Rooting for Rafael Rosales

by Kurtis Scaletta

  “I can’t ask Juan for help,” said Rafael. “He hates me.”

  ***

  When Rafael got up the next morning, his father had already cleared the table and laid out a big sheet of white paper. Rafael sat down at the far end of the table to eat his breakfast of mashed plantain and mango. His father laid out screws and bolts and other parts of the portable stereo he was disassembling. Iván climbed up into a chair and watched.

  “Today we learn the basics,” said Papa.

  “Aprendemos las bases,” Iván echoed. Rafael’s ears tuned in.

  “First, we lay things out in the order we remove them,” said Papa. “So we don’t forget which order to put them back.”

  “Sentamos las cosas en orden,” said Iván.

  “Don’t put your elbows on the table. You might shake things and make them roll.”

  “No codos en la mesa,” said Iván, shifting back in his chair.

  Rafael watched, feeling strange. His father had never gone over these fundamentals with him, had never gone to the trouble of teaching him the bases. Papa had only haphazardly included him in things once they were underway.

  It’s because he knew I didn’t care, Rafael told himself, but a deeper feeling gnawed at him. Papa didn’t think I would try. He thought it was a waste of time to teach me at all, and I proved he was right.

  But it didn’t matter, because he would be a famous baseball player. He would buy a big house for his parents, one with more rooms than they knew what to do with, and a swimming pool and a garage with a big car. He imagined walking Papa and Mama through the house, letting them admire all the fine new appliances and shiny fixtures, and then telling them, as a surprise, that the house was not his, but theirs. His father would look at him with teary eyes, feeling grateful but also sorry that he hadn’t believed in Rafael earlier.

  But there would be no million-US-dollar baseball bonuses and no expensive houses if he couldn’t even play streetball. Rafael left the house, but instead of going to the streetball game, he walked the other way. He hurried past the colmado and past the tiny vacant lot where he had once played pirates with Iván. He ran across the busy Calle Mir and kept walking, his heart pounding. He was not supposed to go this far from home by himself. A few minutes later, the road broke left. The campo was on the right.

  He had seen it before, driving past it with his father. There was a chain-link fence all the way around the field. There was practically no foul territory and no room for bleachers. The field was mostly dirt, but the baselines were straight and measured, the outfield wide, and there was netting behind home plate. This was real baseball. A row of spectators, mostly boys, now straddled the fence. Rafael found a spot and clambered up.

  “Hola,” said the boy next to him.

  “Hola. I heard Rogério Romero used to play here,” Rafael told him.

  “Everybody knows that,” said the boy. “Also Tonio Mendez, who plays for the Pirates.”

  “Wow. Do you ever play?”

  “No. I’m not good. I like to watch.”

  Rafael rested his feet in the diamonds of the fence and tried to get comfortable. There were no dugouts. The players waiting to bat leaned against the fence behind the backstop. They had real bats, a mix of banged-up wooden ones and metal ones. Most of the boys had gloves, however old and battered. And the pitcher was hurling a real ball.

  Rafael searched for Juan and didn’t see him. He did see Hugo in the row of boys waiting to bat. Perhaps Juan was in the outfield. The boys there were too far away to recognize.

  The boy now batting sailed a foul ball to left field. The left fielder ran after it. Rafael could only see his silhouette against the morning sun, but knew by the way he moved that it was Juan. He recognized the body, the stride, and the way he crooked his neck. Juan leaped into the air and caught the ball for an out, then whipped it back to the pitcher on one bounce. The boys on the fence hooted and cheered, and Rafael realized he was cheering along with them. Instead of the sick jealous feeling he was used to, he felt a swell of pride.

  “That’s my friend Juan,” he told the boy next to him. “We used to play streetball together.”

  A moment later he wished he hadn’t said it, because Juan’s catch was the third out. The players came in from the field to bat. They lined up near Rafael and the other boy. Since he’d claimed Juan was a pal, he now had to say hello. What if Juan scoffed at him or, worse, ignored him completely? What if he threw back a casual “Oh hi” as if Rafael was not even worth ignoring, merely another boy on the fence?

  He could have lain low and hoped Juan wouldn’t see him, but now he was stuck.

  “Juan…” he started but found his voice too weak to carry over the chatter. He cleared his throat and found his voice deep inside him. “Juan! Great catch!”

  Juan turned and saw him. He cracked his familiar grin, came over, grabbed Rafael’s hand, and practically pulled him off the fence.

  “This is the one,” he told his teammates. “This is the boy I told you about. He has la intensidad like nobody I ever played with. Even in streetball, he would make me ashamed for goofing off.”

  Rafael could have burst with pride.

  “We need you, mi amigo, to keep these guys from counting clouds in the outfield.” Juan threw his arms around two older boys. “Rafael, you should play with us.”

  The teams were already decided for the morning, but Juan promised Rafael could play next time.

  “Get here early tomorrow!” he said.

  “Your house is on the way,” Rafael said. “I’ll meet you.”

  “Excelente!”

  Rafael returned to his spot on the fence. He held on tight, for fear he would float away.

  “Do you know his brother too?” the boy next to him asked.

  “Hugo. Of course,” Rafael said. He was now brimming with confidence. “I’ve been to their house.”

  “He will be a superstar,” said the boy.

  “Everybody knows it,” Rafael agreed.

  The game resumed. Maybe next time, Rafael would play too. It was hard to believe.

  He had not forgotten he couldn’t hit anymore. He also knew Juan was one boy of many—the youngest boy playing, probably—and his word alone wouldn’t be enough to get Rafael into a game. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Rafael had a plan. He would work with Juan to get his swing back. Then he would play here with the big boys and show his intensity.

  The boys played more seriously than Rafael was used to, but they were not completely competitive. At one point, the pitcher talked to a batter about how to hit his own pitches. When the second baseman muffed a play, both teams gathered around the base for a discussion of how he should have played it. They were playing to get better, not to win.

  The game ended on a tie, after five and a half innings, because it was time for lunch. Rafael fell into step with Hugo and Juan.

  “Where have you been?” Juan asked.

  “I was helping my papa. He has a repair shop.”

  The street was especially busy. Shuttle buses full of tourists drove slowly by, giving the passengers a tour of the city. Motor scooters zipped around them. A woman in a straw hat led a mule drawing a wagon full of fruits and vegetables.

  “Right. Diego said you started playing again a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, but I’m rusty.”

  They ran across the street. A truck bleated at them, even though they had the light on their side.

  “I need help batting,” said Rafael. “Can we practice after lunch?”

  “Sure,” said Juan. “We should do that. Hasta pronto!” He followed Hugo into their house.

  Rafael realized he was late for lunch. His mother must have called for him, perhaps even sent Iván out looking for him. He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. He hurried home and saw his mother by the stove looking upset.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

  “Your father won’t let us eat anyway,” his mother grumbled.

  “We’re al
most finished. Relax.” His father slid a panel back into place on a cassette recorder. Iván was on his knees in a chair, watching intently. Papa held out a hand, and Iván dropped a small screw into his palm. His father screwed it into one corner of the panel and held out his hand for another, then another. Iván delivered each screw as if he were assisting a brain surgeon.

  “People in the United States throw things away that are almost new,” Papa said. “Things that are easy to fix, like this. All I had to do was tighten the chassis.” Rafael held his breath when his father pressed Play on the machine. A Puerto Rican rap song blared out of the speakers. The machine did not rattle.

  “It’s good!” Iván threw his arms in the air.

  “Oh, this song,” said their mother, shaking her head in disapproval.

  “A ella le gusta la gasolina!” Papa sang. He took Mama’s hands and made her dance, turning circles between the kitchen and the dining area, her still holding a wooden spoon.

  Iván leaped off the chair and joined in, and Rafael did the same. The four of them danced around as if lunch wasn’t getting cold, there were no other machines to fix, and nothing on earth was left to worry about.

  On the second Saturday in April, Maya went into the backyard to rip up sod. Her family had a big yard, but it was shabby and weedy compared to the other neatly maintained lawns along Victory Memorial Drive. She’d already staked out the long rectangle—fifteen feet by five—where she would place her garden, and now she had to prepare it for planting. She grabbed a shovel and hacked out a square in the sod, then pried up the grassy surface. It was harder than she thought. Spring had come to the sky, but the ground was stuck in winter. After an hour, she rested her elbow on the shovel handle and looking at the work in front of her. It would be easier and more fun if she had help.

  Grace came out of the back door.

  “So, you’re really doing this native weeds thing?”

  “Native grasses and forbs,” Maya corrected, once again plunging the shovel into the ground and placing her foot on the blade.

  “What’s a forb?”

  Maya pried up the sod, leaving Grace’s question unanswered for a moment. She relished a moment of knowing something her big sister did not.

  “Well?”

  “The stuff that grows on grasslands that isn’t grass,” said Maya, as she dropped the sod on the pile. “Like thistle and dandelions.”

  “Yeah. The rest of us call those weeds,” said Grace.

  “A weed is a plant you don’t want. I want these, so they aren’t weeds.”

  “What,” said Grace, “ever.”

  Maya turned up another strip of sod and saw a big grub, mealy white in the morning sun. She gritted her teeth and refused to be grossed out. It’s a baby beetle, she reminded herself. Who doesn’t like babies?

  “Want to help?”

  Grace made a face. “I think I’ll pass. Besides, I don’t want to get sweaty. I’m going to hang out with Rachel.”

  “Are you going all the way to Woodbury?” Maya asked. Grace’s best friend had moved across the Twin Cities last year.

  “I’m hoping we can meet halfway so I’m not on a bus all day,” said Grace. She let out a breath. “I cannot wait until I get a driver’s license.”

  Maya shoveled up some soil and gently covered the grub. Some beetles were good for the garden, eating the bugs that ate the plants. She hoped this one was that kind.

  “Anyway, I thought you might like to know something,” said Grace, but she did not go on. Maya set her shovel down again.

  “Know what?”

  “It’s not as interesting as forbs,” Grace said. “But the Twins rookie team in the DR updated their roster.”

  “And?”

  “You’ve been checking a couple of times a day to see if Rafael is on it, so…”

  “Yes I have. So tell me!”

  “Hold on.” Grace bent over and scratched her ankle. She was obviously getting even with Maya for stalling on the explanation of forbs.

  “Grace!”

  “He’s on the roster,” Grace finally said, grinning. “He hasn’t been cut.”

  “Oh, yay!” Maya raised the shovel triumphantly.

  “It says the roster is tentative,” said Grace, drawing out the last word. “And since he’s in his third year now…”

  “I know, I know.” She and Grace had read into the rules for the rookie leagues. Players had to move up by the end of their third season or get cut, and really only had until July, when the teams would have to make room for the newest players after the international draft.

  “He’s still got a shot,” said Grace. “Well, have fun shoveling. I’m going to go call Rachel.”

  The good news gave Maya a burst of energy. She dug until her shoulders hurt, humming a pop song, thinking about baseball and bees. She took another break and admired her work. She had cleared nearly a fifth of the garden. There was no way she could finish today, she realized, but since flowers bloomed at different times, she could plant it gradually over the spring and summer.

  Her father now came out of the house, wearing the beaten shoes he wore when he mowed the lawn.

  “You know, I could rent a sod cutter,” he said.

  “I know,” said Maya. She’d read articles on the Internet about turning lawn into garden. “It just seems like a lot for something this small.” It also seemed like starting off on the wrong foot—saving the planet by using a machine that burned gasoline.

  “Maybe so,” he said. “Want me to dig a row?”

  “Really?

  “Sure. I’m kind of geeked about this prairie garden.”

  “Yes. Please. Thank you.” She handed him the shovel and he began to dig, working at twice her speed.

  “Your mom’s ready to go to the garden center,” he said. “Do you want to shower first?”

  “Uh. Is that a hint?”

  He said nothing, and she guessed it was a hint. She was coated in sweat and dirt.

  “I am pretty gross,” she admitted. “I’ll go clean up.”

  “I wouldn’t say gross,” said Dad. “Grubby. I’d say grubby.”

  Inside, Mom was sitting on the couch, paging through the flyer from the garden center.

  “How’s your garden coming along?”

  “Good,” said Maya. “Dad’s helping.”

  “He’s pretty geeked about this prairie thing,” said Mom.

  “That’s what he said. I’m going to take a quick shower before we go.”

  “OK. Be quick. I want to get groceries too.”

  As she showered, Maya imagined the plants full grown and flowering, humming with fuzzy visitors. That was the real reason for the garden: to draw bees with native wildflowers and give them a safe place to collect pollen. But the bees were still a touchy issue with Dad. It was much easier to call her garden a little pocket of prairie.

  ***

  After she was dried and dressed, Maya popped into the office area she shared with Grace. She wanted to see the DSL Twins roster with her own eyes, and Grace was still on the phone with Rachel so she actually had a chance. She noticed the open browser window, and the title caught her eye: A Thinking Girl’s Baseball Blog.

  She started reading the top entry:

  Thinking Girl has two opinions about the benches-clearing tussle in B-more last night. One is that we don’t need any more GIFs from the brawl with funny captions, and the other is that we don’t need any more “analysis” of Armijo’s short temper. (That plays a bit too much to the “hot-blooded Latino” stereotype for TG.) Thinking Girl would rather talk about the blown save itself, already Armijo’s third this season, and what it means for his future…

  This was the kind of blog Grace always read. The only difference was that a woman wrote it instead of some know-it-all blowhard like Danny Rhombus. Maya had nearly clicked away when she saw a note at the bottom.

  In other news, Fledgling Fan is delighted to discover that her minor-league crush object has not been sent packing. News from
the DR is that FF’s MLCO will be on the rookie-league roster despite a deplorable spring that put a big question mark on his future.

  Maya blinked.

  Fledgling Fan…minor-league crush object…news from the DR…deplorable spring…

  She clicked back through older posts. Entry after entry, there was more about this Fledgling Fan and her minor-league crush. Someone sure seemed to be writing about her and Rafael, and that could only be one girl slash baseball fan.

  “Yeah, so I have a blog,” said Grace, who’d stepped up behind her without Maya noticing. “That’s what I get for not shutting my browser window.”

  “You made fun of me.” Maya spun the office chair around with a squeal.

  “Huh?”

  “Fledgling fan? Minor-league crush object?” She stood up so she could get in Grace’s face. “I can’t believe you’d talk about me like that to strangers!”

  Grace backed up. “It’s not like anybody knows it’s you. They don’t even know my real name. And they’re not strangers; they’re friends.”

  “Ha!” said Maya. “If they don’t know your name, they’re strangers!”

  “You don’t know how these things work.”

  “Are you ready to go?” Mom called from downstairs.

  “Coming!” Maya called back, then whispered: “Take all of the stuff about me off, or I’m telling.”

  “Telling what?”

  “That you have a blog.”

  “Go ahead,” said Grace. “It’s not a big secret or anything.” She moved past Maya to get to the office chair.

  “I bet Mom and Dad don’t know about it though,” said Maya. “And they definitely don’t know you’re talking about me.”

  “And I bet Dad doesn’t know about the real reason for your native frobs,” said Grace.

  “Forbs,” said Maya acidly, missing Grace’s point. “They’re called forbs.”

  “You mean bee magnets,” said Grace, which took the wind out of Maya. “I’m not the only one who forgets to close browser tabs. You’re turning our yard into a resort for stinging bugs.”