Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  When we reached camp I handed Gabriel his cell phone.

  “A journey like this makes people family—that’s what you said,” I told him. “Well, I’ve already got an uncle and cousin here. But I’ll give you a chance to earn your way in.”

  “I accept that,” said Gabriel, reaching out to shake my hand. “I can’t ask for anything more.”

  “No one can. That’s the highest bar there is,” said Uncle Ramon, who looked as if a huge weight had just been lifted off him.

  “There’s still lots to talk about and little time,” said Gabriel, glancing at the sun.

  “Before any more talk, let’s pray,” said Luis.

  Nobody argued with that. We all knelt in a tight circle, bowing our heads, even me and Uncle Ramon.

  10

  OVER THE NEXT half hour or so, we each downed two sixteen-ounce bottles of water to hydrate ourselves for the trip. Gabriel couldn’t say exactly how long we’d be at sea. Instead, he was more like a weatherman giving a forecast he wouldn’t stake his reputation on.

  “Depending on the currents, we could reach the coast of Florida inside of two days,” he said, before putting both hands out in front of him as if to halt any hopes of a guarantee. “But the weather can change in minutes. Even storms miles away can have an impact, driving us off course, spinning a small vessel in endless circles.”

  “You have a compass, don’t you?” asked Uncle Ramon.

  Basically, the only reason to have a compass in Cuba is to help you defect. So you could get into serious trouble being caught with one.

  “Think I’d take you and two young boys onto that ocean without one? I’m not the devil,” Gabriel countered, with a twinge of annoyance. “As a kid I experienced what happens when it’s tried that way.”

  That was the first time I’d seen Gabriel tense. It didn’t seem like much to get upset over. Maybe his nerves were getting tighter as the sun slipped lower.

  “I’ve got other supplies, too,” Gabriel continued, his voice leveling out. “Food, water, flares, and an extra can of gasoline.”

  So I figured his boat had a motor. I felt better knowing that, like we could choose our own direction if the currents didn’t cooperate.

  “Ramon and I will sit in the front. Julio and Luis, you’ll be in the back,” he added. “Oh, and we’re going to be low to the water, very low. That’s by design, to avoid being detected on any radar. If it’s choppy we’ll get slapped in the face by a few waves. Be prepared to get soaked.”

  That’s when I took the transistor radio out. I wrapped it in a pair of plastic bags to keep it from getting wet, as the others eyed it.

  “We might need this way out there. You never know,” I said, trying not to make a fuss.

  “You’re right. Could come in handy,” said Uncle Ramon, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing me a new 9-volt battery. “We could hear a World Series game on it, too. Give us something else to focus on.”

  – – –

  The tide rolled in and the water’s edge kept creeping closer to our camp. From a distance, those two girls waved good-bye to Luis as they walked off the beach. He didn’t return the wave, though. Instead, he just glanced their way like somebody they should have been starstruck to meet. Then that man got up and left without his family, just the way Gabriel told us he would.

  “I want you boys to take the barbecue and cooler to my trunk,” said Gabriel, giving us his car keys. “But leave the chairs behind. It’ll look better when we hang around to see the stars.”

  Even with the charcoals emptied, I could still feel the warmth from the barbecue as I carried it back. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining Mama and Lola in my arms for one last embrace.

  Gabriel’s car was the only one remaining behind those rocks.

  “When we walked off that baseball field today, I wasn’t thinking about anything like this,” said Luis. “Things can change fast, huh? My mother passing, your papi—thought I was all through growing up for a while.”

  “Maybe it never stops,” I said as he opened the trunk. “In a few hours, we might be looking back at right now, thinking we didn’t know shit.”

  “I just hope my next learning curve is about life in the US, not how to shower in prison,” said Luis, stowing away the cooler and leaving enough room for me to fit the barbecue next to it.

  “No, I hope the next curve I see comes out of a pitcher’s hand. That I’m waiting on it to break, right before I drive it over some center-field fence and round the bases.”

  Luis slammed the trunk lid down and then gave me a high five.

  “Amen to that, Cuz,” he said.

  A minute later, I saw those two police officers slowly rolling back down the beach on their motorcycle. Only this time, because of the tide coming in, they were going to be much closer to us.

  “Act like we’re packing the chairs up next,” said Gabriel, casually folding one.

  Suddenly, I heard the rev of an engine, and the officers’ motorcycle turned in our direction.

  “I don’t trust these two,” Uncle Ramon said, barely moving his lips. “What if we have to jump them?”

  “Easy, Ramon,” whispered Gabriel. “They’re probably looking for more food, or beer.”

  I was wishing I had a baseball bat in my hands. I’d be more comfortable wielding one of those than any weapon in this world.

  Their wide tires kicked up a ton of sand before the officer driving pulled back on the throttle, four or five feet from where we were standing.

  The one sitting in the sidecar of that three-wheeler said, “So you boys are baseball players, huh? When I played, shortstop was my position. I had a lot of range with my glove and a good stick, too. I even dreamed of one day becoming a Nacional, representing Cuba. Now I wear this uniform.”

  “This is our star shortstop. My nephew,” said Uncle Ramon, who’d moved to the outside of the officer’s right hip, where his pistol was holstered.

  “I’m not surprised. I used to have a build like yours, like a whip. That was before I put on an extra twenty pounds sitting around,” he said to me. “Where are you from? Not Cárdenas. I’ve been stationed here for three years. I would have seen you play.”

  “I’m from Matanzas,” I answered, taking a step closer to the one on the motorcycle, in case I had to defend my uncle.

  “Ahh, the Crocodiles,” he said, turning to his partner.

  Meanwhile, Gabriel had slipped an arm around Luis. I guess to stop him from doing anything stupid.

  “These boys are very dedicated,” said Gabriel. “Baseball is all they dream about.”

  “What’s your name?” the officer asked me. “I’ll keep an eye out for you in the future.”

  “My name’s Julio.”

  About thirty yards behind those officers sat that last family on the beach, minus their father. And maybe another forty yards farther down the beach, I saw the bushes start to shake and shimmy a little. Then they went completely still.

  “What’s your last name?” he asked.

  Ramirez was on the tip of my tongue. But I bit it back, thinking he’d probably heard of Papi. And that might make him suspicious about us being here.

  “Sanchez,” I said, giving him Mama’s maiden name and praying he wouldn’t want to see any kind of ID. “My name’s Julio Sanchez.”

  I felt sick to my stomach at having to deny my own name. But that was all on Papi, and the politics of Cuba.

  “Very good,” the officer said, nodding to his partner, who put the motorcycle in motion. “Remember, the beach closes at sundown. You have to be on your way soon.”

  “Thank you, officers,” said Gabriel. “We appreciate your concern.”

  In the distance, that father had just reappeared from the bushes. The officers were traveling in his direction. He began pulling at his pants zipper, as if he’d gone off fro
m his family to pee. Then the motorcycle rolled right on past him without slowing down.

  “That’s one obstacle out of the way,” said Uncle Ramon.

  “Men are a small obstacle compared with what we’ll be facing,” said Gabriel. “But you’re right.”

  That entire family walked off the beach together. A minute later, I heard Gabriel’s car starting up from behind the trio of huge rocks that separated us from the sandy lot. Once it pulled away, and the echo of it faded, everything that was about to happen felt even more real.

  The sun was in flames now, burning orange and yellow in the red-blue sky as it went sinking into the horizon. It reminded me of one of Papi’s fastballs blazing into a dark catcher’s mitt.

  Gabriel’s plan was for each of us to walk straight into the bushes, one by one, while the others kept lookout along the beach. His order was me, Luis, Uncle Ramon, and then himself.

  “That clearing I mentioned, it’s small and about thirty paces straight into the bushes,” emphasized Gabriel. “Don’t get yourself moving sideways. You’ll miss it completely.”

  When the moment came, I headed into the bushes without hesitation. But a few strides into the thick brush, I had to reset my bearings to sidestep a branch full of sharp thorns. When I did, I found myself standing in the middle of a cloud of mosquitos. They were hitting my arms and legs like I was the last warm meal on earth. And every time I’d slap at one spot, five or six of them would bite me somewhere else. So I bolted forward, praying I was still going in the right direction. I shoved aside branch after branch that either snapped back at me or cracked beneath my weight until I finally arrived at the clearing.

  First, I saw the green body of a Buick automobile. There was something strange attached to the grille—a wide, pointed front that looked like the bow of a ship. I searched for a boat, maybe one on a small trailer behind the car. But there wasn’t any. Then I saw the weld marks, sealing the car’s four doors shut, and the supplies tied down in the backseat.

  That’s when it hit me: we’d be sailing to the US in a floating car.

  For some insane reason, I reached my arm inside the open driver’s side window. I was about to tap the horn, as if I needed to hear how it sounded. Then Luis came stumbling through the bushes. His eyes focused on the car/boat in astonishment, and then on mine.

  11

  ONCE WE ALL got into the car/boat through the open windows, Gabriel turned the key in the ignition. I don’t know what he had done to that Buick’s engine. Or maybe it was just my own motor going full throttle. But it felt like there was enough horsepower under the hood to climb Pico Turquino, the highest mountain in Cuba.

  “Buckle your seat belts!” cried Gabriel, his voice blaring over the engine.

  There was nothing to see through the windshield but dense brush.

  An instant later, as we jolted forward, leaves were flying everywhere. Three of them, on a tiny brown branch, landed on my lap. Then the air was filled with sand and I could hear the tires straining for traction on the beach.

  “Hold on tight!” shouted Uncle Ramon.

  The Buick struck the water with a thud. I guess we were doing almost thirty miles per hour. It was like hitting a low brick wall that only partially moved. Suddenly, there was nothing in front of us but ocean and a darkening sky. The pointed bow attached to the front sliced through the waves, and I was praying its tip would lead us straight to the States.

  “Should I roll up my window?” asked Luis, in a near panic. “I’m getting wet. Are we leaking?”

  “That’s just the spray from the surf,” answered Gabriel, grabbing for what looked like an air pump. “I’ll get us higher up.”

  Then he flipped the switch on the pump and two long inner tubes on either side of the Buick began to inflate, lifting us.

  “Any more big surprises?” asked Uncle Ramon, who sounded like he’d had no idea Gabriel’s boat would be a Buick.

  “Only if the rubberized seams don’t hold and she takes on water,” replied Gabriel, who now had a compass in his hand as he turned the wheel. “Then I’ll be the one surprised.”

  “You can control this thing?” asked Luis, with a voice wavering between wonder and fright.

  “There’s a rudder on the back. It’s synced up to the steering wheel,” answered Gabriel, despite his intense focus on the direction we were headed.

  I exchanged a quick glance with Luis. This was like that roller coaster ride we took in Havana last summer. It was all happening so fast we didn’t know where or when the next sharp turn was coming. But this wasn’t any amusement park.

  The ocean muffled most of the engine noise. We were all breathing hard, even Gabriel. I don’t know how much adrenaline four people could possibly have pumping. But right then, inside that floating car, it was probably a world record.

  Gradually, our questions and conversation died down. There were stretches of silence between us when all I could hear was the water rushing by and the sound of my heart beating hard. Eventually, I looked out the back window and I couldn’t see any trace of Cuba. Everything I knew, everything I was raised on was gone, except for the three leaves on that tiny branch.

  It was strange to be without a country, without borders or boundaries. I was feeling small and lost, like I was too insignificant to be a new mark on a map. Fears piled up inside me until I almost started bawling right there. Then we hit the first big wave. For an instant, I believed we were actually airborne.

  “Wooo!” hollered Uncle Ramon, as if he were riding a wild bull. “If that’s what freedom feels like, I’ll have some more!”

  I’d seen him smile before. But this wasn’t the same smile he wore after winning a baseball game. It was completely different. This one was etched deeper into his face, like no one could ever take it away from him. That got me to feeling bigger, stronger, and I raised my spine until the top of my head nearly touched the roof of that car/boat.

  My entire life I’d lived under some kind of authority—El Presidente, his generals, political ministers, police. Almost all of them were like Moyano, and some much worse. I realized this was the first time I didn’t have to watch my words. There was no one in power lurking in the shadows. No one I was forced to respect out of fear.

  Right then, I thought about Papi—about the moment he walked out the revolving door of that hotel lobby in Baltimore. How he probably experienced these exact same feelings. I guess that was something we shared now, no matter how I felt about his leaving.

  The Buick was practically our own country—a floating metallic island. It didn’t matter that it was made in Detroit, USA, or kept running for decades with spit and glue on Cuban soil. Until we either got caught or washed up on somebody’s shore, we didn’t have to answer to anyone. It was only God who was above us, however He laid out the currents and weather in our path.

  “I think I’m getting seasick,” said Luis, his complexion turning nearly as green as the paint job on the Buick.

  “Maybe that’s why Gabriel left the windows open,” I said, shoving his head outside into the stream of salty air. “Breathe deep and try not to puke.”

  “Your cousin’s right,” said Uncle Ramon. “You don’t want to lose any fluids. Water’s precious on this trip.”

  I stuck my head out the opposite side. There was more light than I would have imagined. I could see for about fifty feet in every direction, as a constantly moving curtain of darkness kept an even pace with us. But there was no limit when I looked straight up. A crescent moon was shining, partly lighting the way. And the stars around it were burning bright, like someone had punched a thousand holes in the nighttime.

  That’s when I reached my arm over Gabriel’s shoulder. I hit the horn in the center of the steering wheel, and it let out a long beeeeeep! I swear it was like music to my ears—better than any salsa, merengue, reggae, or rock. So I punched the horn again. And this time when I did, I hollered
out, “Freedom!”

  Then Gabriel said, “Everyone together: one, two, three.”

  The four of us screamed “Freedom!” until his hand lifted from the horn.

  I grabbed the branch with the leaves from my lap. I thought about my family as I pulled the first leaf off. I remembered how we used to be, when Papi was a Cuban hero. When we walked around Matanzas with our heads held high, like El Fuego’s fastball would never lose its velocity. Then I tossed it out the window.

  Plucking the second leaf, I thought about all the baseball I’d played in Cuba, my teammates, and every drop of sweat I put into becoming a Nacional. I’d barely opened my hand when the wind outside sucked that leaf away.

  “If I started my own version of the Nacionales, right here, would you play?” I asked Luis, only half kidding.

  “You’d want me?” he replied, looking much less green now. “Sure. What would we call ourselves?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Tortugas Marinas.”

  “Why not? I’ll be a sea turtle,” said Luis. “I was a crocodile this morning.”

  “Count me in,” said Uncle Ramon. “And I don’t want to coach. I’m coming out of retirement to play catcher.”

  That was good by me. But I didn’t even consider asking Gabriel to play, not even to be polite. I’d already seen him try to throw a baseball.

  I pulled away that third leaf, thinking about Moyano and everyone in power like him. Then I crumpled it up inside my palm and heaved it into the waves.

  All that was left of my homeland was that small piece of branch. I put pressure on it at both ends, watching it bend from the middle. It had a lot of strength for its size. Only I made sure to back off before it snapped. That had me thinking about the people of Cuba—the farmers, factory workers, fishermen, maids, and busboys. How they had to deal with the system there every day of their lives, especially Mama and Lola. So I carefully dropped that branch into the water, hoping with all my heart that it would eventually find a place to put down roots and grow even stronger.