Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  I didn’t comment back, but it was exactly what I was thinking.

  A few hours later, Uncle Ramon broke the calm.

  “Ship!” he shouted. “Off to the right! There’s a ship on the horizon!”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “I see it!” screamed Luis, pointing in that direction. “Way out there. See? It’s small. It looks like a smoking cigar on the water.”

  It was maybe ten or twelve miles off, steaming away from us.

  “Should we shoot the flares?” asked Luis. “Signal that we’re here?”

  “Can you make out any markings on it?” Gabriel asked Uncle Ramon. “A flag? Anything?”

  “No, I can’t,” he answered, with his voice dropping low in disappointment. “And I know what you’re thinking. The storm could have pushed us anywhere. That ship might even be Cuban.”

  “It couldn’t be,” I said. “We’ve been out here too long.”

  “Forty-five hours,” said Luis. “Nearly two whole days.”

  “If it’s not a US ship, it’s risky to give ourselves up,” Gabriel said, continuing on our course. “Captains from other countries might get orders to turn us over to Cuban authorities, just to make it easy on themselves.”

  That seemed to end any potential argument. And within a few minutes, that ship had sailed out of sight.

  When the Buick was almost out of gas, I grabbed the extra ten-gallon container and climbed out onto the trunk. I leaned over the tail fin, connected the spout to the opening of the fuel tank, and tipped the red plastic container back.

  Out of nowhere, a seagull started circling. I watched him make four or five passes, with his eyes seemingly glued to mine. Once the container was empty, I took a half-eaten energy bar from my pocket and broke off a small piece. Then I tossed it onto the roof. Without ever touching down, the bird scooped up the morsel with its beak.

  I was hoping he’d fly off in the same direction we were headed. But he flew from the glare of the sinking sun into a thick bank of clouds before I lost him.

  “Nephew, we have less than half our food and water left,” said Uncle Ramon. “Are you going to waste even a single crumb on a seagull?”

  “Maybe Julio was luring the bird in. So we could eat him,” said Luis.

  “That wasn’t it at all,” I said. “I was trying to bribe him.”

  “Bribe him?” asked Uncle Ramon, confused.

  “I was thinking he might give Gabriel flying lessons one day.”

  “That’s nice of you, Julio,” Gabriel said, with a widening grin. “But that’s something every man has to learn for himself.”

  Inside of the next hour, the sun went down over the horizon.

  “That’s three minutes earlier than yesterday,” said Luis, excitedly.

  “So the storm didn’t push us back,” said Uncle Ramon.

  “No, but it could have blown us sideways,” said Gabriel.

  Still, we hadn’t moved toward Cuba. And that was enough to send us into a celebration where we each ate and drank more than was rationed out for that night.

  I put off tuning into the game for as long as possible. But eventually, Uncle Ramon wore me down.

  Top of the fifth inning here at Yankee Stadium in a swift-moving contest. The Marlins lead Game Five by a score of one to nothing on a solo home run back in the second inning. Other than that, the pitchers have dominated this evening, with a brisk wind blowing in from right field. . . .

  “See, it’s a pitcher’s night,” said Uncle Ramon. “Your papi’s probably going to play a big part in this one. Maybe save it. Mark my words.”

  Over the next four torturous innings, the Marlins had base runners everywhere. They even had a man on third base with less than two outs—twice. But they couldn’t get either of those runners home, while the Yankee hitters went down quietly, one after another.

  If the Marlins were going to win, I wanted them to blow the game wide open. I didn’t want to hear a single word about Papi saving the day. I didn’t want him to be the hero. Not mine and not anybody else’s. But when the bottom of the ninth inning finally arrived, the score hadn’t changed.

  To a chorus of sustained boos from Yankees fans, Julio Ramirez completes that long walk from the bullpen to the mound. If El Fuego, perhaps Cuba’s greatest pitcher ever, can shut the door on the Bombers, the Marlins will take a three-games-to-two lead back to Miami. They’ll be just one game away from a World Series Championship. And even as Ramirez kicks at the dirt around the rubber with his spikes, that much-talked-about intensity and passion appear to be already at full throttle. . . .

  “That’s his Cuban blood running hot,” said Uncle Ramon. “Where we come from, you either have desire or you die a nobody.”

  “Matanzas!” cried Luis.

  “Victory!” shouted my uncle.

  I nodded my head and clapped my hands. But somewhere in the darkest part of my heart, I was rooting for Papi to get hammered on that mound.

  19

  AS THE GAME played on the transistor, I yanked the third coconut from Luis’s grasp. I wedged the fingers of both of my hands into the opening he’d made. Then, using all my strength, I tore away the green casing with a grunt.

  “There, now all three of them have their shells exposed,” I said, shoving it back at him. “Crack them open anytime you want.”

  “Yeah? I thought you wanted me to chuck them,” said Luis.

  But I wouldn’t get into it with him, and didn’t respond.

  Ramirez ahead in the count, no balls and two strikes, on the Yankees’ right-handed-hitting third baseman. Here’s the windup and the pitch. Swing and a miss. El Fuego blew it right by him for strike three. One out in the bottom of the ninth. . . .

  “My brother’s untouchable in situations like this,” said Uncle Ramon, his voice ringing with confidence. “And when you add on the thought of being World Champion? I wouldn’t want to be any of these hitters right now.”

  “He’s bringing the fire,” said Gabriel.

  “That’s because it’s burning inside him,” said my uncle. “Since he was a kid.”

  Strike one to the Yankees’ right fielder. The former Japanese all-star standing in against the former Cuban National. Ramirez right back to the rubber. He gets his sign from the catcher and quickly goes into his windup. The pitch—an absolute BB on the outside corner, strike two. That registered one hundred and one on the radar gun. No wonder the batter let it go by. Ramirez ready to go again. But the hitter steps out of the batter’s box, asking for time, trying to disrupt Ramirez’s rhythm. He’s back in now. El Fuego focused and into his delivery. Oh, and Ramirez got him to chase one out of the strike zone. Strike three!

  “Uno mas,” said Uncle Ramon, pumping a fist in the air. “Just one more out!”

  All I knew was that Papi was about to be a hero in front of the whole world, and I didn’t want to hear it happen.

  Here’s the first pitch to the Yankees’ left fielder. He swings and it’s a high chopper over the pitcher’s head. Ramirez spears at it. Oh, it deflects off his glove. The runner’s safe at first. And suddenly, the Yankees have life. If Ramirez had only let that ball go. His second baseman was right there. It looked to be a sure out. Now the tying run is on first base. . . .

  “Come on, my brother. Trust in your teammates to do their jobs,” said Uncle Ramon, as if the transistor was a one-way microphone feeding directly into Papi’s ears.

  The crowd’s into it now, and here’s the Yankees’ first baseman stepping to the plate. Ramirez working from the stretch. He deals. First-pitch swing. And there’s a long drive to left field. It’s off the wall and right back to the left fielder. Here’s the relay throw. The runner’s being held up by the third-base coach. The batter chugs into second with a double. And listen to the voices of the Yankee faithful in the stands. . . .

  “Can you pray for an o
ut in a baseball game?” asked Luis. “Is that allowed?”

  “If it isn’t, I earned a ticket to hell before I was fifteen,” said Uncle Ramon flatly.

  Then Gabriel turned away from the wheel and said, “You can pray for whatever moves you. And Ramon, I don’t believe your passion for baseball will bring you to the gates of hell.”

  The designated hitter to the plate for the Yankees now. The tying run is at third. The winning run at second. . . .

  The vibrations from the sound of the radio ran through my arm. I gazed out the window into the darkness. Then my eyes settled on a star—one almost off by itself, one that seemed to be burning around its edges.

  Ramirez undoubtedly wishing he’d kept his glove off that chopper up the middle. That was the error that began this potential Yankees rally. But it’s a decision he’ll have to live with, and here we are with high drama in the Bronx. El Fuego goes into his stretch. There’s one high and tight. Ball one. The crowd booing as Ramirez brushes the Yankees’ DH back. Ramirez glaring in. He quickly comes set again. Here’s the next pitch. He swings. It’s ripped into right center! It’s rolling back to the wall. Both base runners score. And the Yankees win! The Yankees win! They now own a three-games-to-two lead in this best-of-seven series, with the scene shifting back to Miami in two days. Oh, how fortunes can change in the space of just a few pitches. . . .

  Sinking into the backseat, I shut off the transistor. I struggled to keep any expression at all off my face. Part of me was smiling on the inside, thrilled that Papi had blown the save and taken his lumps. But another part of me felt like a complete traitor—a traitor to my family, and to whatever ties I had left to Cuba. And I kept feeling both of those opposing sides as the Buick rose and fell with the waves.

  Uncle Ramon was quiet for a good while after that loss. Then, finally, he said, “Don’t worry, Julio. Your papi will be all right. There are still two more games left. And pitchers like him, they have a short memory. They need to. It’s the only way they can move forward. Wipe the slate clean and go out to the mound next time and be focused.”

  Those words—short memory—stuck with me like a huge boulder tied around my neck. I thought about sharing that weight with Uncle Ramon, telling him about Papi’s new son. But in the end, it was my burden to carry.

  “I think you described Papi perfectly,” I said. “I don’t believe he has any problem putting things behind him.”

  “Life’s always into the future, never backward,” said Uncle Ramon. “There’s no stopping that.”

  “The world could spin ten times faster,” said Luis. “I’d never forget my mother.”

  Uncle Ramon nodded his head in silence.

  After a moment, Gabriel said, “It’s where we’ve been and what we take with us that count.”

  “You sure you’re a fisherman, and not a philosopher?” I asked him.

  “There’s lots of time to think on the ocean. The way it pushes and pulls you,” Gabriel replied.

  “Maybe that’s what the tides and currents are all about,” said Luis.

  That’s when I looked at my cousin like he might have been a professor, if he’d had the chance to go to school without any females around to distract him.

  Sometime around midnight, Luis announced, “It’s been fifty-three hours.”

  “Your papi’s probably on a plane home already,” Uncle Ramon told me. “I wonder who’s closer to Miami right now, him or us?”

  I didn’t have an answer. But for a while after that, I was drawing lines in my head on an imaginary map—one line for Papi’s plane, and one for the Buick. Sometimes those lines intersected in Miami. Other times they were miles apart. Only no matter what, none of them ever took a straight course.

  Later on, around three o’clock in the morning, I was drifting in and out of sleep. On the surface, the waters were calm. And except for the muffled sound of the engine, everything inside the cabin was quiet.

  Then, out of nowhere, the Buick was broadsided. I felt a blast of power shake me from left to right. For an instant, we were up in the air, and I swore we were going to flip over, like a turtle on its back.

  “Hold tight!” screamed Gabriel, from behind the wheel.

  I could hear the cries of my uncle and cousin, too. But I couldn’t make any sense of them. My brain was shaking inside my skull. And all I could think was that another car had run a red light, slamming my passenger door. Then I remembered where we were, and thought maybe a huge ship had collided with us.

  The Buick splashed back down, right side up. And just as suddenly, everything was peaceful again.

  Uncle Ramon reached into the rear, grabbing Luis and me by the arm.

  “Are you boys all right?” he asked.

  We both nodded before looking out the windows for the lights of whatever had pounded us. Only there was nothing at eye level except darkness.

  “What the hell was that?” Uncle Ramon asked Gabriel.

  “Maybe it was some kind of sea monster,” said Luis, who sounded like he was only half joking.

  “My best guess is a rogue wave—a small one,” answered Gabriel, still getting himself together. “A big one would have capsized us for sure, and then buried us beneath a ton of water.”

  “A rogue wave?” I asked.

  “Strong currents and winds, even miles away, can cause them. Those pressures clash head-to-head, building, until all that force rises up. And when it does, you don’t want to be in its path.”

  “Like a wave on steroids,” Uncle Ramon said. “One with ’roid rage?”

  “Sounds right,” said Gabriel.

  “But everything was so smooth and calm,” Luis said.

  “It’s a reminder of where we are. Of what can happen at any moment,” said Uncle Ramon. “It’s not that different from living in Cuba.”

  “It is a reminder,” I said, “that sucker punches like that can come no matter where you are.”

  20

  THE BACK OF my eyelids were filled with orange light. So even though my eyes were still shut, I knew that the sun had come up. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in days. The worst taste in the world was living inside my mouth. I opened my lips a crack to suck in some fresh air, trying to diffuse it.

  Suddenly, someone grabbed my upper arm in a frenzy. I figured we were about to be slammed by another monster wave, and my entire body tensed.

  It was Luis, and he shouted, “Land! I think that’s land!”

  He was pointing straight ahead into the distance. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus. Uncle Ramon was awake now, too, jumping up and blocking my view. But when I finally was able to see over his shoulder, I saw that Luis was right.

  There were tall buildings and a beach, maybe four or five miles away.

  Only Gabriel was sitting calmly behind the steering wheel.

  “When were you going to let us know?” Uncle Ramon asked him excitedly.

  “At first, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. That I wasn’t dreaming,” answered Gabriel, with a look of satisfaction. “Then I decided that I didn’t want to cheat you out of that moment of seeing it for yourselves.”

  “Is it Miami?” I asked.

  “We won’t know for sure until we’re there,” answered Gabriel, pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

  “Pinch me, Julio,” said Luis. “I want to know that this is for real, not a dream.”

  “All right, but you don’t need to pinch me,” I replied. “None of my dreams have been this good lately.”

  Getting closer, we could see windsurfers on their boards. Luis and I climbed up onto the roof of the car/boat and started waving. Then a cluster of windsurfers gathered, before turning their sails around and heading toward us.

  “Think they’re excited to meet Cuban refugees?” Luis asked.

  “No, I think they’ve never seen a green fifty-nine Buick before,�
� I answered.

  That’s when I heard the siren. There was a big gray ship, probably a mile off, closing in from our right. I could see the US flag on its side.

  Gabriel hit his horn in return, and the sound waves vibrated through the soles of my feet.

  “You see the red, white, and blue?” asked Luis.

  I nodded my head, thinking how it was the same three colors as the Cuban flag, only with fifty small stars instead of a single giant one.

  A voice came over the ship’s loudspeaker in Spanish.

  “This is the United States Coast Guard!” it bellowed, with an echo. “You are in US waters! Shut off your engine! Put your hands on top of your head!”

  – – –

  “Have we made it far enough to stay?” I asked my uncle, leaning down into the cabin. “Not to get sent back?”

  Uncle Ramon climbed onto the roof with us, while Gabriel kept driving with the engine still running.

  “Gabriel thinks this is good enough,” said Uncle Ramon.

  “How could it be better?” I asked.

  “If we were standing on US soil,” he answered.

  The voice on the loudspeaker repeated its demands. Then that ship launched a smaller, faster boat, full of uniformed men.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” I said. “I’m going to swim for the beach.”

  Luis told his father, “You go, too. Maybe it’ll help us all.”

  “No way I’ll leave you here,” my uncle said, an instant before I dove into the water.

  I was swimming in a straight line, as fast as I could, riding every wave to pick up speed. Gabriel finally shut off his engine. Glancing back, I could see them all with their hands on their heads.

  That smaller boat reached the Buick, and now a second one was motoring after me. I was kicking my legs harder, reaching with every stroke. I was already exhausted. But there was no way I was going to stop.

  Ahead of me, one of the windsurfers had broken away from the others, coming in my direction. He reached out a hand, like he wanted to pull me onto his board. But I kept on swimming.