by Mike Lupica
Carlos must have asked if something happened, because Michael replied, “ICE has him now.”
He listened and said, “Mr. Gibbs from child services was there for us, Carlos. We gotta find a way to help this kid.”
Michael ended the call and handed Nick back his phone.
“My brother likes to get things done,” he said.
Nick beamed. “I’ve got a sister like that.”
The last thing Michael said to Nick was this:
“I won’t forget about you.”
* * *
• • •
Nick, Marisol, and Officer Pérez were outside the Stadium now. On their way home, Marisol regaled Nick with the story of how the letter fell into Michael Arroyo’s hands.
“Your sister found it open on your laptop screen,” she said. “Then, when you told her about tonight’s game, and how my dad knew Michael, she had the brilliant idea to ask if my dad could pass the letter along.”
“So you read it, too?” Nick said to Marisol.
“Yes,” she confessed. “And as soon as I did, I knew Amelia was right. We had to do something.”
“I can’t believe this,” Nick said, still trying to process it all.
“Believe.”
Nick turned to Officer Pérez as they were passing Joyce Kilmer Park.
“But if you knew what was in the letter,” Nick said, “why didn’t you arrest my dad?”
Officer Pérez smiled. “Nick, my job is to lock up bad guys. Your dad isn’t one. And never was.”
“Thank you, sir,” Nick said, grateful to hear the words from someone who understood the law.
“Don’t thank me,” Officer Pérez said. “Thank Marisol. And thank your sister when you see her.”
“Oh, I plan to,” Nick said.
They walked Nick to the front of his building, but before he went inside, he said to Marisol, “So you and Amelia teamed up.”
“We might not be as good a team as the Blazers,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “but you have to admit, we don’t stink.”
37
“You passed my letter to Marisol,” Nick said to Amelia when he walked through the door. She was sitting on the couch watching one of her shows.
“That is correct,” Amelia said.
“You saw what I’d written on my laptop that night and decided to print it out.” He should have been angry. Should have been horrified that his private, personal thoughts were made public without his permission. But had Amelia not done what she did, he may have never met his hero. And his hero would never have known about their circumstances and offered to help.
Amelia bit her lip, holding back a smile, and looked as if she were about to burst. Nick hadn’t seen her so happy in weeks.
“I believe I might have mentioned something to you about firing up a prayer,” she said.
She had a blanket over her legs, which were swollen again today, just not as bad as before.
“I still can’t believe you did it.”
Amelia giggled. “To tell you the truth, neither can I.”
He sat down at the other end of the couch.
“It still doesn’t mean they’ll be able to help any more than Mr. Gasson can,” Nick said.
“But Carlos is a lawyer, too,” Amelia said. “And two lawyers are better than one.”
“Yeah, two lawyers and one Major League Baseball player.”
Nick leaned his head back on the couch cushion and rested his eyes. Their mom had gone to bed early tonight. Graciela García never complained, but both her children could see how exhausted she was when she got home.
“I still feel guilty that I’m playing ball while Dad’s cooped up in that place,” Nick said. “There’s gotta be a better use of my time.”
“You’re the one who brought Mr. Gasson into our lives,” Amelia said.
“And you brought in Michael Arroyo,” Nick said.
His sister poked him in the ribs. “No,” she said. “You did that on your own. I just delivered the message.”
Nick heaved himself off the couch.
“Where you going?” Amelia asked.
“To write about my night,” he said. “Though this time, I think I’ll be more careful not to leave it where others can find it.” He winked at Amelia.
“Would you have believed a few weeks ago that a night like tonight was even possible?” Amelia said.
Nick shook his head. “Never.”
“Then maybe anything still is possible.”
Nick wanted to believe she was right. Since the beginning of the Dream League tournament, Nick had held tight to his dream of throwing out that first pitch at Yankee Stadium.
Now he had bigger ones.
Much bigger.
38
It was official: the championship game, in one week, would come down to the Blazers against Eric Dobbs and the Giants. The Blazers’ last game before that was this Saturday, against the Tigers.
Nick was able to speak to his dad on the phone before he left for Macombs Dam Park. He knew how painful these conversations were for both of them, but it was better than the alternative of not getting to speak at all. Each conversation was the same. His dad seemed farther away than ever, which made Nick miss him even more.
“I just want you to come home,” Nick said.
“It is all I want, too,” Victor García said. “We just have to trust in God, and Mr. Gasson to build his case.”
By now, Nick and his family knew what that case was: that Victor García was a good man, leading a respectable and honorable life in America, and should get a bond hearing as soon as possible. They would argue to release him from the detention center in New Jersey until the case could be heard in front of an immigration judge, even though that might not happen for another two or three years.
There was so much more Nick wanted to say to his father, but their calls always ended too soon. Tonight, Victor García steered the conversation to Nick’s game against the Tigers.
“You pitch your best tonight,” his dad said.
Nick grumbled, “Coach might not even let me start.”
“Doesn’t matter,” his dad said. “Even though I won’t be in my seat in the bleachers, I’m here for you in spirit. You know that, right?”
Nick swallowed hard. He could feel the tears welling up, feel his throat starting to tighten.
Be strong, he told himself. Like him.
“I’ll win for you,” Nick said.
“No,” his dad said. “You win for yourself and your team.”
He told Nick he loved him.
“I love you more,” Nick said before hanging up the phone. Then he walked over to his bed to pack his duffel. He threw in his bat and glove and water bottle.
Plus one more item: Victor García’s old catcher’s mitt.
It was as close as Nick could come to having his dad with him at Macombs Dam Park.
* * *
• • •
“You can pitch as much or as little as you want tonight,” Coach Viera told Nick when he and Ben arrived at the field. Diego was already there warming up.
“Fine,” Nick said. “I’ll go all seven innings.”
“You know I meant that you can pitch as much as your pitch count allows,” Coach said. “But if it were me, I’d want to save my arm for the championship.”
“I’m not coming out just to get ready for next Saturday,” Nick said. “I’ve got the whole week to rest up. And, Coach? It feels like I haven’t pitched in a month.”
“But if you feel tired,” Coach said, “I want you to say something. You’ve got a lot going on right now.”
Coach knew about his dad. By now, everybody on the team knew.
“I won’t get tired,” Nick promised.
“I just don’t want you to wear yourself out for a g
ame that won’t affect the standings.”
“It will affect whether we’re undefeated going into the championship, though,” Nick said.
Coach grinned.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Good talk.”
As Nick and Ben ambled over to the warm-up area, Ben said, “I still can’t believe you and Michael Arroyo are boys now.”
“Yeah, right,” Nick said. “He’s going to start hanging out with us and Diego.”
“Let’s do the math,” Ben said. “If you make it to the Yankees at the same age he was when he made it to the Yankees, you two might pitch together someday at Yankee Stadium.”
Nick stopped.
“I’m just gonna say this to you,” he said. “Right now, I’m not thinking about pitching for the Yankees. Just pitching in front of them in a couple of weeks.”
“We’re just two starts away,” Ben said, reaching up with his mitt for Nick to tap with his own.
It was hard for him to wrap his brain around the fact that he only had two starts left in the Dream League. They were so close to the end, and it had all happened so quickly. Even with all that had transpired off the field, Nick had enjoyed the ride with Ben and Diego, Coach Viera, and the rest of the Blazers. But after what Michael Arroyo had said, about there being nothing like playing in Little League, he wondered if he’d allowed himself to enjoy it enough. There were no guarantees in life, he knew that by now. So there were no guarantees about how many baseball summers there would be like this.
But he promised himself that he was going to appreciate the two Saturdays he had left in the league. Because who knew when he might have another chance to play on this field, in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.
His mom was here tonight. So were Amelia and Marisol—the new dream team. Even Mrs. G came along, which Nick was not expecting. The second he saw her sitting next to Graciela in the stands, he ran right over to greet her.
“I’m part of the team now,” Mrs. G said.
“Yeah you are,” Nick said, and gave her a warm hug. “An honorary Blazer.”
Then it was time for the first pitch of the game. Nick walked the Tigers’ leadoff hitter on four pitches, not missing by a lot, but feeling more rusty than anything else. So he stepped off the mound, turned his back to the plate, and rubbed up the baseball just as a way of collecting himself. Then he struck out the next two guys and got the Tigers’ cleanup hitter to hit a slow roller to Darryl at first base.
When he and Ben met back up at the bench in the bottom of the first, Ben said, “A couple of those fastballs you threw were as hard as you’ve thrown all year.”
“You felt it, too?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, “I felt it,” then showed Nick the red mark on his left palm for proof.
The Blazers scored two runs in the bottom of the first, and two more in the second. By then Nick had given up his first hit of the game, a clean single from the Tigers’ pitcher, Nelson Avila. He’d thrown a good pitch and Nelson had gotten his bat on it and that was baseball. But Nick knew how good the ball felt coming out of his hand tonight. Knew how loose and free he was throwing. This was the best fastball he’d had all tournament.
Before Nick went out for the top of the fifth, Coach told him it would be his last inning.
“Figured,” Nick said.
“You could call it a night now, if you want.”
It wasn’t meant as a threat. The Blazers were winning 7–0.
“You really think that’s what I want?” Nick said.
Coach gave him a smirk. “I withdraw the comment,” he said. “Just go finish in style.”
Nick struck out the Tigers’ second baseman on three pitches.
Then he did the same with their catcher.
As his teammates threw the ball around the infield, Nick and Ben caught each other’s eye, the two of them having a silent conversation.
They both knew.
One more strikeout, and he would pitch his immaculate inning: nine pitches, three strikeouts.
The hitter was the Tigers’ center fielder, Tommy Diaz. Nick poured a fastball past him for strike one.
Nick did it again with his second pitch, with Tommy swinging under it. Strike two.
Ben stood up and fired the ball so hard back to Nick that Nick thought it might leave a mark like Ben’s.
But Nick knew the message behind the throw: Ben wanted this as much as Nick did.
Nick took a deep breath. Nodded at Ben. Went into his motion, not rushing anything, not letting his body get too far in front of his arm, and threw the best fastball he’d thrown all night or maybe all year, a high strike but a strike all the way, and Tommy swung under that one, too.
Three up, three down.
Nine pitches.
All strikes.
The game wasn’t over yet, so the only celebration Nick allowed himself was a quick punch into the pocket of his old glove as he walked off the mound.
When the game was over, Ben made sure to collect the game ball for Nick. As he handed it over he said, “It’s like they say in that Nike commercial about LeBron: it’s only crazy till you do it.”
Nick peered at the ball and saw that Ben had already gotten a pen from somewhere and written the date on it. Later, when he got home, Nick placed the ball next to some of his trophies on the shelf above his desk.
He washed up and settled into bed, pulling the covers around him. But something made him get up again. He switched on his desk lamp, reached up to the shelf, and took the ball down. He turned it over once in his hand, felt the seams with the tips of his fingers, and looked down at the date.
And not understanding why, unable to stop himself, now he began to cry.
39
Mr. Gasson stopped by the apartment the Wednesday before the championship game.
Nick knew the Bronx Defender had plenty of other clients besides Victor García to worry about, but today he told them he was working to get a bond hearing scheduled for Nick’s dad.
“I’m trying to get us on the calendar as soon as possible,” Mr. Gasson said, “so we can explain to a judge why your dad should go back to living his life for the time being. That’s only until we can get him in front of another judge and make our plea to grant him freedom to live in the country permanently.”
“Do you think you can?” Nick said.
“I can’t promise anything,” he said. “But it’s happened in the past.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance,” Amelia said.
“Do you think you might hear something by the end of the week?” Nick asked.
“I know I’m the lawyer here,” said Mr. Gasson, “but your guess is as good as mine.”
Then Nick’s mom had a question. “How many of these cases come out the way you want them to?”
“Not nearly enough,” Mr. Gasson said. “But enough to keep me going.”
He stood up.
“You know how I look at it?” Ryan Gasson said. “Like I’m fighting for our country, in a war we have to win.”
* * *
• • •
Nick and Ben and Diego were at the field bright and early Saturday morning, even though the game wasn’t scheduled until six o’clock at night. The field looked good as new, as if the season were starting all over again. The grass was freshly mowed, the lines had a new coat of white paint, even the infield dirt looked brand new. Or as new as dirt could look.
“We can come here tomorrow morning,” Diego said. “It just won’t be the same.”
“Not with the season over,” Nick said. “All it’ll feel like is the end of summer.”
“It kinda is,” Ben said. “We start school the week after next.”
“Nooooooooo!” Diego moaned.
“Seriously?” Ben said. “I can’t believe our baseball season ends tonight.”
“Nah,�
� Nick said. “For us, baseball season never ends.”
There was a Yankee game scheduled for one o’clock that afternoon, but Michael Arroyo’s next scheduled start wasn’t until Sunday. Ever since Michael had used Nick’s phone to call his brother, Carlos, Nick had been hoping for a call or a text message with an update.
But there had been no call, and no messages. Mr. Gasson said he’d spoken to Carlos Arroyo on the phone the night of the Yankees–Red Sox game, but hadn’t heard from him since.
Nick and Amelia had been talking about it at breakfast that morning. Their mom had already left for work. She’d found herself an extra job in Manhattan to make up for the income they lost without Nick’s father’s paycheck.
“It’s not as if Michael and Carlos are supposed to be Bronx Defenders, too,” Nick said to Amelia. “I mean, Michael is kind of busy trying to help the Yankees win another World Series.”
“But he’s the one who said he’d be able to help,” Amelia said.
“He said he’d try to help,” Nick clarified, feeling a need to defend his hero.
Amelia shrugged. “Maybe they should try harder.”
“You don’t know that they aren’t trying,” Nick said. “Either one of them.”
“And you,” she said, “don’t know that they are.”
Nick saw the look on her face, and knew there was no point in continuing the conversation any further. Their parents weren’t the only stubborn ones in the family.
“They should all be trying harder!” his sister said, her voice wavering, and she pushed away from the kitchen table, chair screeching against the floor, and walked out of the room.
At that point, Nick grabbed his duffel and headed out to meet Ben and Diego at the field.
40
At about five minutes to six, Coach Viera gave them their last pregame speech of the tournament.