Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  “Behöver hjälp?” he asked, lowering the sail and paddling alongside me.

  I didn’t know what language that was. All I knew was that it wasn’t English. And that really freaked me out, like I might be swimming toward the wrong shore.

  That boat was getting closer, and I’d reached a group of windsurfers, maybe a hundred yards off the beach. I was so focused on going forward that my brain couldn’t link together their words. But my ears understood they were speaking both English and Spanish to me.

  My arms felt like limp rubber bands, and my lungs ached until I thought they were going to explode. Then, about fifty yards out, I heard the cheers from the people on the beach. And that sound gave me an added surge of strength.

  I heard the motor of that boat getting closer. So I turned my head to see where it was. That’s when a wave broke overtop me and I swallowed a mouthful of seawater.

  I was closer to the shore than that boat was to me. I was choking and gagging now. Someone grabbed me around the shoulders and started dragging me in. But as soon as it was shallow enough for my feet to touch the bottom, I got myself free from that person’s grasp and propelled myself toward the sand.

  Before I knew it my chest was out of the water, and then my waist. I staggered onto the dry sand, falling to my knees. I touched the ground like it was home plate and I’d been rounding the bases. Only I wasn’t safe. I was free.

  The applause and the motor were ringing in my ears.

  I collapsed face-first into the sand, and it stuck all around my lips and mouth. I’d seen photos of people kissing the ground, grateful to be somewhere. But this was different. I could taste it.

  Then someone in the crowd turned me over, putting something ice-cold into my hand.

  “Drink. Drink,” a woman said in English.

  I looked and it was a can of Pepsi.

  The sound of the motor stopped and the circle of people around me opened. A man, maybe in his early thirties, with a complexion that looked like mine, came walking through. He was wearing a blue uniform and hat, with a holstered pistol strapped to his right hip.

  I put the can down into the sand, before I ever took a sip. Then I held out both my wrists, expecting him to handcuff me.

  He stood over me with his hands on his hips. Then in Spanish he said, “I’m Chief Petty Officer Sebastian Rodriguez. You sail from Cuba? Looking for asylum?”

  I nodded, with the salt water dripping from my chin.

  “You didn’t have to swim so fast. Once you hit the water, I wasn’t going to stop you from reaching shore. I’m just glad you didn’t drown. Do you need a doctor?”

  I shook my head. And when I finally caught my breath, I asked, “You won’t send them back, my family in the car/boat?”

  “It’s not up to me,” he answered. “There’s a government agency—Immigration and Naturalization Service. They take care of that. But unless you’re terrorists, you’ll probably all be allowed to remain. Basically, it’s your reward for surviving the trip.”

  “I’m not a terrorist,” I said. “I’m a shortstop.”

  “That’s always better,” he said, smiling from the corners of his mouth.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was actually here, alive and in one piece. It was like being reborn. Every breath seemed new, and even the sun felt different on my skin.

  Suddenly, there were more sirens, this time from the street beyond the beach, and the sound of another motor on the ocean in front of me.

  Uncle Ramon, Luis, and Gabriel were coming ashore with some officers in a small boat. Then a pair of ambulances and three carloads of agents in blue Windbreakers with the letters INS across the front and back arrived.

  Luis leaped onto the sand. He ran up and threw his arms around me.

  “How long?” I asked him.

  “Sixty-two and a half hours,” he answered through his hug.

  “That’s a long trip in a Buick,” said Officer Rodriguez. “Who put that thing together?”

  “That was our guardian angel here,” answered Uncle Ramon, kissing Gabriel once on the forehead. “We made it on a wing and a prayer, right?”

  “Always,” answered Gabriel, with his hands clasped to heaven.

  “My men are checking it over from top to bottom now,” said Officer Rodriguez. “If it’s clean, you’re probably in good shape to stay.”

  “Don’t worry. No drugs. No guns,” said Uncle Ramon.

  “Just three coconuts waiting to be cracked,” added Luis, lightly punching my arm.

  People all over the beach were taking photos of us with their cell phones. But Officer Rodriguez wouldn’t let any of them pose with us.

  “Buena suerte con su beisbol,” said Officer Rodriguez, wishing me well before handing us over to a Spanish-speaking INS agent.

  “Good luck?” questioned Uncle Ramon. “This is the son of El Fuego, soon-to-be World Champion. He was born with skills.”

  That statement brought more cheers and photos from the crowd.

  I couldn’t tell by the look on Officer Rodriguez’s face if he’d ever heard of Papi or not. But for some reason, I almost wished he hadn’t.

  “Family’s important,” said Officer Rodriguez, with his brown eyes on mine.

  Then he turned away and gathered his men, before walking back to his boat.

  We didn’t want any medical treatment. So that INS agent took us to his car.

  “Excuse me, but what year model is this?” Luis asked him as we got in.

  “I believe it’s a twenty-twelve,” he answered.

  “Can you imagine that, Cousin? A two thousand and twelve,” Luis said in awe. “I’ll bet you it rides like a dream.”

  21

  RIDING IN THAT car, I couldn’t take my eyes off the faces of the people on the streets of Miami. The INS agents wouldn’t let me open any windows. But even through the tinted glass, I could see the light in people’s eyes, and how much less weight they carried here. They were young and old, black, white, brown—a few even had hair dyed crazy colors, like orange and purple. But none of them seemed afraid of being who they were. And I just knew that back in Cuba, people would think twice about standing out from the crowd, thinking there was always a chance of getting in trouble over it.

  “Julio, what if we see your papi walking around?” asked Luis. “We could jump out of the car and yell, ‘Surprise!’ I swear I’d kiss his feet for getting us here.”

  Before I had to come up with a reply, Uncle Ramon said, “El Fuego’s not going to be walking in the streets, not today. He’s going to be at home, resting for the game tomorrow night.”

  But I began to wonder—what if we did see Papi on the street? Would he be holding the hand of his new son? Or would he be walking alone, forgetting about his family, the same way he did to Mama, Lola, and me?

  Then I noticed the GPS built into the car’s dashboard. I tapped Luis on the shoulder, pointing at it. His eyes opened as wide as mine. Part of me felt like we were finally living in all of those modern movies I’d seen, while another part was already feeling guilty that I was here without my mother and sister.

  “We could have used that on the ocean,” Luis said.

  “Why? Such little faith in me to guide you?” replied Gabriel, behind a wry smile.

  The agent who was driving must have been impatient. Because instead of waiting at a red traffic light, he tapped a switch and the siren let out a short whhaaaa before we went through the intersection. One block later, we turned into an underground parking garage beneath a tall office building. Then an elevator took us up to a third-floor processing center.

  The scent of the place tickled my nose. It was unbelievably clean, like someone scrubbed it down with bleach every hour.

  Once you got past a long hallway of offices, there was a big open room with hundreds of fluorescent bulbs shining down. Maybe a dozen other refu
gees were there. And one of the agents said a small group of them had washed ashore from Cuba just a few hours before we had, but that most of them were at a hospital, and in bad shape.

  “I have a phone number I need to call,” Gabriel told an agent. “We already have representatives and a sponsor here.”

  “I’ll pass that on to my superiors,” said the agent, walking away. “For now, just relax and get comfortable. Your processing will take a while.”

  The windows nearly stretched from the floor to the ceiling, letting in lots of light. Only those windows wouldn’t open. Cool air was being pumped in through vents.

  Round tables, plastic chairs, and cots dotted the room. The refugees were spread out among them, talking, looking at paperwork, and sleeping. Against the far wall, beneath a framed picture of the Statue of Liberty, there was a table filled with free food. It had coffee, juice, bottled water, and fruit. There was also a tray of packaged treats, including Twinkies, Sno Balls, Suzy Q’s, and Ding Dongs.

  I saw those treats and couldn’t help thinking about Lola, who was practically addicted to them. Papi used to buy them for her on the black market—in illegal stores the government didn’t know about—before he defected. After that, we didn’t have the money to waste. But every year on her birthday, Mama and I would scrape up enough to buy her a whole box.

  “Hey, Primo. Who would be crazy for one of these?” asked Luis, a moment before shoving an entire Twinkie into his mouth.

  “I know,” I answered, losing my appetite.

  The agent came back and handed Gabriel a cell phone. I watched as he dialed the number by heart.

  “Is that my brother’s number?” Uncle Ramon asked him.

  “I’m not sure,” answered Gabriel as it rang. “I’ve never called it before.”

  I saw Gabriel’s shoulders lift as someone on the other end picked up. I moved closer to him, trying to hear.

  “We’re here. Everyone’s safe, in good health,” Gabriel said. “We’re at the immigration building in Miami.”

  I couldn’t make out the voice as Gabriel listened to the short response. Then he gave the agent back his phone and said, “Someone will be here for us very soon.”

  “Someone?” asked Uncle Ramon.

  Gabriel nodded.

  A few minutes later, the agent brought us into an exam room, where a woman doctor in a white lab coat was waiting. She listened to our heartbeats with a freezing-cold silver stethoscope. Then she used a tongue depressor and a tiny flashlight to look down our throats. After that, she asked about any diseases we’d ever had, like measles or chicken pox.

  “Julio, this is just like taking a physical to play baseball,” said Luis, who then lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “Think she’ll hold our nut sacks and make us cough?”

  I cracked a half smile over that, but wouldn’t answer.

  Finally, she gave us each a small plastic container to pee in. They were numbered from 189 to 192.

  “That’s how many people we’ve processed this year,” she answered, after I asked what the numbers meant.

  It didn’t seem like a lot. But I understood it didn’t reflect all the people who weren’t as lucky as us. The ones who’d died trying to get here, or who got caught and were rotting in prisons.

  We went back to the main room, waiting to fill out our paperwork and be interviewed. There was a Cuban family—a mother, father, and small daughter—at a table near us. The mother had a wide bandage on the right side of her forehead. Gabriel went over to ask about it.

  “My little girl was falling out of our raft. By the grace of God I caught her,” she said, crossing herself and then raising her eyes toward the fluorescent lights above. “I hit my head on a wooden oar. It made a big gash. But I’m all right.”

  “We’re from Havana. Pleased to meet you,” said her husband, shaking Gabriel’s hand, as Uncle Ramon walked over as well. “Two days we made it here. The wind was pushing us the whole way.”

  “You arrived this morning?” asked my uncle.

  “No, five days ago,” he answered. “We’ve been trying to get placed in a refugee house. So we don’t wind up sleeping on the streets and finding trouble.”

  “What kind of house is that?” Luis asked the man, going over by the little girl, who was playing on the floor with toy soldiers and animals battling on either side of a blanket hanging down off a cot.

  “Maybe fifteen people living together in a few rooms—different families sharing food, looking for work,” he answered. “Houses like that are spread out all over Miami. But they’re hard to get into. You’ll see when you try.”

  “Not us. My uncle’s famous,” scoffed Luis, picking up one of the girl’s toys. “We’ll probably be living in a mansion and—”

  That’s when Uncle Ramon gave him a swift kick in the behind.

  “I’m sorry. My son thinks he’s more important than he is,” Uncle Ramon explained to the man, with a sharp glare for Luis. “Good luck to you and your family finding an opening in a house.”

  Luis knew that he’d screwed up, acting obnoxious. So he tried to be extra nice to that girl, making a helmeted soldier fight a striped tiger for her, including sound effects.

  “Get ready to shoot,” Luis told her, before putting an empty Ding Dong wrapper to his mouth and puffing it up with air. “One, two, three!”

  Then Luis slammed the wrapper between his palms, producing a loud pop!

  Nearly everyone turned around to see. Even though it was just a kid’s game, it got quiet for a while, and I could feel the anxiousness in the room until it slowly faded away.

  We were stuck there for the next seven hours, watching TV on a Spanish news station and listening to music on my transistor. The signal came in much better now that we were in Miami.

  “Very soon?” Uncle Ramon nudged Gabriel. “Is that what the voice told you?”

  “You waited almost forty years to be free,” Gabriel replied. “A few hours in the US and now you’re impatient?”

  I guess we all were, especially once the sun went down.

  Luis even stopped checking his watch after a while. But I think the impatience was getting to me the most. I wanted to see Papi face-to-face. And I wanted the freedom I’d risked my life for to become something more than four beige and blue walls and a tray full of free Hostess cakes.

  Then, just as I was about to lose my mind in that room, we were called into a small office. On a table were four pens and four forms to fill out.

  A Spanish-speaking agent introduced himself to us. He was about to walk us through the forms when the phone on his desk rang.

  “Un momento, por favor,” he said, and then picked up the receiver.

  A few seconds later, he turned his attention back to us and said, “Someone has just arrived to represent your party. May I invite that person to join in?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” answered Uncle Ramon.

  “Send him in,” the agent said into the phone.

  Suddenly, against the hallway wall, by the open door, I saw the immense shadow of a tall figure. I rose up in my seat a little. Then I swallowed hard at the thought of what might happen next.

  22

  THE SHADOW SLID forward, turning razor thin. My eyes had to refocus as it rounded the corner, going from shadow to substance. And when my brain finally caught up to my eyes, I realized that it wasn’t Papi.

  Instead, it was an older Hispanic man in a suit and tie, carrying a sharp leather briefcase. He introduced himself to the INS agent first.

  “I’m Antonio Oliva, attorney for Julio Ramirez Sr.,” he said, before turning to us. “I’ll be representing each of you in this process. Now, which one of these young men is Julio Jr.?”

  “I am.”

  “Your father wanted me to express his great relief and answered prayers that you’re finally here,” he said, reaching out to sha
ke my hand. “He’s focused on the World Series right now, with his obligations to the Miami Marlins. That’s why I’m here in his place. But he’ll be with you soon. He promises.”

  Mr. Oliva wouldn’t turn my hand loose until I nodded, acknowledging his speech.

  “You mean, as soon as he wins the World Series,” added Uncle Ramon.

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” said Mr. Oliva. “But what else would I expect from El Fuego’s brother? I can see and hear the resemblance.”

  Right then, I was willing to bet anything that Papi hadn’t sent a replacement to read his new son a bedtime story that night.

  “I have their forms already filled out. All they need to do is sign,” said Mr. Oliva, producing the pages from his briefcase. “How quickly can these gentlemen be released to Mr. Ramirez?”

  “Released to my brother,” said Uncle Ramon in a reverent tone.

  “I take it that Mr. Ramirez is willing to clothe, house, and feed them?” asked the agent.

  “Absolutely,” said Mr. Oliva. “Employ them as well. In a manner of speaking, Gabriel is already on his payroll. And obviously the young men will be enrolled in school.”

  “I know what happens in US high schools,” Luis whispered to me. “I’ve seen lots of movies. Students can do anything they want here—sing, dance, hang out in the halls.”

  “I’ll go through the paperwork,” said the agent. “If it’s correct, they should be released shortly.”

  Mr. Oliva gave Uncle Ramon his card and said, “When everything’s in order, call that number. I’ll arrange the rest from there.”

  I didn’t know what there was to arrange. This was starting to seem more like a business meeting than a family reunion. And I hadn’t thought it was possible, but the closer in miles I got to Papi, the farther away from him I felt.

  I picked up the pen and found the blank line with the X next to it. I wanted the signature that let me walk free on the streets of the US to look amazing. But I guess my hand must have been shaking, because when I was finished, it looked like I’d signed that paper in the dark.