Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  Moyano took a long pull on his cigar, causing the tip to glow a bright orange. Then, for the first time, I saw him take it from his lips. He held the cigar out in front of him, tapping it with a finger. The ashes silently fell to the floor and flickered out.

  “So, speak for yourself,” said Moyano, acting as judge and jury. “I want to hear.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was sound like I was pleading. But I felt like I needed to defend myself.

  “No one’s better than me. Not Matador, no one. I make all of my teammates better. I hit, field, throw, run the bases—all the tools are mine. I just want to compete at the highest level.”

  “That’s it? Nothing more?”

  “I’m a baseball player, not a public speaker.”

  “No, you’re a busboy,” said Moyano, the smoke billowing from his lips. “You’re only a baseball player if I say you are.”

  “Just let me go.”

  “Go? Or do you mean defect? To where, the United States? So you can fill your belly with McDonald’s and Pepsi, on your papi’s money?”

  “What do you want to hear?” I asked, with my voice cracking. “That I hate my papi? That I’d rather see him in hell than the World Series?”

  “How about your country?” He batted the questions back at me as a fly buzzed around his head. “No love for Cuba? For El Presidente? No desire to represent your homeland with honor? To wear its name across your chest?”

  The smoke from his cigar was starting to make me sick and dizzy.

  “There are players who would fall to their knees and kiss the ground for this opportunity,” he said, pointing toward the field. “Pledge their undying support for the motherland. All you do is talk about yourself, how great you are. The truth is you’re nothing without Cuba. And you’re nothing without me.”

  In one surprisingly swift move, Moyano snatched the fly from midair. He shook it inside a closed fist, like he was getting ready to roll dice. After he threw it to the floor, that fly’s wings quivered at my feet and then went still.

  “You can hit all the triples you want, Junior. Make all the plays with your glove,” he said with more fire in his eyes than in the tip of that cigar. “Unless you are obedient, compliant, loyal, you will not be permitted to succeed.”

  Part of me felt like that lifeless fly. I understood that my dream of becoming a Nacional was dead. Not because Moyano wouldn’t eventually choose me, but because putting on his uniform would be the same as playing inside a prison, wearing invisible handcuffs every moment of the day. And I had a real glimpse into what Papi might have been feeling when he got into that car in Baltimore and left his whole world behind.

  Everything Moyano said after that barely had any meaning to me.

  I wouldn’t wish his type of slavery on my worst enemy. But if Matador wanted to sell his soul to Moyano, to flash his glove and golden spikes to the world, I wouldn’t waste my breath trying to talk him out of it.

  “I’ll tell you something. I’m going to sit here and finish this fine cigar. Take my time with it. You know, it’s part of the privilege of living in Cuba. How this tobacco is grown beneath our sun, then cut and rolled special. People come from all over the world for these cigars,” said Moyano, puffing away. “When I’m done, I’m going to make my decision about who will be my next shortstop. That decision will be the right one. I won’t announce it until tomorrow night, after the tournament is completed. Until then, you’ll just have to live with the fact that only I will know your fate, who you’ll become.”

  Then Moyano pushed his face toward the door as a signal for me to leave.

  My lungs didn’t fill with fresh air again until I left that darkness behind and stepped outside into the light of the dugout.

  Uncle Ramon looked me up and down from the third-base coaching box. He seemingly nodded his head in approval, and I wondered if he could see the change in me.

  Luis was standing on second base, giving everyone in our dugout two thumbs-up. One of our teammates told me that he’d just stroked a double down the first-base line. There was a look of pure joy on Luis’s face, like he’d finally justified his place on the team.

  My cousin took a walking lead off second. On the next pitch, he took off. Luis took Puerto Padre’s pitcher by total surprise, easily stealing third.

  We were far ahead on the scoreboard, and Matador was pissed at Luis, barking that he was trying to rub it in by taking the extra base. Luis just clapped his hands, looking even more satisfied. That’s when Uncle Ramon leaned in close and said something to his son. He probably told him not to try to steal home, or he could cause a riot on the field. After that, Luis stayed put on third. But I would have loved to see him break all the rules and go streaking for the plate.

  I had a hard time shaking off that meeting with Moyano. Everything he’d said stayed with me. Even the smell from his cigar clung to my uniform. So I went out into the field for the next inning with my nose pointed up in the air, trying to avoid the stink.

  I tried to concentrate on baseball and nothing else. But I couldn’t.

  The rest of the game was a blur to me. I just know that Luis and I each got another hit, while Matador never reached base. Right before Puerto Padre made their final out, I watched Gabriel rise to his feet and begin cheering for us. From a section of seats right behind him, once more, I heard the sound of that horn.

  This time, I saw a little, chunky man in a white T-shirt marching down the aisle with it, tooting away. Behind him, a bunch of grade school kids followed along, like they were having the greatest time in the world. They disappeared through an open gate by the bleachers, and I didn’t see them again.

  When the game was over, Luis and the rest of our players celebrated on the diamond. They were all congratulating me. But I had a tough time managing any kind of smile. A minute later, as the teams lined up to shake hands, I practically glared straight through Matador, knowing that even if he became a Nacional, he’d never have a thing in this world that I’d be jealous of.

  Turning away from the line of Puerto Padre players, I saw that fence in center field. The thought of running over there and hanging from the top of it crossed my mind. I even considered jumping over it in one big leap, like Superman over a skyscraper.

  “I know just what you need to relieve the pressure you’re feeling,” said Uncle Ramon, his hand dropping down onto my shoulder, grounding me where I stood. “Go change out of that uniform. I’ve got some relaxation planned for the whole team, a real reward.”

  I held my breath as I walked into the locker room behind Luis. This time the lights were on. Moyano was gone, but that fly was still in the same spot on the floor. Then, without noticing, one of my teammates accidentally kicked it beneath a locker. I was probably the only one in the room who knew it was there. And I wondered how many players Moyano had crushed that way in his career, or made invisible.

  “All right, winners. Get into beach clothes as quick as you can,” announced Uncle Ramon from the door, with Gabriel standing beside him. “The bus is out front, ready to go. Five minutes. That’s it. Otherwise Paulo says he’ll leave without you.”

  That set off an excited buzz among my teammates.

  “That driver leaves us behind, we’ll chase his broken-down bus all the way to the beach,” said Luis, pulling a clean shirt over his head. “You with me on that, Cuz?”

  “All the way,” I answered, starving to trade the dampness of that locker room for the feeling of warm sun on my bare back. “Maybe we’d even get there ahead of him.”

  7

  I COULDN’T TAKE a chance on how long we’d be gone. So I sprinted over to our dorm room for my transistor radio. I quickly pulled it out from beneath my mattress. As I moved toward the door, a splinter of sunlight reflected into my eyes, freezing me in my tracks. It had shone down from that lamp, bouncing off the face of Aunt Blanca’s photo. From where I stood, it looked
like there was a halo surrounding her. Then I shifted the angle of my head, and just as suddenly, it was gone. I crossed myself and bolted for the bus.

  Outside, Luis was standing between the bus’s folding doors, making certain that Paulo couldn’t pull away without me. Gabriel’s Chevy was parked beside it with the engine running. Uncle Ramon was busy talking to Gabriel through the driver’s side window before he followed me onto the bus.

  “Paulo, take the team to the beach about a half mile past the big stone jetty. They’ll like it there best,” said Uncle Ramon, slipping past both Luis and me, blocking us from getting to a seat. “I understand there are lots of teenagers at that section. I’ll meet you there later. I’m going with my friend to a beach near his house first.”

  I couldn’t believe Uncle Ramon wasn’t going to celebrate with us.

  “It’s quarter to four now. What time are we coming back?” asked Paulo. “Dinner in the cafeteria starts at six thirty.”

  “Don’t be concerned with that,” answered Uncle Ramon, handing Paulo some pesos. “There’s food at the beach. Treat the team to whatever they want. You, too. No curfew either. Don’t bring them back until they’re too tired to party anymore.”

  “All right, my pops is letting loose for a change,” said Luis.

  Paulo grinned. “For a few more pesos, I’ll give the players piggyback rides to the dorm one by one whenever they’re ready.”

  “What about our game tomorrow?” I asked Uncle Ramon. It seemed as if a brain other than his usual coaching one had been moving his mouth. “Are we going to stagger through that?”

  “We’ll deal with those consequences when they come,” he answered. “Right now, we’re going to revel in this opportunity. Some of us may never be at this point in our lives again.”

  Then Uncle Ramon fixed his gaze down the rows of players in their seats.

  “You earned this reward, worked hard to get it!” he shouted to them. “Take what belongs to you! Embrace it!”

  The players let out a roar, and Paulo turned up the music on his boom box.

  I was even more surprised when Uncle Ramon said, “Luis, Julio, you’ll ride with Gabriel and me. There are some things here in Cárdenas I want you to see before you join your friends.”

  “Everything I want to see is at the beach where they’re going, the one with all the girls,” Luis protested to no avail, as Uncle Ramon took us both off the bus. “This isn’t fair. It’s no reward.”

  Uncle Ramon rode shotgun, next to Gabriel, in the front. Luis, still complaining, was in the backseat with me.

  “Follow me,” Gabriel called to Paulo. “I know the area very well. I live here.”

  Then Gabriel put his Chevy into drive, and the bus pulled out behind us.

  “What did Moyano say to you in the locker room?” Uncle Ramon asked me.

  “That he owned my future,” I answered.

  “I know that feeling,” said Uncle Ramon, with his eyes on the road ahead. “I’ve dealt with it longer than you.”

  “I only know from watching him, how he stands, acts,” said Gabriel, turning the wheel toward the coastline. “There are many officials like Moyano in Cuba. They want you to be dependent on them. They want to be your god, like you owe them your life.”

  “Is Moyano the reason my party’s on hold?” asked Luis, annoyed. “That fat swine?”

  Gabriel and Uncle Ramon both began laughing at that.

  “Officials like him, they’re the reason everyone’s good time is delayed,” said Gabriel. “Ballplayers, fishermen, farmers, factory workers—everyone. The island is littered with Moyanos, from the top of the government down.”

  “Did he want something from you, Julio?” Uncle Ramon asked.

  “He wanted to hear me say that I love Cuba and I would never embarrass it.”

  “We all love our country—the land, the people,” said Uncle Ramon. “What he really means, what he really cares about, is that you would never disgrace him by defecting.”

  “Do you want to give Moyano that kind of power over you?” asked Gabriel.

  “I’d rather quit playing baseball,” I said.

  “Even if you don’t play baseball, they’ll be another Moyano waiting,” said Gabriel. “You’ll encounter them all your years here. That’s from experience.”

  Suddenly, the confines of that Chevy began to feel like a secure space where I could speak my mind about anything. And I started to wonder exactly who Gabriel was, and why we were sharing so much with him.

  Ten or twelve minutes later, I saw that big jetty coming up. It looked like a long stone bridge, extending out into the ocean until it vanished beneath the distant waves. There was a kid with a fishing pole carefully walking on it, stepping from rock to rock, maybe sixty yards out into the surf. Just one misstep on those slippery stones and he’d be up to his neck in rough water, swimming for his life.

  We drove for another couple hundred yards before Gabriel stopped the Chevy beside a sandy lot filled with a half dozen cars and a ton of bikes. That got me to thinking about my unlocked bike back in Matanzas, if I’d ever see it again. Or would I be wearing out Papi’s good leather shoes, walking back and forth from my job at El Puente?

  The bus pulled over and Gabriel pointed inside the lot.

  “Paradise, that way!” he called out above Paulo’s music.

  Paulo honked his horn in response, and then Gabriel leaned on his own a little longer and louder before we drove off.

  Luis uttered a groan as he watched the bus get smaller out the rear window.

  “Two base hits I had today—a perfect pickup line to meet girls,” Luis said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have even had to lie.”

  “You won’t be missing much, just a few hours of fun,” said Uncle Ramon. “Your time is just beginning. There’ll be better days than this in your future.”

  But Luis continued to sulk.

  The odometer spun for nearly another three miles. Then Gabriel parked just off the roadside, in a small clearing beside a trio of huge boulders. There was one other car there and just a handful of bikes.

  “Boys, unload what’s in the trunk while Gabriel and I find a good spot on the beach,” said Uncle Ramon, stepping out of the car.

  Gabriel got out and turned his key in the trunk lock, opening it a few inches for us. Then the two of them headed toward the sound of the ocean. Soon as they disappeared around the corner, Luis followed far enough after them to see who else was there.

  “Two girls a little older than us. They’re sitting on blankets, reading. They look all right, but they’re not even wearing swimsuits,” reported Luis. “Besides them, there’s a couple of families, some younger kids hanging out, and a few old folks.”

  “Not exactly a party waiting to happen, huh?”

  “I say we give it ten minutes. Then we walk back if we have to.”

  In the trunk, there was a small barbecue, a bag of charcoal, blankets, folding chairs, and an ice cooler. We loaded ourselves down, taking it all in one trip.

  “Guess I’ve joined you as Uncle’s burrito,” I said, with the chairs on my back and both hands full.

  “How about that cooler you’re carrying? Think there are any cold beers inside?” Luis asked. “Maybe that could be our reward.”

  “I wouldn’t argue against it,” I said, laboring through the hot sand with every step.

  Thirty yards from the water’s edge, Uncle Ramon pointed to a spot beside him, and we began to build a little camp. Except for kids running past, playing tag, we were far enough away from the other people there to have privacy. But not so far as to look like we didn’t want to be anywhere near them.

  Gabriel opened the bag of charcoal, poured it into the barbecue, and then struck a match to start it burning.

  “Luis, look inside the cooler,” said Uncle Ramon. “Gabriel brought us somethin
g special.”

  There weren’t any beers, but that didn’t stop Luis’s eyes from lighting up.

  There were five huge swordfish steaks. I recognized them because they were on the menu at El Puente. Only these were thicker and pinker than any I’d ever seen. That cinched it in my mind that Gabriel was some kind of fisherman.

  “We’re going to cook these steaks and have some important conversation,” said Uncle Ramon in a serious tone, pointing to the close circle of chairs in the sand.

  “Conversation? About what?” I asked.

  “Your papi,” Uncle Ramon said, his eyes fixed on mine for a second. “And the future. All of our futures.”

  My hand tapped at the transistor radio in my pocket. Just to feel that it was still there.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, with my arms and legs almost trembling. “You’ve heard from him?”

  Luis took a step closer to me.

  “About a year ago,” Uncle Ramon said. “Via a messenger.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?” I shot back.

  I looked hard at Luis. Only he seemed as surprised at the news as I was.

  “Julio, your papi’s the reason that Gabriel is here,” said Uncle Ramon. “We never played baseball together. He’s not an old friend. We’ve only met in the last few months.”

  “El Fuego has trusted in me to help his family,” said Gabriel, stretching a fresh sheet of tinfoil over the bars of the smoking grill and then putting the steaks on top of it. “When you hear what I have to say, Julio, you’ll decide for yourself if you have trust in me, too.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, point-blank.

  “Just a man. A Cuban,” replied Gabriel. “But before this is over, you might consider me family. That’s how it happens on a journey like this. I know. But for now, listen to Ramon. Let’s sit while he speaks, before we have our good meal.”

  As I lowered myself down into one of the chairs, I couldn’t help but think of Mama and Lola, back home in Matanzas. In my heart, I didn’t believe anything I was about to hear was going to include helping them.