Clutch Hit

by Faith O'Shea

  Bob had taken a piece of crab cake, and in between licking his fingers, he asked, “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I want to make sure I get everything you say right. If I’m scribbling, I won’t necessarily understand what I wrote, and I don’t want to misquote you.”

  “No problem.”

  Bob wiped his hand and depressed the lever on the old-school recording device and sat back, throwing a leg over his knee.

  Mateo examined every one of his features, trying to determine what he’d passed down to his eldest daughter. The nose and perhaps the ash-blonde hair but as his was graying at the temples he couldn’t be sure.

  He took a breath and prepared himself for the questions. He’d never been allowed to give an interview before, so he had no idea where this would go or how he’d come across. He had to trust the man to paint him in a good light.

  There was a jocular smile on Bob’s face when he asked, “How does it feel to be here? In America?”

  Mateo thought about it for a moment and decided that if this was the decadent West, he was okay with it.

  “Strange. Different. Good.”

  “What’s the biggest surprise?”

  “Everything is so new. Modern. I will like playing at Harborside.”

  He could have listed several things. The shopping mall. The amount of food stocked in his refrigerator. The condo. Being married.

  “It’s a state-of-the-art ball field. You’ll have the harbor out in left field. It’ll be something to aim for.”

  “Yes. Seb will have his job cut out for him. It’s not like he can reach out to grab a high-flying ball. He’d be in for a swim.”

  “I hear that you, Seb, and Rique have some chemistry.”

  “We like each other, which helps. And we seem to have the same work ethic. We’ll all give it up for the team.”

  “The press wasn’t impressed with the dos Santos trade. If he does well here, it will be a nice surprise.”

  “He seems to be settling down, getting his head into the game.”

  “Mac won’t let him get away with much. If Rique doesn’t work, he doesn’t play.”

  “He told him that this morning.”

  Bob leaned over and took another piece of the cake, wiped his hands on a napkin, and got to the point of the interview.

  “Can you tell me how you got here?”

  He went over the basics, his trip from Cuba, his time spent in Cancun, meeting Allie, being sent to Brazil to stay with the dos Santos family.

  “With a contract already negotiated, there was no need for third-country residency. I just needed to wait until a work visa was approved. As soon as it was, Alicia came down and escorted me here.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “A condo near the field. There are water views and it reminds me of home.”

  “And where was that?”

  He described the town of his birth, the place his mother still lived. “This town reminds me of what it was before the hurricane hit in 2008. There was extreme damage done to the eastern part of the island. We have not yet recovered completely.”

  He wasn’t sure it ever would be. That took money and resources, which the country lacked. Improvements were coming, a lessening of the old laws that governed them, but it would take time. The reconstruction was taking place in the big cities, where the tourists flocked. Small towns like his would be on their own.

  “I was surprised Krasnick didn’t hold a press conference when you arrived.”

  Alicia had told him they were keeping him under the radar and why.

  “I think they are downplaying any new defections. So much money wasted on unfulfilled promise, maybe they don’t want to look like fools if I don’t meet expectations.”

  “If Allie thinks you’re the real deal, you’re the real deal. I stopped second-guessing her after she got Leatherman and Ritter signed.”

  “I have only met Seb, Rique and Reid Jackson, and some new prospect from Puerto Rico, so don’t know either of those players or what they brought to the team. It sounds as if they brought much. You had doubts about her ability?”

  He chuckled.

  “No. I never did. She always knew more about the game than anyone, even me some days. I thought DeLorenzo was smart to promote her, but I think we all play armchair quarterback, second-guess even the experts. And just so you know, Leatherman is a middle inning reliever and kept the team in the game every time he saw action. Ritter is the utility man who spent a lot of time at third last year. He’s not the caliber athlete that you are but he did the job.”

  Mateo leaned forward, concerned.

  “Will he be upset that I am here?”

  “He knows his role. I actually think it will be a relief he doesn’t have to play that corner of the diamond anymore. He’s more a second baseman than third and he’ll still get to play.”

  “Where?”

  “Any spot on the infield to fill in on your days off.”

  “Why would I get days off?”

  “It’s a long season. Mac will want to make sure you all stay healthy so you’re all strong at the end. The biggest games come in the post-season, and a lot of teams have burned out their players. They don’t have what it takes to bring the trophy home.”

  “He will insist on this?”

  “That’s been his philosophy. I can’t see him changing it now.”

  He’d never been benched before. If he was on the team, he played. He wasn’t sure how he would feel if he had to watch the game and not participate in it.

  As if reading the furrowed brow as disappointment, Bob added, “It would only be for a day here and there. Nothing long-term. They need you on the field and in the line-up.”

  Mateo nodded but still wasn’t sure he liked the idea.

  Skipping to another line of questioning, Bob asked, “What number will you be wearing?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Not unlucky in your book?”

  “No. It has brought a good omen.”

  “It’s not unlucky for Allie, either. It was her number when she played softball in college. She was born on the thirteenth and I think she wanted to prove it was auspicious, not superstitious.”

  He knew her birthday. January thirteenth. It’s why he’d chosen that number. Felicia dos Santos had lent him her laptop while he was in Brazil and he’d Googled and read everything out there on his wife. He’d missed it by a week this year but had already made plans for next. Even if she went ahead with the divorce, he’d insist on celebrating it with her.

  “Casey says she was a talented player.”

  “If she’d been born the right gender, she’d be fighting Seb for that position. Or maybe he’d have had to find another if he wanted to play for the Greenies. She never would have given it up.”

  “They don’t have professional teams for women?”

  “Not like the MLB. They have softball teams but don’t get the kind of exposure that men do.

  Do women play in the big leagues in Cuba?”

  “Yes. They play baseball in the Pan American Federation League.”

  “The MLB is a bubble. They don’t allow for the kind of international play that exists in other countries. I think it’s to baseball’s detriment. They have been mining players from across the globe, diluting the pool. Baseball will never gain the kind of following as soccer for that very reason.”

  “But America is the place we all aspire to play.”

  “And some of you are willing to risk your lives to do it. There’s the other side of it, though. There are some critics out there who think the contracts are obscene and harp about the way foreign players are taking away the chances of kids who’ve gone through the system, paid their dues, and are then undercut by people like you. A Cuban’s won Rookie of the Year three years running.”

  He had to consider that. Would it be fair if Seb lost his opportunity because another one of his countrymen just walked off a plane and onto the field?

  “I can see that point. Es
pecially in light of the fact that some Cubans have produced nothing for their teams. Maybe the league should be more discerning in who they sign. Talent should not be discredited, but there should be benchmarks in place to determine the player has that. There is also the fact that Cubans have gone through much to get here. Maybe not years in the farm system, which is safer than ours, but they have paid their dues.”

  “You’re right. I’ve seen teams falling all over themselves to sign a foreign national just to say they got the man.”

  “I am here to play baseball, yes. But it isn’t the only reason I defected.”

  The term still felt toxic in his mouth. He didn’t like saying it, didn’t like doing it, but they’d given him no choice.

  “If your president had honored the agreement, it would have made the process more equitable. Yes?”

  “Yes. That was years in the making. If not decades. It would have gone a long way in lessening the danger for everyone, players and owners alike.”

  Bob took a sip of his beer and shifted gears again.

  “How do you think you’ll do in making the adjustments needed to play pro ball here?”

  “What adjustments are you speaking to?”

  “Aluminum bats. A longer season. Travel.”

  “I began with a wooden bat and they were often used in international competition. One of the leagues I played in went from November to April. The all-star team played from May to July. I have traveled around the world on the national team. None of these things will impact my ability.”

  “One of the drawbacks for some is the language. You don’t have a problem with that. You speak excellent English.”

  “I made it a point to learn. I wanted to converse with other national teams and the universal language is English.”

  “I’ve seen videos of you playing in Rotterdam. You have the strength, muscular ability, and build to be a power hitter. It turns out that Allie’s search for someone like you wasn’t so pie-in-the-sky as critics thought.”

  “Is there a question there?”

  “Power isn’t everything. I believe you have to be more strategic with your approach. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. Power needs to be controlled. I can’t go to the plate looking to knock it out of the park. Not every time, anyway. If a man is on third with less than two outs, my job is to get the man home. That might mean a hit up the middle, not a home run blast. I can’t step into the box with the need to show off. It hurts the team.”

  “My gut tells me you’re going to end up batting in the three-hole slot ahead of Ovitz. Will you be comfortable there?”

  “No matter where I am in the line-up, my goal will be the same. Whether it’s a home run, a bloop single, or a line drive, I’ll look at what’s needed at the time and do my best to place the ball where it needs to go.”

  “Now that we’ve covered the professional part of the interview, I’d like to get some more personal tidbits about your life. Are you married? Single? Left someone behind?”

  Mateo’s grip on the beer tightened. How could he evade the truth without making it seem he was doing so? He’d promised he wouldn’t reveal how he got here, but this was a point- blank question about his marital status.

  “Dating is not on my agenda. Baseball is. And I would not have left a woman behind.”

  “Your mother is there.”

  Sadness washed over him. “She is, yes, and can’t wait to see me play here. She cries that we are separated by an ocean. But I will be bringing her here as soon as I can. Otherwise I will have to wait eight years before going back to see her.”

  That was the policy in place. Eight years between visits for any defector.

  “You’ll need a sponsor for her.”

  “I will have one.”

  Before Bob could ask any more, he got up. “Is it time we rejoin the others? Do you have what you wanted from me?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever have enough on you. You have a head on your shoulders, and I believe you will do well here. Gear up for more of these. The media is going to love talking to you.”

  He smiled at him and added, “Allie won’t have to handle you for long. You’ll have your complete freedom soon.”

  That’s what he was afraid of, but he wasn’t going to make it easy.

  Bob opened the door, the empty platter in his hand, and they walked amiably down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Ida looked up from where she was at the stove, manipulating aluminum foil over the dish. “I was just going to go in and get you. I don’t want this to get cold.”

  The front door opened, and a young girl came running in and went right in for a hug from Alicia.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here. I would have come home sooner.”

  “It was a last-minute invitation. I had something Dad wanted.”

  “What?”

  “Our new third baseman.”

  Scarlet turned to see him standing there. She looked a lot like their mother, small and petite, with the same auburn hair. Ida was nothing like he’d expected. He’d pictured someone like a Cuban peasant, maybe better dressed but with less sophistication than Alicia. He’d been way off base. She was gracious and warm, with a charm that could entice an asp out of a basket.

  “Scarlet, this is Mateo Alvarez.” Glancing at her father Allie asked, “Did you get what you wanted?”

  “And then some. You did good, Allie girl. This guy’s going to take us right to the White House.”

  Mateo noticed a look of distaste on her face. “Something I’ll skip if I get the chance.”

  Mateo asked, “White House?”

  “The president always invites the team that wins the championship series, be it baseball, football, hockey, basketball, et cetera. I’m not a fan.”

  Bob’s eyes widened. “You don’t turn something like that down.”

  “When the time comes, just watch me.”

  Ida laughed. “I think you’ve got other things to focus on until then, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, like a hundred and sixty-two games.”

  Ida pointed to a chair next to Alicia and said, “Sit.”

  And he did.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alicia shot glances at Mateo as he ate, wanting to make sure he was enjoying the food. It was one of her favorites and her mother made it every time she came. From what she could tell, his plate empty of his second serving, he had.

  Something else she was seeing was her mother’s inquisitive eyes on her throughout the meal. Ida had probed and prodded while waiting for the men to finish, suspecting there was something more going on between her and Mateo than met the eye. Allie had evaded most of the questions as best she could, trying not to lie outright, and she’d been on the verge of the big reveal when the men came out of the office. Relief had flooded through her.

  Since then, most of the conversation had been about fishing villages, Gloucester in particular. Mateo wanted to know all about the history of the town, and her mother had endless stories to tell. Scarlet had been bitten by curiosity about the player himself. She’d asked questions about where he was from, how he got into baseball, what he did as a kid there. He was easy to talk to, and had a way about him that drew people in.

  Allie felt the hook herself and kept tugging to work it out.

  After getting up, too restless sitting beside him, she’d started clearing the table when Mateo asked, “You didn’t forget about the beach, did you?”

  Ida took the dirty silverware out of her hands and said, “Go. You did promise. Scarlet will help me clean up.”

  The thought of being outside, beneath the stars with him was compelling but dangerous, as well.

  Unwilling to renege, she said, “Sure, why not. I’m finally warm again.”

  He all but jumped out of his chair and reached for his coat, adding the hat she’d provided during their shopping spree.

  She shrugged into her jacket, yanked a hat out of her pocket and pulled it low on her head, and donned gloves bef
ore herding him out the back door and onto the deck. The sun had been down for hours now, but the darkness was illuminated by a million stars twinkling in the sky. She looked up, marveling at the way they made her feel. Small and inconsequential.

  Mateo took her hand and tugged. “Let’s walk. It will make me feel like I’m back home.”

  She gave him a quick laugh. “If you don’t count the difference in temperature.”

  They walked along the path, to the steps, which took them down to the sand.

  When she shivered, the chill stealing whatever body warmth she’d hoarded during dinner, he put his arm around her and pressed her close.

  A surging heat suffused her, so appealing she didn’t fight him.

  “Tell me what it was like growing up here.”

  “Like growing up anywhere, I guess, only we’re a lot more closely linked to the sea. My grandfather owned a pub downtown, a gathering place for the fishermen after they came in with their catches. The walls were covered with old pictures of Battery Wharf, boat shops, schooners with sails spread wide at full mast, the waterfront back in the forties. I loved going in there after school, sitting behind the swinging door, eating fried clams and mussels. I could hear the men and women talking about the weather, the hot spots, the complaints about new quotas put in place to replenish the stocks. When Gramps died, my uncle Otis took over and one of my cousins works with him. They still have the old pictures up on the wall but it’s a different place now.”

  Her grandfather was the first in his family who’d opted out of fishing for a living. He’d bought the bar, wanting to keep his ties to the local community, without putting his children at risk by being out on the sea. There was an iconic memorial in town that paid tribute to the thousands of men who went down with their ships, but with a four-hundred-year-old history, she supposed it was to be expected. It was touted to be one of the most dangerous of livelihoods and her family history could attest to that. It hadn’t stopped a couple of her cousins from joining a crew, but that had a choice, not an expectation.