29

I TURNED TO put a face with that voice. When I spotted who it was, I knew it had to be Milo, Papi’s son. He was the right age, standing on a seat next to a woman who was probably his mother. There was a cascade of dark curls flowing from beneath his baseball cap. He wore a Marlins jacket like mine and smiled from ear to ear, waving a huge foam finger that read, #1. The woman was much younger than Mama, maybe thirty years old, with bleached blond hair. She was clapping her hands over her head, with lots of silver and gold bracelets on both wrists. And from where I stood, her fingernails looked perfect and polished, just like Mama said they would be.

Papi never looked in the boy’s direction. I guess he was too focused and didn’t hear. I wasn’t about to bring his attention to it.

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.