4

MORE THAN AN hour later, we reached Cárdenas. The bus rolled along the coastline, past rocky beaches, the bay, and empty docks where fishing boats had probably been out on the water since before sunrise.

Then our driver, Paulo, turned the wheel inland, into the countryside. On his lap, he began unfolding a paper map until it looked like there was no way on earth it could ever become a neat rectangle again. Eventually, we pulled up to a baseball field behind an old boarding school with a one-story, flat-roofed dormitory.

The Nacional coaches, including Moyano, who was still chomping on that unlit cigar, were already there, waiting beside their car.

“This is it—the place where you’re going to make your mark,” Luis said to me. “Outplay those other shortstops for a spot on the junior team.”

“How about you?” I asked, as Paulo brought us to a stop and the bus’s doors opened with a belch of air. “What are you going to do here?”

“Maybe play a few innings. Catch some rays in the outfield,” he answered with a widening grin. “Then hit the beach in my uniform top. Impress the local senoritas. That’s my plan—like a little vacation.”

Uncle Ramon was the first one off the bus. He was talking with those big shots while the rest of us unloaded the gear and gathered outside. A few dark clouds were hanging low in the sky over our heads, covering up the sun.

A moment later, Moyano, with his hand on Uncle Ramon’s shoulder, spoke to us. “When this tournament is over tomorrow, some of you will be playing for me as Nacionales,” said Moyano, through the chewed-up cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Other teams are here from Cárdenas, Santa Clara, and Puerto Padre. They’re your competition. We only want the best of the best. Cuba’s best. Our proudest. I won’t accept anything less. You know who you are. How you have to perform. You only let yourselves down when you fail, because we’ll find someone hungrier to take your place. Remember that. Now your coach will give you instructions.”

As a sprinkle of rain began to fall, Uncle Ramon cleared his throat and stepped forward from Moyano’s grasp.

“Dormitory number four, that’s ours. It’s two players to a room. Breakfast is in the cafeteria, and then we’re on the field for practice at eleven o’clock. We play Puerto Padre at twelve thirty. I’ll post the lineup inside our dugout soon.”

He seemed to be done talking, so most of us started toward the dorms, including me. Then Uncle Ramon spoke again and my feet came to a halt, gripping the gravel below them.

“For lots of you, this is a dream. But it’s a dream that can slip away with age faster than you think. I know all about that,” he said, touching a few gray hairs around his temple. “Don’t let this chance pass you by without a fight. Approach it with passion. At least then you’ll always be able to live with yourself, no matter what the outcome. Now, go prepare yourselves.”

Walking to the dorms, I felt a kind of electricity revving up and pulsing through me from Uncle Ramon’s words. And I could feel that same energy jumping off most of my teammates.

As another raindrop tapped my forehead, I separated myself from the others by falling back a little bit. Then, instead of entering the dorm, I walked behind a large wooden shed filled with gardening tools. I looked around in every direction. When I was sure no one could see me, I took the transistor radio out from my pocket.

I wanted to know about the weather for the World Series.

The reception from the US stations during the day isn’t nearly as good as at night. It’s constantly cutting in and out. So I pressed the blue plastic radio with the black dials up against my ear, struggling to hear.

Nightly forecast . . . intermittent showers . . . Yankee Stadium . . . Game Three of the Series . . . tied at one . . . the visiting Miami Marlins . . . under way at eight . . . clearing later tonight . . . now a word from . . . all your lumber and hardware needs. . . .

– – –

Luis and I shared a tiny room with two single beds in it. They were perfectly made up, covered in worn-out comforters and pillowcases. A see-through plastic tub, to store belongings, peeked out from the floor beneath each one. There was a nightstand with a lamp on it between the beds. And the one bathroom was down the hall for the entire team to use.

I thought of the fancy hotel suite that Papi was probably staying in, after arriving in New York on the Marlins’ private jet. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of wanting to trade places.

My cousin grabbed the bed closest to the door.

“Sometimes I need to go in the middle of the night,” he said. “This’ll make it easier. I won’t wake you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, pulling the tub out from under my bed. “This is better than sleeping on a foldout couch. That’s all I care about.”

Before Luis unpacked, he put a small framed photo of his mother, Blanca, on the nightstand. He crossed himself. Then, with a click of the lamp, the warm, bright light shone on her face.

Nobody expected my aunt to die. She was completely healthy before getting pneumonia. The doctors said my aunt was so strong that she’d walked around with it for two weeks doing her normal chores—laundry, cooking, a weekend shift in the sugarcane refinery. So when the phone call came from the hospital that Aunt Blanca had died, none of us believed it. We thought there had to be some mistake. But there wasn’t.

I swear, Luis cried for a week straight. His eyes would water everywhere—home, church, the funeral, and school. And it didn’t look like he had one bit of shame over it either. When Papi left, I cried a lot, too. Only I wouldn’t do it in front of anyone. I didn’t even want people to see that my eyes were red.

Since then, we’ve had plenty of sleepovers together, both at my house and his. Luis would always say his prayers before bed. Like a little kid, he’d get on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him and close his eyes. Then his mouth would move with no sound coming out, until he was finished. I never poked fun at him over it. I’d just stay quiet and try to be respectful.

“My son has faith in his prayers,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “I quit praying a long time ago. I believe God already knows what we want. Why should I bother Him? I’ll work on those things myself.”

I stopped believing in a lot of things when Papi turned his back on us. And if I ever have any praying to do, I save it for when I’m rounding third base, hoping to be safe at home plate.

– – –

The cafeteria was packed with more than a hundred players and coaches. We were stuck in a long line of people holding red plastic trays and moving slowly between two silver rails along a glass counter. Older women wearing paper hats that looked like sailboats were serving breakfast. There were scrambled eggs and bacon, waffles, cold cereal, fruit, and tostada—toasted bread—to dunk in milk or café con leche.

I’d been drinking coffee for a few years, and liked it most in the morning.

“That stuff’s nasty,” said Luis as I poured myself a cup. “Too bitter.”

“Stick to chocolate milk, little boy,” I needled him. “When you’re ready to put some hair on your chest, I’ll let you try some of this.”

“I’ve had it before. Makes me jumpy. I’m hyper enough,” he said, biting into a strip of bacon as we moved forward. “But I like coffee ice cream.”

As we came off the line, the cafeteria looked like it was divided into four separate camps. That’s because the all-star teams were sitting at their own tables, dressed in different colored uniforms. But there were only three players who weren’t from Matanzas who had my attention. Those were the other shortstops I was in competition with. The most important one was Chico López from Puerto Padre, our opponent that afternoon. He was a show-off with a big ego. They called him “Matador,” because he used his glove like a bullfighter wields a cape. He tried to make even the most routine plays look flashy that way. And on his feet he wore a pair of spikes painted gold, just to stand out.

Once I reached our section of tables, my eyes went searching for Matador.

Only his eyes found me first.

“Behind you, coming off the breakfast line,” Luis said, tapping my shoulder. “That hotdogger’s looking right at you.”

His gold spikes were hanging around his neck like a pair of boxing gloves. And the closer he got, the more his eyes riveted onto mine.

“That’s a challenge if I ever saw one,” said Luis, sounding insulted. “A challenge to my family.”

“Calm down. He’s grilling me, not you.”

Matador stopped a few feet from our table.

“All those millions and your pop can’t buy you a decent pair of shoes,” he said, spying my beat-up cleats on the floor beside me while balancing his tray on the fingertips of one hand. “What a pity.”

Luis cursed at him. But I just focused on the black pupils of his brown eyes.

“Nope, no Nike shoes,” I said, dunking bread into my coffee. “Just that glove I wear. You want to try it on one day? See if it fits?”

He sucked his teeth at me with a sharp thhh and walked off.

“Want me to knock that tray out of his pretty little hands? I will,” steamed Luis. “I’ve got nothing to lose. They suspend me, I’ll have more time for the beach.”

“That’s tough talk coming from somebody with a chocolate milk mustache,” I said.

Then I stared down Luis until he was almost forced to smile.

“Let Matador run his mouth,” I said, poking my eggs with a plastic fork. “He doesn’t understand how much it motivates me. None of them do, especially those coaches for the Nacionales.”

After breakfast, we all grabbed our gear and headed for the field house. We changed in a damp locker room, behind and a few steps below our third-base dugout.

I looked into the one mirror there, tightening the belt on my red uniform with the green crocodile swinging a baseball bat. Then I pulled my cap down low over my eyes.

“Crocodiles, let’s take the field together!” shouted Uncle Ramon from the doorway, with a clap of his hands. “One team! One mind! Matanzas!”

We moved through a short hall, with our spikes scratching the floor, and then into the dugout. That’s when I first caught sight of the field. Maybe it was something that had been building up inside of me, begging to be released—the pressure, the anger. I wasn’t sure. But for a moment, seeing that field was like walking out into a brand-new world. Every dark cloud in the sky had burned off beneath the sun. The grass was the brightest green I’d ever seen, still glistening from the rain. There wasn’t a single rock or even a pebble on the base paths. And I didn’t know how a baseball could ever take a bad hop on a diamond that perfect.

So I stepped out onto the grass. It was cut about an inch high all the way across in two different directions, looking like a checkerboard. The soft cushion felt great beneath my feet. It reminded me of walking on the thick carpet in the hotel lobby where Mama worked.

I decided to loosen up my legs by jogging in the outfield. Soon Luis was running beside me. The outfield fences were a few feet lower than the ones back home.

“I love these low fences. Watch this,” said Luis, increasing his speed.

Luis headed straight for the fence in full stride. Then he planted his foot at the bottom and scaled it with a flying leap. He threw his arm way over the top, as if he were bringing a home run back into the park.

“I could have jumped right over if I wanted,” said Luis, grinning and hanging on top of the fence by his armpit.

He seemed so happy to be up there, I went sprinting for that fence myself. Then I leaped and took flight, joining him. The two of us just hung there for a while, laughing and looking over both sides. It wasn’t until Uncle Ramon called the team together for fielding practice that I even thought about coming down.

I put my glove on and took about twenty ground balls at shortstop, firing a half dozen of them over to first base. A few minutes later, Uncle Ramon walked to the mound to pitch batting practice. So I raced into the dugout to grab a bat and take my swings. Pinned to the wall was the starting lineup. In the leadoff spot, Uncle Ramon had written my name in thick black marker.

PLAYER POS.
1. Ramirez Jr. SS

As I stepped back outside with a bat on my shoulder, I heard my name—“Julio!”—and clapping from the stands. Maybe forty or fifty people were already there, watching practice and waiting for the first game to begin. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Following the echo of the last few claps, I saw it was Uncle Ramon’s friend Gabriel. He was wearing a flower-print shirt, shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. And I couldn’t help thinking he looked as out of place there as that fat slob Moyano did being a baseball coach.