by Mike Lupica
And just like that, the Blazers were 1–0.
After the handshake line, and visiting with some friends on the Rangers, Nick and his family started for home. They chatted about the game the whole way, though Nick let his family do most of the talking. By now, they knew Nick didn’t much like talking about himself. It was just as well, since tomorrow he and Ben would likely rehash his five innings on the mound, pitch by pitch. Ben had the kind of memory that let him replay whole parts of the game inside his head. But that was for tomorrow. For now, Nick was just content to have his family around him, feeling as if he were floating home. It wasn’t just the Rangers who couldn’t touch him tonight.
For right now, on Opening Night of the tournament, Nick actually felt as if no one could.
6
Not all of Nick’s problems were big ones.
He wasn’t even sure one of them could be considered a problem. It was a happy one, if there was such a thing. Or maybe it was just that: a thing. One involving a girl. He’d first met her in the fifth grade, when her family moved to the Bronx from Brooklyn.
Marisol Pérez.
She was the first girl Nick had ever liked. Or “like-liked,” as Diego put it. Nick usually told Diego to shut it whenever he mentioned Marisol. But he knew Diego was right. He did like-like her. Not only that; he wanted her to like-like him back. He thought about it a lot, and way more than he wanted to.
Whatever space in Nick’s brain wasn’t occupied by baseball or his family was reserved for Marisol, not that he’d admit that to anyone but himself.
“Are you thinking about baseball or girls?” Diego would sometimes ask out of the blue.
“Baseball,” Nick would always say.
Though what he really wanted to say was both.
He was hoping Marisol might come to the game last night, even though she was always finding ways to tell him—and not in a mean way—that she didn’t care all that much for baseball. Of course, Marisol knew about Nick’s gift for pitching. But baseball wasn’t her sport. Tennis was, and she had her own dreams of going pro someday—“the Serena Williams of the South Bronx” was how she put it.
“Just because you love tennis doesn’t mean you have to hate baseball,” Nick said to her now.
They were sitting on the front stoop of her building, two down from Nick’s, on the same side of the street. Ladies’ voices traveled through an open window above them, and Nick and Marisol watched as a few neighborhood kids biked past on the sidewalk.
“You know I don’t hate baseball. I’m just never going to love it,” she admitted.
“You don’t have to love it,” Nick said. “I just feel like you’re never even going to like it.”
“Well, no,” she said. “But in tennis, the action really only stops at the end of a set or when the players change sides. In baseball, the action is always stopping. Come on. Even you have to admit there’s more lag time than actual play time.”
“Not true,” Nick said. “If you ever come to one of my games, you’ll see how many guys are in motion once the ball is in play. Everybody has somewhere to go.”
Marisol smiled. She clearly enjoyed teasing him this way. It was hardly the first time they’d had this kind of back-and-forth about baseball and tennis (and it wouldn’t be the last). It was as if they were rallying across the net at each other, which, if Nick was being honest, was the closest he’d ever come to actually playing tennis.
“But wait,” she said, spotting an opening in his argument. “I thought the object of the game for a strikeout pitcher was to avoid having the ball in play. That’s what you’re always saying, isn’t it? That you want to strike out the whole world?”
Nick saw an opening of his own.
“Right. But that’s how our two sports are alike. I’m always wanting to put the ball past my opponent,” he said, “and so are you. And when you finally do, that’s when you sit down.”
He smiled now, satisfied with his response. What could she possibly say back?
“But I don’t get to sit as long as you do between innings,” she said, smirking. “Or when you’re waiting to bat.”
Nick hung his head between his legs. “Am I ever going to win this argument?”
“It’s not an argument!” she said, nudging his shoulder so he’d lift his head to face her. “It’s just a game the two of us like to play.”
“Who says I like it?”
“What,” she said, “you don’t like being with me?”
Now Nick’s smile disappeared and he could feel a flush rising in his cheeks, something that happened a lot when he was with Marisol. Unfortunately, there was no way of stopping it.
“You know better than that,” he said.
“Yeah, I do,” she said. “Just wanted to see you sweat.”
He did like being with her. A lot. And it wasn’t just because of her familiar smile, or flowing auburn hair, or deep brown eyes with flecks of gold. He genuinely felt comfortable when he was around her. He liked being with her now, sitting on this stoop, watching the street traffic and listening to the Latin pop music playing from somewhere above them. Marisol sang along with the melody. Her parents were from Puerto Rico, and she was fluent in both English and Spanish. Nick knew a little Spanish, but not enough to carry out an entire conversation. Not like Marisol. Perched next to her on the stoop, he realized he liked hanging out with her in a different way—way different—than he liked being with Ben and Diego.
Despite all the teasing and fake arguments, Nick understood that she wasn’t making fun of him.
She just loved having fun with him.
“All I’m saying is if you watched more baseball, you’d appreciate it more,” Nick said, making his point. “Maybe you could start by catching one of my games in the tournament . . .”
“How do you know I wasn’t watching last night?” she said.
A breath caught in Nick’s throat.
“You were?” he said, not even caring how excited he sounded that she might have been there, seeing him pitch against the Rangers.
“I might have walked over with my dad to see the first two innings,” she said.
“Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you,” she said. “Or make you try to show off.”
“I never show off,” he said, a little hurt Marisol would think that.
“I know,” she said. “Just messing with you.”
She stood up.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
“Where?”
“Do you care?”
Nick did not.
So they walked south down Grand Concourse, took a right at 161st Street, and made their way down the hill in the direction of Yankee Stadium.
When Nick was lucky enough to go to Yankee games with his dad, he loved taking this walk from their building, surrounded by crowds of people flowing like a river down to the ballpark. They filtered in through Babe Ruth Plaza on 161st, walking up the steps and through the turnstiles into the great baseball place.
There was no Yankee game today, no hordes of fans on the sidewalk, just the normal buzz of the city spread out around them, and the familiar roar of the trains pulling in and out of the station above them.
But when they passed underneath the subway tracks, to their surprise, they did spot a crowd at Babe Ruth Plaza. Once they got closer, they could see a satellite truck with two TV station cameras set up at the top of the stairs.
Nick and Marisol made their way through the masses, until they could see what the cameras were pointed at.
Nick couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Michael Arroyo. Here. In the flesh. Nick’s heart started pounding. At the same time his breathing became short and quick, and his legs seemed to stop working, forcing him to stop cold. But Marisol, who seemed to have no shyness in her at all, took him by the arm
and got him moving again. Together, they pressed through closer and closer to Nick’s hero. Marisol asked a taller man in the crowd what was happening.
“TV commercial,” he said.
“For what?” Marisol asked.
“Some RBI program run by Major League Baseball,” the man replied.
“My friend,” Marisol said, nodding her head at Nick, “is a part of that program.” She turned to Nick, but he stood frozen, staring at Michael, mere feet from where he stood.
“That’s great, kid,” the man said. “But the only kind of RBI I care about are ones for the Yankees.”
Marisol still had Nick’s arm in her grip, pulling him to the front of the crowd while doing her best not to shove anybody in the process. Marisol was good like that.
When they reached the front, they could see Michael wearing his home Yankees jersey, the white one with the famous blue pinstripes. Nick didn’t have to see it to know it had the number 34 on the back. The same number El Grande had worn.
“I can’t believe I’m this close to him,” Nick whispered, finally finding his voice again.
“It’s why we had to get to the front,” Marisol whispered back. “Who knows when you might get this chance again?”
He’d never discussed the MVP award with Marisol. Never told her about the chance he might earn to throw out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium. So she didn’t know there was a possibility he could be this close to Michael again.
“I wish I had a ball with me,” Nick said with a note of regret. “Maybe I could’ve gotten him to sign it when he’s done.”
“You don’t need an autograph,” she said, as if she were stating an absolute fact.
“I don’t?”
“For today,” she said, “just be happy you’re breathing the same air as a legend.”
Nick closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. They watched as Michael read off cue cards that a woman behind the camera held for him, until finally the camera lights turned off and they heard a man in a headset say, “That’s a wrap.” At that, the crowd descended on Michael, holding out baseballs or slips of paper for autographs and shouting his name to get his attention.
Nick didn’t add his voice to the clamor. He wasn’t sure he could have, even if he wanted to. Just standing there in front of Yankee Stadium, watching Michael Arroyo wave and smile at his fans, was enough.
A woman who must have worked for the Yankees came over and announced that, unfortunately, Michael wouldn’t have time to sign any autographs today, as he was already late for a luncheon appearance in Manhattan. So Michael gave one final wave before turning away, and then he was gone.
The crowd began to disperse, but Nick stayed behind a few extra minutes. Finally, Marisol told him that Michael wasn’t coming back and it was time for them to head home.
“That was coo,” she said.
It was her way of saying “cool.”
“Seriously,” Nick said. “That really is the closest I’ve ever been to him. The one time I saw him pitch in person, my dad and I sat way up in the bleachers.”
From everything Nick had read about the Yankees and Michael Arroyo, he knew at the old Yankee Stadium, the players’ parking lot was out in the open, so kids could line up and watch the Yankees walk past on their way inside. It wasn’t that way anymore. Now the players drove their cars inside a parking garage beneath the new Stadium. If you waited, all you could see were cars going past before disappearing underground.
“That can be you in a couple of years,” Marisol said. It was scary how she could read Nick’s mind. He’d just been thinking the same thing.
But as much as she knew, there was still so much she didn’t.
And he didn’t want her to.
“When does he pitch here again?” she asked, swinging her hand dangerously close to his.
“Saturday,” Nick said, inwardly debating whether or not to grab it.
Then he was quiet, and so was she. He liked that about Marisol: she wasn’t afraid of silence, and therefore, it was never awkward between the two of them. In fact, it relieved some of the pressure on Nick, since there was a part of him that always worried he might say something stupid in front of her.
And he wanted to look bad in front of Marisol about as much as he wanted to look bad on the baseball field.
So he never told her about the issues his family faced. Marisol’s parents were born in America, and it wasn’t like she’d ever ask whether Nick’s were, too. It never came up in conversation, either, so he wasn’t necessarily lying to her. It just felt like too much. Having to explain how every day was spent looking over his shoulder for Official People working for the government, for ICE, for the police. The agony of worrying about whether his parents would be able to remain in the country long enough for Amelia to turn twenty-one, when she could sponsor them for green cards.
He never told Marisol about how he feared the police as much as he feared ICE, and for good reason.
Marisol’s father was a New York City policeman.
7
Nick’s father had raised Nick and Amelia to respect the law, even though they both knew he’d broken it once.
When Nick was eight and Amelia was nine, Victor deemed them old enough to hear about the biggest mistake of his life. He sat them down on the living room sofa to share his story.
“At the time, I thought I was breaking the law for a good reason,” he said. “But in the end, it didn’t matter. I still broke it.”
Nick’s parents were already married when they came to the Bronx on tourist visas. For a time, they lived with one of Graciela’s cousins in a tiny apartment on Jerome Avenue, not so far from where they lived now. Victor García first found work as a dishwasher in a diner in Spanish Harlem. Graciela’s cousin set her up with babysitting jobs in the neighborhood.
But they wanted better jobs and their own apartment, promising themselves they wouldn’t even think of starting a family until they had both. Victor had grown up working in his uncle’s restaurant in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. His big dream was to become a chef in a New York City restaurant, and maybe someday open up a restaurant of his own.
So he applied for waiter jobs whenever there were new listings. Finally, a friend of his who worked at a restaurant in Upper Manhattan told him about an opening for a waiter position. He was able to get Victor an interview the following morning.
Nick’s dad and mom had so little money, yet they insisted on paying rent for the small room they stayed in at Graciela’s cousin’s. After that, there was barely enough for them to get by. Nick’s dad told him and Amelia that sometimes the only things in his pocket were a MetroCard, which enabled you to ride the subway, and a few dollars.
On the morning of his interview, Victor got to the 161st Street station and discovered that his monthly MetroCard had expired. Though he’d made sure to leave the apartment with plenty of time to get to his interview, he’d also left without any money in his wallet. He’d planned to pick up his paycheck at the diner on his way home.
That didn’t help him when he got to the subway turnstiles.
He knew he had to get downtown for the interview, and couldn’t be late. This was his shot at a good, well-paying job. They might not become citizens right away, but having stable jobs, getting their own apartment, and settling down—these were all ways of making America feel like home.
Victor felt as though he didn’t have a choice. It’d be foolish to pass up an opportunity like this. So after taking a quick glance around for onlookers, he jumped the turnstile, promising to himself, and maybe to God, that he’d find a way to right the wrong. Offer someone a free swipe on his MetroCard, perhaps. Someone who found himself in similar circumstances.
But Victor never got that chance. Because despite his precautions, someone had been paying attention: a New York City transit officer.
The man
arrested Victor García on the spot, and he was taken to the 44th Precinct on 169th Street. There, he was fingerprinted and spent most of the next twenty-four hours in jail, before appearing in court the next day for an arraignment, where he was formally charged for his crime. He was appointed a lawyer by the court, a public defender who stood next to Victor García in the courtroom as the judge assigned another court date, three weeks later. The lawyer explained to Victor that the worst they’d do was fine him a penalty charge.
When Victor asked how much, the lawyer said it might be as much as five hundred dollars.
At the time, it may as well have been five million.
“But you’re going into the system,” the policeman said.
“What kind of system?”
“The kind for people who have a criminal record.”
It scared him as much as the amount of the fine. And because there was no way Victor would ever be able to pay it, he didn’t show up for his court date.
New York City later stopped prosecuting most people for fare-jumping, simply because it was clogging up the city’s court system, which had far more important things to handle. But that did nothing to help Victor García now. He was in the system, and because he hadn’t shown up in court, there was an outstanding warrant out for his arrest. To top it all off, his tourist visa had also expired.
“But you were only trying to get a job,” Amelia had said.
“And you said the laws have changed now,” an eight-year-old Nick piped up.
“They have,” Victor told them. “But so, too, has the attitude toward immigrants in this country. Now if I am ever arrested for anything again, they have my fingerprints in the system, and that’s all they’d need to take action.”
Nick peered over at Amelia across the couch. She sat completely still, her back straight, an expression of concern settled over her face. As the younger brother, Nick usually took his cues from Amelia, so he could tell this was far more serious than he initially thought.