Rooting for Rafael Rosales

by Kurtis Scaletta

  I did that all by myself, she thought. She turned the bike around and rode home.

  ***

  “We can watch the Kernels tonight, if you want,” Grace told her when she walked into the kitchen, tired and sweaty.

  “Is it on the Web or something?”

  “Yeah. It’s the free webcast of the day.”

  “That would be cool,” said Maya. She got a glass and filled it with cold water.

  “I called Mom, and she says we can watch it while we eat dinner,” said Grace. Their mother usually didn’t allow any screens during mealtime. She said it was family time and would even kick Dad off his laptop or make him put his phone away. “She said we can hook up Dad’s laptop to the TV.”

  “Wow.” Maya downed the glass and poured another. Had water always been this good?

  “She thinks we need a family night,” said Grace. “I think she means she wants to look at something besides Dad scowling.”

  “I know I do,” said Maya.

  ***

  There was still no email from Bijou. Maya stared again at the photograph of Bijou and the boys. She had already tried to imagine Bijou’s life before this photo was taken. Now she wondered about the boys. They were baseball players now with big bonuses. What had their lives been like before they signed? The boy with the tight-lipped smile seem to have a lot of worries for a boy his age.

  ***

  Maya made dinner herself, sizzling hot dogs in a pan, mixing up a bag of coleslaw with dressing, and popping corn in tribute to the Kernels. She took time to be grateful for all of it: the food, the nice stove, the family she would eat with. She found some of Dad’s favorite beer in the pantry and made sure one was cold.

  Dad seemed slightly confused by the whole thing, but he let Grace hook up the laptop to the TV. He settled into the armchair, took a long drink from the beer, and put his feet on the ottoman.

  “I’m not going to lie to you,” he told Maya. “This hits the spot.” He set the bottle on the end table and scooped up a handful of popcorn.

  “Kind of a no-frills broadcast,” said Grace. She and Mom and Maya shared the couch. The view of the field was limited to one camera behind the backstop, and instead of live commentary, the video piped noise from the stadium.

  “I like it,” said Dad. “It’s more like being at the game.”

  “Is that the guy you like?” Mom asked Maya as the pitcher for the Wisconsin Timber Rattlers took the mound. The camera zoomed in on him as he threw his warm-up pitches.

  “Wrong position,” Grace teased. “Wrong team.”

  “Sorry, I thought it was him.”

  He didn’t look like Rafael to Maya, but he did look familiar.

  “Did we see this guy in spring training?”

  “Nope,” said Grace. “This team is affiliated with the Brewers, not the Phillies. But you probably saw his face on the Internet somewhere. He’s a great big deal.”

  That magazine article! Maya remembered. She’d read it in the hospital lobby on the day Claire was hurt. His name was Juan something. He had two last names. But he looked even more familiar than a photo she’d seen once. She couldn’t figure out why.

  The game was in Appleton, so the crowd roared with every strike as their great-big-deal pitcher got quick outs. He cruised through the first inning, but in the second inning, Rafael walloped a ball over the outfield wall. Maya clapped in excitement. It was his second home run as a Kernel, and she’d seen them both.

  “He’s still hot,” said Grace.

  The camera showed the pitcher getting a new ball from the umpire as Rafael circled the bases. The mike picked up groans and boos from the crowd.

  The next time Rafael batted, the pitcher threw an inside pitch that grazed his jersey. Rafael took a step toward the pitcher, pointing and shouting something the mike didn’t pick up. A couple of teammates quickly stepped in. Rafael was ushered to first base while the Rattlers pitcher kicked around on the mound.

  “Message pitch,” said Grace.

  “That could have hurt him!” Maya protested. This big-deal pitcher was a jerk.

  “It’s part of the game,” said Grace.

  Maya didn’t want to give in that easily.

  “I don’t think trying to hit people on purpose is ‘part of the game.’”

  “Yeah, but you’re too perfect for this world,” said Grace. “I’m going to go see how the Twins are doing.” She stalked up the stairs. Dad glanced at both of them but didn’t intervene. He probably agreed with Grace, thought Maya.

  The Rattlers won the game in ten innings. By that time, Mom was putting dishes away and Dad had dozed off. Rafael had played well, but images of the standoff between him and the pitcher stuck in Maya’s head.

  Grace had gone to bed, so Maya got on the computer and checked her secret email account. There was still no email from Bijou. That was when a realization hit Maya like a bolt of lightning. The tight-lipped boy showing Bijou how to grip a ball…that was Juan Whozit-Whatshisname on the Rattlers. She found the web page for the Wisconsin Timber Rattlers and looked at his profile page. Juan Santos Garcia. Age: 20. Birthplace: San Pedro de Macorís, Dominican Republic. Sure enough, he was from the same hometown as Rafael and about the same age, though he looked older than Rafael in that photo.

  But Bijou’s email said the boy standing next to Rafael was Juan, and the other boy was Juan’s big brother. The brothers looked a little alike, but Maya was sure the older boy with the baseball was the Rattlers pitcher. He had the same worried look as the pitcher. He also had the same broad palms and long fingers, and hands that looked a size too large for his body. The boy who was supposed to be Juan had an easy smile and ordinary hands. Of course boys grew and their bodies changed, but large hands didn’t seem like something you’d wake up with one day, like a pimple or leg hairs. They would have always been big for his body.

  Dear Bijou,

  Are you sure the boy showing you how to pitch isn’t Juan? I saw him pitch today (on TV) and…well, I wonder if he and Rafael are still friends.

  She explained a little about what happened. She added at the end:

  And about that other thing, please forgive me and write back.

  Maya

  ***

  The days crawled by. Maya went for bike rides in the morning when it was cool and spent the afternoons in her room. Sometimes she listened to the Kernels games over the Internet, the audio feed halting and several seconds behind the action. She would see the score update on the website before she heard the play announced.

  Rafael’s batting average dropped. As he struggled, Maya listened to the games even more fanatically, whispering encouragement when he came to the plate. Her long-distance pleading didn’t seem to help.

  Grace got a job at Dairy Queen, which was good news except that they expected her to work the Fourth of July weekend. Mom and Dad didn’t want to leave her alone for the week or split the family in half, so they called off their traditional week on Lake Mille Lacs. Maya had been really looking forward to the trip.

  Bijou still didn’t write back.

  Rogério Romero wanted more students at his pitching academy, and because he had a famous name, he didn’t need to comb the streets. He put up a sign that the academy would have open tryouts for boys aged twelve to fourteen on a Monday morning a few weeks into summer vacation. Rafael came that day to find the line of hopefuls wrapped around the corner and down the street. He thought he might have to wait in line simply to get in and watch, but Juan and Hugo arrived and ushered him inside. They blew past the line of boys feeling like royalty.

  “Lot of competition,” said Rafael.

  “Might not be room for me when they’re done,” said Juan.

  “Of course there will be,” said Hugo. “You’re crucial.”

  “Sure I am.”

  Señor Cádiz readied a pitch speed gun and had Bernardo and Felipe each throw a few pitches into the practice net. They both threw pitches around seventy miles per hour, which was respectable for
their age. Rafael was still getting used to distances measured in feet and speed measured in miles per hour. The academy used the same measurements as major league baseball.

  Hugo waited his turn, but Cádiz patted his shoulder.

  “Better save your arm.”

  “What about me?” Juan asked.

  “Sure, throw away.” Cádiz handed him the ball but didn’t stay to watch. He handed the gun to Bernardo and headed for the equipment room with one of the assistant coaches.

  “Go,” said Bernardo.

  Juan hurled the ball with all his might; the speed gun said forty miles per hour.

  “You’re getting there,” said Hugo.

  “I would be better if I had any actual coaching,” Juan grumbled.

  They all took a turn except Hugo. Rafael even had a go and got the same as Juan: forty miles per hour.

  “I’m lucky today,” he said.

  “I’d like to see that Cubano pitch,” said Juan. “I bet he can’t even get a ball to the net.”

  Cádiz was back with a bag of balls and had heard every word. He dropped the bag, took out a ball, and whipped it into the net, hitting the red target area smack-dab in the middle.

  “Ninety-one!” Bernardo announced, looking at the pitch speed gun.

  “Wow,” said Felipe. “That pitch had more smoke than his fart-smelling cigars.”

  “I’m still good for one of those a month,” Cádiz said with a sly smile. “Now I have to go ice my arm.”

  “So he can pitch,” Juan grumbled after Cádiz was gone. “Too bad he can’t teach.”

  “Give him time,” said Rafael.

  Romero finally arrived in a Cadillac SUV, the line of boys standing back in awe as a real major leaguer walked by. He was followed by a man with a camera who snapped photos as Romero came into the practice field, shouting hellos to the boys and the coaches. He took Hugo by his non-pitching arm and led him to the pitching rubber on the practice field to give him a lesson he didn’t need. The cameraman snapped a million photos.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t bring a TV crew,” Rafael whispered.

  “Are you still mad about the last time?” Juan teased.

  “Last time?” Felipe asked.

  Juan told him through gasps of laughter about the time Romero had shown up in his and Rafael’s neighborhood.

  “He wanted so bad to be in the picture,” said Juan. “He would have followed Romero home like a little dog.”

  Rafael got him back by telling Felipe about the Dodgers cap. “Juan wore it every day for years, and I’ll bet he wore it at night,” he said. “He wore it until his big head split it open.”

  Both boys laughed themselves hoarse. Rafael heard a snicker and turned to see that a skinny girl had quietly appeared behind them. As he’d promised, Cádiz had hired a cook and housekeeper, a tall, muscular Haitian man named Martin. The girl was Martin’s daughter, and Cádiz had cleared a room for them to live at the academy. Rafael had never spoken to the girl, but he often saw her watching him on his visits. The boys sometimes teased him, calling her his girlfriend.

  “Hi!” he said. The girl became shy and looked down.

  “Let’s get that girl into the picture!” Rogério Romero beckoned to the Haitian girl. He didn’t ask who she was or why she was there. She timidly stepped forward. Romero crouched beside her, pretending to show her how to hold a two-seam fastball.

  “And now one with both of you,” he said, nudging Hugo back into the frame and handing him the baseball. “This’ll be great for the brochure.”

  “Does the academy take girls?” one of the onlookers called.

  “If they can pitch. Why not?” Romero stepped out of the frame. The girl timidly took the ball, barely able to grip it with her small hands. Hugo crouched and helped her. The cameraman snapped a picture.

  “That’s going to be a good one,” he said.

  Rafael saw the girl once more as he was leaving.

  “Hi,” he tried again.

  “You caught a chicken for me once,” she said.

  “What? A chicken?” It took him a moment to remember: that day at the batey, the hen fluttering by him and Iván. He had caught the chicken like he was fielding a wicked grounder.

  “How did you recognize me?” he asked her.

  “I wasn’t sure at first. I asked the boys if your father ever worked at a sugarcane farm. Juan told me he did. My name is Bijou.”

  “My brother still talks about you sometimes,” said Rafael. In truth, Iván hadn’t mentioned her in at least a year, but for a long time he returned again and again to the little Haitian girl and her chicken. Rafael couldn’t wait to tell him he’d seen her. “I can’t believe it’s you,” he said. “It’s a small world.”

  “It’s a big world,” said Bijou with a serious look. “But it’s a small city.”

  ***

  Rafael was late getting to Carlos’s house, and Carlos was unimpressed when he explained that he’d stopped at Romero’s academy to see the tryouts.

  “You’re my student, not Rogério Romero’s,” he said.

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “Your partner was left waiting,” he said, gesturing at Javier, who was taking half swings with a bat. It was something they were practicing—holding up when they realized a ball wasn’t hittable.

  “Sorry,” Rafael said again.

  “Never mind,” said Carlos. “Let’s go hit some balls.” They drove out to an abandoned field to the north of San Pedro, as they did on days when Carlos wanted them to practice hitting. It was the site of another closed sugar farm, but not the one where his father used to work.

  Rafael was off his game that day, and having Javier encourage him made things worse.

  “Good form,” Javier said when Rafael whiffed on a lazy curveball Carlos had pitched to him. “Nice try,” he shouted later when Rafael chased after a fly ball and missed the catch by six inches.

  At the end of the day, they hammered ball after ball deep into the field, the two boys vying for distance. Javier seemed to hit farther, his bat flicking out with lightning speed.

  “Go out and fetch the balls,” said Carlos when they’d exhausted their supply of baseballs. “Whoever gets the most can ride back in front.” He handed them each a canvas bag.

  Javier whooped and ran out to search for the old balls. Rafael ran languidly after him, not caring if he was in the front of the old truck. But as Javier started to find balls and stuff them into his bag, Rafael felt like it was more than a made-up game to make them hurry. He put on a burst of speed and started snatching baseballs from the grass, his eyes searching for the muddy white against the washed-out yellow. Most of the balls were scuffed up, a few bursting at the seams.

  When they returned, out of breath, Javier was laughing. Carlos dumped both bags on the ground and counted. Rafael had collected seventeen balls; Javier, fourteen.

  “There’s one more out there,” said Carlos. “I had thirty-two.”

  “I’ll find it!” Javier sprinted off. Rafael took one step, but Carlos stopped him.

  “Might as well let him go. You already won your place up front.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, any contenders at the academy this morning?”

  “Nobody as good as Hugo,” Rafael said honestly. But the tryouts had reminded him of how many boys in San Pedro could play baseball. They had all grown up with bats in their hand, it seemed, or hurling balls made of socks against concrete walls. They all had dreams of the big leagues, and not everyone would make it.

  Grace poked her head into Maya’s room the Monday after the Fourth. She was in her DQ cap and polo shirt. “I have to go to work. You’re home alone for a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll protect the house if robbers come.” Maya was lying in bed, reading a teen novel she’d checked out from the library. It had a bee on the cover but wasn’t as much about bees as she’d hoped.

  “Hey, if you get a chance,” said Grace, “I have a blog post drafted. Can you read it?
If you don’t like it, I won’t post it, but…”

  “Why do you want me to read it?” Maya interrupted. “Is it about me?” What could Grace even say about her? Maya hadn’t done anything interesting lately.

  “It’s not about you,” said Grace. “It’s about Rafael.”

  Maya groaned. There was nothing nice Grace could say about Rafael these days.

  “If you think it’s not too mean, go ahead and post it,” said Grace. “I’m still logged in.”

  “OK.”

  “Bye!” Grace ran down the stairs.

  “Thanks for asking me!” Maya said, too late for Grace to hear.

  ***

  By now, you all know Rafael Rosales, the unofficial official Twins prospect of Thinking Girl’s Baseball Blog. But you’ve probably also noticed that TG has recently fallen silent on Rafael news, and that’s because, well, because TG is Thumper at heart: she’d rather say something nice or nothin’ at all. But people keep asking, so here goes:

  Rafael’s bat is colder than Minneapolis in January.

  Rafael is slumping like a rag doll left out in the rain.

  Rafael has regressed so fast he’s left a crater in the mean.

  You get the point.

  His batting average is now .239, which doesn’t look that bad, but not so long ago it was 390. Not so long ago, his fellow Kernels didn’t want to sit next to him on the bus for fear of popping. But now he’d make an ice-cream cone want to put on a sweater.

  Rafael can’t go back to rookie ball at this point. The Twins signed ten prospects in the international draft, and they are now swamping the roster in the DSL. Rafael has nowhere to go except up, or out of baseball forever. His June swoon came late and better end soon.

  Maya sighed. It was a funny post, but she felt so bad for Rafael that she couldn’t laugh. She posted it, then opened an incognito window on the web browser and logged into her private email account.

  Dear Bijou,

  I wish we were still pen pals.

  I am worried about Rafael.

  PLEASE WRITE BACK. At least let me know you’re OK.

  Maya