrust my arm skyward, with only my glove to trust in. The ball caught the very top of the webbing, and I squeezed my fingers. I crashed to the ground with my arm still in the air, away from my body. Then I heard a roar from the crowd. The bottom half of the ball had stuck inside my glove, with the top half peeking out. It looked like an ice-cream cone. And I gently carried it that way to our dugout as my teammates slapped me on the back to celebrate.

  “This is for you,” I said to Luis. “Here’s that ice cream you wanted.”

  It looked like Uncle Ramon was putting him into the game, because he had a helmet on and a bat in his hands. Luis stuck his tongue out and took a big pretend lick.

  “Thanks, Primo,” he said. “Tastes even better knowing who you robbed for it.”

  Then Uncle Ramon, with a face as serious as a stone statue’s, took the ball and glove from my hand. I thought he might be taking me out of the game. But that wasn’t it.

  “Someone wants to speak to you,” he said, pointing to the hall that led to the locker room behind our dugout. “Go now. See what it is.”

  All I could think was that even Superman had Kryptonite to worry about. So I took a deep breath and a hesitant step in that direction, trading a sparkling baseball diamond for the shadows inside that doorway.

  6

  I DESCENDED SOME stairs and turned the corner into the damp locker room. No light was on. But several small streams of sunlight were seeping in through the slatted wall, from the field outside.

  In the center of the room, Moyano was sitting on a tabletop. His stubby legs, dangling beneath him, didn’t even reach the floor.

  “Junior, please enter,” he said, drenched in shadows. “We need to have some conversation.”

  “My name’s Julio,” I replied, adding more bass to my voice so it would carry in that near-empty room.

  “Of course it is. Just like your papi’s.”

  Moyano’s fingers struck the side of the table. The next moment, they seemed to be on fire. Then I saw him cup the long wooden match inside his hands and finally light the cigar that had been in his mouth since we’d left Matanzas.

  “I understand you want to represent Cuba, as a Nacional,” he said, through a cloud of smoke that was already drifting in my direction. “Give me a good reason. Why should that be?”

  “Because I’m the best shortstop my age,” I answered, with more emotion than I was comfortable with. “Baseball’s my life. I live it, breathe it.”

  “I can sympathize. This game is my life as well,” he said. “Not playing, but assembling a team that brings our leaders glory. That also includes choosing players who will safeguard them from embarrassment and shame—the kind your traitor father brought upon them.”

  I wanted to charge Moyano right there, knocking him off that table and onto his fat ass. It was all right for me to think and feel anything I wanted about Papi. I didn’t want to hear a negative word about my own flesh and blood from that ugly toad.

  But I understood that he basically held my future in his hands. That’s when I steadied myself, thinking this might be part of some test, to see how I’d react.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I decided to keep quiet.

  “You must have felt that shame. At how he abandoned you, your family,” he said, turning his eyes, with their bulging low
er lids, toward my locker. “Look at your clothes hanging there. How old are they? How many times has your mama used a needle and thread on those pants? I know your father doesn’t dress that shabby. You don’t look like a millionaire’s son.”

  The smoke from his cigar reached me, and I could feel a burning inside my nostrils.

  “If you become one of my players, I’ll dress you. You’ll be wearing a uniform that I give you. I’ll be your new papi.”

  I didn’t want to charge Moyano anymore. Instead, I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. That way he’d never open his mouth again.

  “Maybe you’re listening to him pitch in the World Series,” he said. “I’ve heard that a few players from Matanzas still have some misguided pride in El Fuego.”

  I shook my head no. I’d been smart enough to leave my transistor radio in the dorm room, beneath the mattress of my bed.

  Suddenly, the locker room rattled with the stamping of feet from our dugout. We were probably scoring more runs, and I could hear the echo of Uncle Ramon’s voice cheering the team on.

  “It’s hurt him, too, you know—your uncle,” said Moyano.

  “What has?”

  “Your papi’s actions,” he answered. “He’s a good coach. Maybe even Nacional material. But he can never be trusted to travel off this island. Could be he disappears while we’re playing in Amsterdam or Japan. Why not? His wife is already dead.”

  I couldn’t believe he was talking about Aunt Blanca that way, as if her death was just another circumstance for him to make decisions.

  “Maybe El Fuego sends someone for him. Ramon decides to leave his son behind. It happens. True?” he continued on, like I was a pincushion for his jabs. “I enjoy my job. I can’t risk those things, not for a coach.”

  That remark started me thinking. In my mind, that meant there was a chance Moyano might risk it for a player, a star shortstop.