by Paul Volponi
Seeing them was like a swift kick in the ass. I knew they existed. I just didn’t know that they were standing practically right behind me.
But I felt sorry for the boy, too. Because I’d called Papi’s name plenty of times myself without getting an answer.
A security guard opened the bullpen gates for us, and we walked inside. The Marlins’ bullpen is beneath the right-field stands. It has a long bench, a telephone connected to the dugout for the manager to call, and a pair of pitching mounds for the relievers to warm up. There were several other relief pitchers there, two bullpen catchers, and a coach.
The view of the game wasn’t nearly as good, because you had to watch through a chain-link fence. It felt a little bit like some kind of baseball jail—one Moyano probably would have loved to run. And with that security guard on the gate, it reminded me of being locked inside Cuba.
Before we ever sat down, Papi said, “Help me get my arm loose.”
So I finally put the glove on my hand. It was almost new, and the leather was still stiff. It fit me. But I wasn’t happy with the feel. I started pounding its pocket with my right fist, like I was beating up on it.
Papi stood about fifty feet from me. He came overhand with an easy, relaxed throw. Even getting loose, he had enough steam on his ball to sting my palm through the leather. It was the first time I’d played catch with him in six years—since the days when he was my hero, and his only other child was Lola.
While that ball was going back and forth between us, my mind was everywhere. For the moments when it was safe inside my glove, I’d close my eyes and see images—Mama’s face, Lola studying, our old house, and my bike in that parking lot by the field.
I glanced up and the image of Papi and me playing catch was up on the stadium’s video screen. It must have looked to the whole world like some picture-postcard moment of a father and son being reunited.
Other than that baseball, I had no idea what Papi was seeing, or exactly how clearly he saw me.
Papi ended our catch when the Yankees made the last out in their half of the sixth inning. I took a seat at the end of the bullpen bench, with Papi standing behind me, continuing to stretch his muscles.
“We just need one spark to start a fire,” said Papi, as Miami still trailed, 2–0. “A relief pitcher like me—my whole job depends on us scoring runs. We don’t get a lead or tie the game, nothing I do can make a difference. If I could do it over again, I’d become a shortstop like you, control my own destiny.”
“That’s what I want more than anything,” I said, making sure that he heard me. “To control my own life and not have it dictated by what other people do.”
Papi nodded his head to that, as if my thinking was just like his.
The Marlins had a runner reach first base in the bottom of the sixth. But that wasn’t enough of a spark, as they failed to put a run on the board. Now they were just nine outs away from getting blanked in the biggest game of their lives.
Miami’s starting pitcher was due to bat in the bottom of the seventh. Two Marlins relievers began warming up on the mounds behind us, ready to go into the game in case their manager decided to pinch-hit for his pitcher.
Papi watched them throwing for a moment. Then he told me, “These guys are important. They’re the bridge to me. But if they go in and get pounded for five runs, I might as well take an early shower.”
If I had a bucket of cold water, I would have poured it over Papi’s head. I wanted to hear how important I was to him, not his setup men.
“I know all about teammates,” I said. “I’ve had plenty pass through my life already. Coaches, too. My cousin Luis and Uncle Ramon, they’re the only ones who’ve stuck with me—mi familia.”
“I was sorry to hear about Blanca,” said Papi, showing a small crack in his game face. “Ramon says that Luis took it very hard. That you were a huge help to him.”
I wondered what Papi would have done if Mama or Lola had died after he defected. Would he have sent a card? Money for their funeral?
The Yankees left a pair of men on base in the seventh. Only I couldn’t say that I was jumping for joy when they didn’t score.
Miami’s leadoff batter drew a walk. That got a pair of pitchers up in the Yankees’ bullpen, opposite us, beneath the left-field stands. The Marlins’ manager pinch-hit for his pitcher, who was due up next. Then he decided to really make something happen. He played hit-and-run on the first pitch, sending his runner toward second base and committing his hitter to swing.
“Our manager’s got guts, faith in these guys,” said Papi, deciphering the signs the third-base coach was giving to the batter. “More than I would have.”
Protecting the runner, the hitter swung at a low pitch, golfing it into center field for a single. Now there were runners at first and third with nobody out.
Suddenly, the stands above our heads were rocking. Everyone must have been stamping their feet. It felt like we were in the middle of an earthquake. Then that stamping fell into a rhythm, punctuated by a clap of hands: Bum, bum, bum—clap. Bum, bum, bum—clap. And my heart seemed to be beating the same way.
The next batter was the Marlins’ shortstop.
“He’s going to deliver for us,” said Papi. “He’s going to get me into this game.”
Earlier, he’d been cheated by the umpire on that close call at first base. So I wanted him to do something good. As he set himself in the batter’s box, I could almost feel the bat in that shortstop’s hands. And when he started it forward on the first pitch, the muscles in my forearms twitched.
He hit a lined shot over the right fielder’s head, almost directly at us. The ball hit the bullpen gate on one bounce. I didn’t hear the noise it made, because the crowd was roaring like thunder. Both base runners scored. Game Seven was tied at 2–2, and the shortstop steamed into second base with a double.
For a brief moment, Papi and I were in each other’s arms. Then he left me to grab a bullpen catcher and begin to warm up his left arm for real.
The Yankees’ manager changed his pitcher.
Papi was up on the bullpen mound, just starting to make the catcher’s glove pop.
The next Marlins batter fouled off five pitches in a row. The crowd started and restarted its rhythmic clapping with every pitch. My pulse was rising and falling with them, while my feet were dancing off second base with that shortstop.
I saw a curveball hang over the middle of the plate. An instant later, I swore that baseball had wings. It soared so high into the left-field stands that I didn’t think it was ever going to come down. The home run statue was spinning like a giant merry-go-round, and somewhere in my mind I could see Luis hitting the button to start it.
The Marlins had the lead, 4–2. Now the Yankees were six outs from elimination. I glanced over at Papi in the midst of all that noise and emotion. There was a glint in his eyes as he stood even taller on the mound. He seemed completely focused on the catcher’s target. And he looked like there was nothing in the world more important to him than being El Fuego.
30
A MARLINS RELIEF pitcher left the bullpen to start the eighth inning, but it wasn’t Papi. It was Papi’s regular setup man. The team’s bridge to him to close out the game.
Papi was throwing even harder now. He’d fire four or five pitches in a row, building a rhythm, and then take a short blow. When Papi wasn’t throwing, he snorted around the edges of that mound like a bull waiting for something to charge. And if my jacket was red instead of blue, I probably would have run for cover.
That sequence kept up until the Yankees went down quietly in their half of the eighth inning. Then Papi put a jacket on to keep his arm warm and a good sweat going.
The bullpen phone rang. A coach answered it, listening for a few seconds.
“El Fuego!” he hollered, hanging up the phone in the same motion.
That was no surpris
e to anyone. I would have believed the moon over Marlins Park was green and made of cheese before I thought Papi wasn’t going to pitch the ninth.
I was standing by the bullpen door when Papi walked over and said, “I know you have plenty of reasons to hate me.”
I was shocked to hear those words come out of his mouth. Maybe he was so stoked right now, over the chance to save Game Seven, that there was nothing he could hold back.
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just don’t know if I should ever trust you again.”
He took those words like a batted ball ripped back at his head, barely flinching. Then he stalked off to pace the bullpen.
For a moment, I felt good over what I’d said to him. But once those words disappeared into the atmosphere, so did my satisfaction. After that, I just felt empty.
The Marlins didn’t add to their lead in the bottom of the eighth.
Just before their final out was made, Papi came back to me.
“I deserved that,” he said, with his voice wavering in a way I’d never heard. “I know how selfish I can be. That’s who I am. Baseball’s in my blood. So is being the best at it. You, your mama, your sister—you’re all in my heart, too.”
“Yeah, but how far behind?”
“You love this game, too. That’s why you left Cuba,” he said, a tear welling in the corner of one eye.
“That’s all good for me. But what if your new son never plays baseball? How will you ever explain it to him?”
That’s when the last Marlins hitter was retired. The bullpen gate swung open, salsa music started playing loudly over the PA system, and the crowd began chanting, “El Fuego!”
Papi made a fist, holding it out in front of himself. Then I did the same and touched mine to his, completing the connection.
“I’m going to win the World Series for me and my family—all of them,” said Papi, his voice becoming rock solid again.
Then Papi pulled his fist away and pounded it to the center of his chest.
“I promise. You won’t be far behind in my thoughts,” he said, striding onto the field to a huge ovation.
When the gate closed, I stood with my face pressed against the chain-link, my fingers locked tight around it. If I had my way, I would have broken that fence down. Not to be free—I already had that gift. But to be on that field, playing and backing up Papi.
The Yankees sent up their switch-hitting center fielder, who dug his heels into the right-side batter’s box against Papi.
From a full windup, Papi blazed a fastball past him for a called strike. The scoreboard flashed the speed of that pitch—ninety-eight miles per hour. The noise was near deafening as Papi went into his next delivery.
I didn’t hear the ball explode off the bat. But I saw it.
Crushed over the left-center-field fence, it hit the Marlins’ home run sculpture with a clang, as the crowd went silent. Now the Yankees were within a run at 4–3.
Papi never turned around to watch that ball sail out of the park. He just put his glove up for the umpire to throw him a new one. Then Papi rubbed the ball inside of his bare hands until I thought the cover might come off.
The noise was beginning to build again when the next Yankee batter tattooed Papi’s pitch off the face of the left-field fence for a stand-up double.
For an instant, Papi hung his head on the mound. It was something I’d never seen him do before. He didn’t seem like the same pitcher who’d been breathing fire in the bullpen. Maybe he just didn’t have it tonight—his arm was tired or his age was catching up to him at the end of a long season. Or maybe I was the cause, making him lose focus. And I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.
The Marlins’ pitching coach walked out to the mound. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Papi had waved him off. But he didn’t. The infielders gathered around them, too, probably discussing what to do if the next Yankee tried to bunt the runner over to third. When that meeting was over, and the pitching coach was on his way back to the dugout, the Marlins shortstop lingered there for some extra words with Papi. Then he tapped Papi once on the backside with his glove for encouragement before going back to his position. Only I wished for the world that could have been me.
Papi was pitching from the stretch now, straddling the rubber beneath him. That was meant to keep the runner closer to second. So it would be harder for him to score on a hard single.
The shortstop was up on his toes, shifting his weight from side to side. And so was I, almost feeling his rhythm.
The next Yankee batter laid down a beautiful bunt, sacrificing himself to get the runner over to third base with just one out. Now the tying run was just ninety feet away from home plate. That meant the runner could score on an out—a ground ball to an infielder or a sacrifice fly.
Papi needed a strikeout in the worst way. He picked up the rosin bag from behind the mound, running it through his fingers for a better grip on the ball. Then I swear he tried to throw that rosin bag through the ground.
The Marlins decided to play their infield in, to try to keep the runner on third from scoring. That put the shortstop maybe twenty-five feet closer to the batter than normal, limiting his range to the right and left. That was a call that had to come from their ejected manager, who was probably still hiding himself in that dugout doorway.
I picked my glove up off the ground and put it on my hand.
Back in the windup, Papi nicked the outside corner of the plate with a ninety-nine-mile-an-hour fastball.
“Steeee-rike!” rang the umpire’s voice.
Papi got the ball back, took a deep breath, and was ready to go again. But the batter stepped out of the box, asking the ump for time.
The instant he was back inside, Papi started his windup. His entire body was behind his delivery, driving low and forward with his legs.
The hitter swung. Only he was a half mile behind a one-hundred-mile-an-hour fastball.
Papi seemed to have his delivery back in sync and his focus again.
The catcher put down his signs for the pitch he wanted. Papi shook him off. But that had to be all for show, because everybody in the park knew that El Fuego wasn’t going to throw anything except more heat. With a runner on third, Papi probably wasn’t going to bounce one in the dirt—to make the batter go fishing—risking a wild pitch that could roll all the way to the aquarium in the backstop.
My heart was starting to beat hard as I bent slightly at the knees, just like the Marlins shortstop, who was practically staring down the barrel of that hitter’s bat.
Now Papi was taking his time, glaring at the batter. That Yankee was waving his bat, just off his shoulder, looking for a rhythm of his own.
The second his bat went still, Papi started his delivery.
I didn’t see a baseball leave Papi’s hand, just a blur. But I heard the crackle of the catcher’s mitt and felt the explosion in the stands as the batter swung and missed. Then I needed to look twice at the scoreboard when it posted that pitch at 103 miles per hour.
Papi gazed into the stands, from the seat where Milo was sitting all the way to me behind the bullpen gate. He took his fist and pounded his chest, before he let it hover for a moment over his heart. Despite the distance between us, when his eyes met mine I felt a spark of electricity, and nothing but pride and love for Papi.
I could only imagine what my half brother was feeling. I’m sure he thought that look from Papi was his alone. Maybe one day, I would explain to him exactly what we’d shared.
Turning toward home plate, Papi windmilled his left arm as if he could throw a pitch even faster than he just did. With two outs, the shortstop and the rest of the infielders moved back to their regular depths.
The Yankees were down to their final out. Papi was one batter away from fulfilling his dreams.
He was snorting on the mound, kicking at the dirt beneath his cleats. My f
ingers and palm inside the leather glove were sweating.
The hitter crossed himself and kissed the gold medallion hanging from his neck before he stepped into the batter’s box.
Papi went into his windup, coiling his body like a snake. Then he sprang forward with the same motion he’d used for all of his fastballs. That’s when time seemed to slow down for a second. Things were suddenly clearer to me and everything was in better focus. Somewhere inside that brief instant, my brain recognized that Papi hadn’t thrown his fastball. Instead, it was a changeup—probably eight miles an hour slower than that Yankee batter or anyone else ever expected. And I held my breath.
I don’t know what motivated Papi to put his trust in that particular pitch, to make that kind of change with so much hanging in the balance. But he did.
The hitter’s front foot was way out in front. Totally off-balance, he swung and popped the ball high into the air above the infield.
My lungs filled themselves with air.
Now, it was only a matter of gravity for Papi to realize his dream, and for the Marlins to win.
Papi pointed straight up into the night sky, past the halo of lights that encircled the stadium and all the way to the stars.
The shortstop settled himself beneath the ball, waiting. When it nestled into his glove, he squeezed both hands around it tight and the crowd went crazy.
As the shortstop leaped into Papi’s arms, the bullpen gate opened and I was the first one to charge out onto the field. By the time I reached Papi, he was being swarmed by his teammates from the diamond and the dugout. I pushed past them all and found my place in his arms.
I could feel the tears of joy running down Papi’s face. I wanted to say something to him. Only I couldn’t speak. I just held on tight as bursts of fireworks filled the sky. Then my own tears started to flow.
I wasn’t sure what the future was going to bring. All of my resentment over Papi leaving us behind wasn’t going to disappear because of a baseball game. But deep inside, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing one thing: a pitcher who once walked the streets of Matanzas like a Cuban god, with me trailing behind, had just saved Game Seven of the World Series.
