Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  12

  WE’D BEEN ON the water for more than two hours, thankfully without a police boat in sight. Then Gabriel got us into a swift-moving current and turned off the engine to save gas.

  “This is where I hoped we’d be, with a chance to make it,” he said. “We’re probably past the first ring of security. With any luck we won’t run into one of our navy ships on an exercise.”

  “How would we know if one’s coming in the dark?” asked Uncle Ramon.

  “Three red beacons about fifty feet apart, riding way over our heads,” answered Gabriel. “We’re small enough, though, that we shouldn’t show up on their radar. So even if one happens by, it might not see us and could steam right on past.”

  “Or it could plow straight through us,” said Uncle Ramon. Gabriel gave him a hesitant nod.

  Luis kept checking the wristwatch hanging from a belt loop on his shorts, telling us how long we’d been at sea.

  “It’s supposed to be ninety miles to Miami,” said Luis. “A car can go at least forty-five miles an hour. How come we can’t make it there in two hours?”

  “The ocean’s not a paved highway, and the currents don’t run in a straight line,” said Gabriel, eyeing his compass to make sure we were still headed north and a few degrees west. “And we’re not moving at anywhere close to forty-five miles an hour. But if the wind keeps blowing from the south, it’ll only help speed us up.”

  Luis’s watch was a birthday present from his mother just a few months before she died. On its face, it had Mickey Mouse, with his two white-gloved hands pointing to the numbers. It was a cheap kiddie watch, but Luis treated it like it was made of gold. He’d worn it on his wrist for nearly five years, even after the cracked leather band had gotten way too small for him. Sometimes it had looked like it was cutting off his circulation. And if he’d ever flexed his forearm, it might have gone flying off, like he was the Incredible Hulk or something. So about a year ago, Luis started wearing it on his belt loop.

  “When we get to Florida, I’m going to take you to see the real Mickey at Disney World,” Uncle Ramon told his son. “Then you can ask why he only has four fingers.”

  “Okay, but I’d rather meet those cute Disney princesses,” said Luis. “Besides, I thought Mickey lost that other finger in a mousetrap.”

  “No, that was his Cuban cousin, Eduardo Mouse,” said Uncle Ramon, in a biting tone. “He was reaching for a crumb of cheese in El Presidente’s palace. Then, wham!”

  We all laughed loudly over that. And I swore to myself, if we got dragged back to Cuba in handcuffs, I’d tell that joke to the judge before he sentenced me.

  Gabriel started eating sliced pieces of raw squash, and offered us some. With a look of disgust, Luis shook his head. Then he went looking through one of the supply boxes in the backseat.

  “This is more like it,” said Luis, opening a small bag of potato chips. “These should settle my stomach.”

  Luis shoved the bag at me and I took a few.

  “I thought we’d save those for a celebration, when Florida was in sight,” said Gabriel, as I sucked the salt off a chip without breaking it inside my mouth. “But I’ll take one, too.”

  “Speaking of celebrations,” I said, “do you think the team’s back at the dorm yet?”

  “They should be,” answered Uncle Ramon. “It’s about that time, when Moyano will realize something’s wrong.”

  “I’d like to see his face when he figures out we’re gone,” I said. “Maybe he’ll swallow a lit cigar.”

  “Don’t forget,” said Uncle Ramon, “your teammates and Paulo will be there to experience his anger firsthand. Moyano will bring the police in and have them questioned half the night.”

  “Of course, the Cárdenas beach patrol will report they saw the four of us at a different beach,” added Gabriel. “That will get the players and your bus driver off the hook.”

  Uncle Ramon and Gabriel quietly exchanged a satisfied look, as if they’d planned that chess move in advance.

  I guess every adrenaline rush, no matter how big, has to subside eventually. And after a few more time-checks by Luis, with the water completely calm, it began to feel like we were just hanging out in a parked car overlooking the ocean. So I took out the transistor radio, tuned in to the game, and turned the volume up for everyone to hear.

  Bottom of the sixth inning here at Yankee Stadium, in pivotal Game Three of the World Series. The Miami Marlins lead the Bronx Bombers four to three, with two outs and the bases empty.

  Our ears perked up at that. Because with the Marlins ahead in a tight game, Papi could be coming in soon to pitch the final few outs and shut the door.

  It’s been an unusually warm and humid fall night in the Bronx. The sweat continues to cascade down the face of the Marlins’ starting pitcher. He’s worked in and out of trouble all game. Here’s his one-hundred-and-third pitch of the evening already. Oh, that’s way high and outside to the Yankees’ power-hitting second baseman. That’s an indicator the Marlins’ starter may be feeling fatigued. The most pitches he’s thrown in a game so far this season has been one hundred and twelve. And that was in a nine-inning, complete-game performance. Now he checks the signs. He’s into his windup. Fastball, low and outside. That one registered just eighty-eight miles per hour on the radar gun. Prior to that pitch, he’s consistently been in the low to mid-nineties all night with his heater. Two balls, no strikes the count. The Marlins’ pitcher to the bill of his cap with his hand, wiping away the perspiration. Here comes the pitch. It’s drilled deep into right field. There’s no doubt about this one. It’s going, going, gone! And we’re tied up at four apiece.

  Uncle Ramon punched the dashboard. Gabriel quickly grabbed his still-clenched fist so he couldn’t hit it again.

  “You don’t want to break your hand,” said Gabriel. “We may need all of your strength to survive.”

  “Sorry, I get stupid over baseball,” said Uncle Ramon.

  I saw a movie once where an air bag popped out at a guy who’d punched the dashboard, smacking him in the face like a big pillow. But this Buick was made probably twenty years before air bags were put into cars.

  The fans are still on their feet here. That home run has also sparked quick action in the Marlins’ bullpen, as a pair of middle relievers are beginning to warm up.

  – – –

  Papi is the Marlins’ closer. So he most likely wasn’t coming in to pitch unless Miami regained the lead or the game was on the line.

  “Don’t worry, Julio. Miami is going to jump back out in front. I can feel it,” Luis said to me, between crunches on a chip.

  I knew Luis didn’t mean anything by it. But for some reason, his words got me riled.

  “What do I care if Miami wins? I’m not on that team!” I snapped. “You think because he sent money for this floating car that I have to live and die by what he does? I don’t. This is his game, not mine.”

  I could see the surprise in Luis’s eyes as he backed off.

  After a moment of silence, Uncle Ramon calmly said, “Understood, Julio. But we’re headed to Miami. There’s a huge Cuban community there. We’re not going to root for the New York Yankees, are we? They just buy up free agents like they’ve got more money than God. I prefer a little Latin flavor to my baseball, a little humbleness.”

  It was the sound of Uncle Ramon’s voice, and not his words, that mattered. It was as if he’d thrown me a life preserver in the middle of the ocean. His speech gave me a few seconds to stop struggling, to think, to breathe.

  “There’s another reason, too,” Uncle Ramon continued. “A few seasons back, the Marlins’ manager, a loudmouth Hispanic who loves to hear himself talk, said he respected Fidel Castro, because he was tough enough to survive as a dictator. Well, the Cubans in Miami protested by boycotting the team. Eventually, the Marlins fired that idiot manager’s ass over the remark. And I resp
ect that.”

  I let that all sink in for a few seconds. Then I said, “You’re right. Why would I ever root for those Yankees over the Marlins?”

  13

  OVER THE NEXT hour the waters turned choppy. We rode into an almost continuous flow of short, strong waves that hit us head-on. Then they started coming from the sides—tap, tap, tap. And that Buick began to feel like a punching bag being worked by a heavyweight boxer who was just warming up.

  A bank of clouds rolled across the moon, blocking out a lot of our light.

  “It’s getting even darker out there,” said Luis.

  “Don’t worry. We don’t need to see,” said Gabriel. “As long as we follow this compass, we’re headed toward freedom.”

  “How about following the North Star? It’s supposed to be the one burning brightest. I learned that in science class,” said Luis, ducking his head out of the window to look straight up. “I think I see it—the one with the twinkle.”

  “That’s good, but we need to head north and a little bit west, Son,” said Uncle Ramon. “Let Gabriel do his job. I have faith in him.”

  I wished I had that kind of blind faith. But I would have given anything to see exactly where we were going, to follow a bunch of clear markers to Florida. Instead, my cousin, my uncle, and I were risking everything on the direction of a compass needle pointed inside the palm of Gabriel’s hand.

  I thought about holding that compass myself, to see if it would point the same way for me. But I didn’t want to take that kind of responsibility and maybe even screw us up.

  The game was still going on. It was the top of the eighth inning, and the Marlins got a runner to third base with two outs. Their scrappy leadoff batter had worked a walk after fouling off six or seven straight pitches. He advanced to second on a sacrifice bunt, and then over to third on a groundout to the Yankees’ second baseman.

  “That’s what I love about this team,” said Uncle Ramon. “These Marlins will scratch, claw—whatever it takes to get a run across. They don’t have the same power in their lineup as the Yankees—no superstars. But they’ve got the passion to succeed and the fire in their bellies to do it.”

  “You think heart beats talent?” I asked him, as we absorbed another quick blow in that chop.

  “Not always,” he answered. “But talent without heart—that talent’s just a waste of a God-given gift.”

  Here’s the pitch. Fastball, low in the dirt. And the ball kicks away from the Yankees’ catcher! It’s rolling to the backstop, and here comes the go-ahead run from third base. Across home plate and the Marlins regain the lead, five to four. We’ll have to see how that’s scored—a passed ball on the catcher or a wild pitch on the pitcher. Either way, the Marlins are back on top.

  “See, they manufactured that run out of nothing. Did it without a single base hit,” said Uncle Ramon, extending a fist to bump with both Luis’s and mine. “Of course, if I had been the Yankees’ catcher, that ball would never have gotten by me. I would have blocked it with my chest, knee, foot—any part of my body. And I would have done that for a sandlot game. For the World Series? I would have gotten down low enough to eat dirt if I had to.”

  “I’d eat dirt to be at Yankee Stadium right now,” said Luis.

  “That would be the taste of freedom,” said Gabriel, turning his attention away from the steering wheel for a moment to look at us. “And I’d have delivered my three crates of fish safely.”

  “Was that your code word for us?” I asked.

  “Maybe 007 could have come up with something better,” answered Gabriel. “I tried to keep it simple.”

  “So you never talked directly to my papi?”

  Gabriel shook his head and said, “Just his representative.”

  I felt satisfied with that, knowing Papi didn’t speak to Gabriel instead of me.

  In the bottom of the eighth inning, the Marlins brought in their setup man to pitch. The announcer said that Papi was throwing in the bullpen, getting ready to pitch the bottom of the ninth. The Yankees’ first two hitters made weak outs. But momentum in baseball can change fast, especially in a one-run World Series game. The next batter slashed a double into the right-field corner. That was followed by an infield single to put runners on first and third.

  “What are they waiting for?” asked Luis. “Why don’t they bring in El Fuego?”

  “Because everyone’s a damn specialist these days,” said Uncle Ramon. “The Nacionales play it the same way. They want their closer to only pitch in the ninth, like his arm could get tired doing any more than that.”

  The Marlins’ setup man walked the next batter to load the bases. Then he lost the strike zone completely, starting off the next hitter with two straight balls that weren’t even close to the plate.

  The Marlins’ manager is walking out to the pitcher’s mound. He looks at the bullpen and signals with his left arm. He can wait no longer. We’re going to see Julio Ramirez, otherwise known as El Fuego, who recorded a club-record forty-eight saves this season.

  Luis whistled and clapped, as if he was really at the game. He even tried to stand on his feet, until his head hit the roof of the Buick. But I sank deeper into the backseat, tightening my grip on the transistor as the chop outside got a little heavier.

  This is Ramirez’s sixth season in the majors. He was one of Cuba’s all-time great pitchers until he defected and signed with the Miami Marlins. He’s lost a little bit on his fastball over the last few years, but he still throws smoke. Ramirez claims to be thirty-seven years old. Many doubt that number, however. His age is uncertain, since he arrived in the US without documentation.

  “Thirty-seven, huh? That makes me a year older than my older brother,” said Uncle Ramon. “I understand his thinking, though. No team wants to give an old man a long-term contract. The younger, the better. Anyway, he was already cheated out of millions when he was the best pitcher in the world and all the Cuban government gave him was a few more hours coaching schoolkids.”

  Ramirez finishes his warm-up tosses on the mound. He’s ready. I don’t know how to describe the look in his eyes as he stares down the Yankees’ center fielder, who reenters the batter’s box. I suppose the only appropriate word would be intense. The crowd is on its feet. Listen to them, more than fifty thousand strong. Ramirez inherits a two-and-oh count on the hitter. The bases are filled with Yankees. There’s absolutely nowhere for the Marlins’ closer to put him without forcing in the tying run.

  “Does he challenge him with one down the middle?” I asked Uncle Ramon.

  “Not just challenge him. That guy’s about to see smoke,” he answered.

  Here’s the pitch. Swing and a miss. That one registered ninety-nine on the radar gun.

  “To be called World Champion, believe me, your papi will turn back the hands of time,” said Uncle Ramon. “As if he’s twenty-one years old again. That kind of desire.”

  That made me wonder what Papi would do to be with me. And why he hadn’t done anything.

  Strike two! Ramirez painted the outside corner with that one. The plate’s seventeen inches wide, and he nicked the very edge of it—that eighth-of-an-inch black border. The batter wisely took that one, because he probably wasn’t going to hit it. Maybe just foul it off. That’s expertise on both ends, and a masterpiece of a pitch.

  “This batter’s toast,” said Uncle Ramon. “He might as well start walking back to the dugout now.”

  Ramirez from the stretch. Here’s the pitch. A swing. Strike three! Punched him out with high heat. And look at the reading on the gun—one hundred and one miles per hour!

  If the government had planted secret microphones on the ocean floor, we probably would have been taken to prison. Because we let out a roar so loud and so long, the Cuban navy could have followed the sound right to us.

  14

  IN THE TOP of the ninth inning, the Marlins scored another two
runs, adding to their lead. Then, in the bottom half of the inning, Papi shut the door, setting the Yankee hitters down in order—one, two, three—and giving Miami a two-games-to-one lead in the best-of-seven series.

  Every time I’d listened to Papi pitch before, I was sitting alone. Lots of times it was as dark as it was right now. That was because I was usually in the stairwell, hiding the transistor radio and the fact that I wanted to hear anything about him at all.

  “God willing, we’ll be in Florida before the team flies back,” said Uncle Ramon. “They could sweep the next two games in New York. Then they’d arrive in Miami as World Champions. That’s how I’d like to see my brother after all this time: walking off a plane as a World Series winner, maybe even MVP. We’d be waiting in the crowd, right up front. I wouldn’t want him to know we were coming. That moment he first saw us, I know the look on his face would be priceless.”

  I tried to imagine that scene the way Uncle Ramon described it. Only every time I did, it changed when Papi’s eyes met mine. That’s when the crowd disappeared, and it became just me and Papi. I could see him opening his mouth to speak. But before he ever did, that vision froze up solid and then faded to black.

  “Maybe they’ll have a big parade,” said Luis. “It would be like a double celebration, the Marlins winning and our freedom. We could all ride in a brand-new convertible, waving to the fans along the streets. And I mean new—as in this century, not from the 1950s. What do you think, Julio? What a way to raise our cool factor, first week in the States. Girls will treat us like pop stars.”