Game Seven

by Paul Volponi

  “So I could get one of those books with all the answers in it,” he said proudly.

  “I’m right behind you on that,” I said, pulling the towel from his hands and snapping it at his butt cheeks.

  Just as we got back, a delivery man was coming down the apartment stairs.

  Uncle Ramon was still at the door and said, “Now we have a refrigerator full of food. And right before that, a messenger came and left an envelope.”

  “Maybe there are tickets for tonight’s game in it,” said Luis excitedly.

  “Gabriel’s name is on the envelope,” said Uncle Ramon, pointing to the counter where it sat. “If there are tickets inside, he’d have to invite us.”

  “Open it, please,” said Luis.

  Picking it up, Gabriel seemed to weigh it in his palm. Then he slowly ripped the envelope’s edge from top to bottom, before blowing inside to make it open. From over Gabriel’s shoulder, I caught a glimpse of the check he pulled out. I didn’t see the exact amount. And I didn’t care. But there were enough zeros to end any money worries Gabriel might ever have.

  “I take it you won’t be sleeping on the couch tonight,” Uncle Ramon said to Gabriel.

  “I told you I wasn’t leaving until my job here was done,” he said, sliding the check back inside the envelope. “And Luis needs another swimming lesson.”

  Over the next few hours, I realized that we had plenty of food, but no cash, and no car. That was probably the way Papi wanted it, with his new family sitting behind the dugout at Marlins Park and us anchored to this apartment, watching on a flat-screen TV.

  From the living room window, I could see the top of the stadium. I tried hard not to look at it, or even acknowledge it was there. But when the sun went down and a halo of lights glowed around its crown, I could barely take my eyes off of it.

  25

  IF THE MARLINS lost Game Six, the Series would be over one day earlier. That would put pressure on Papi to see me sooner rather than later. In my mind, I was tossing coins—heads or tails—over what I really wanted to happen.

  From the first second of the pregame show, Uncle Ramon, Luis, and Gabriel were camped out in front of the flat-screen watching ESPN Deportes. They were snacking on three different kinds of chips, pizza rolls, and ice-cold Pepsi. None of us had ever used a microwave oven before. So I picked my head up to watch it melt nacho cheese in less than a minute.

  “I can see every blade of grass on that field,” said Uncle Ramon. “This high-definition TV is incredible.”

  “I’d still rather be there,” moaned Luis. “Why couldn’t Uncle get us tickets?”

  “Son, this is the World Series—maybe a once-in-a-lifetime chance to go down in baseball history,” answered Uncle Ramon. “El Fuego doesn’t need any distractions right now. He has to stay focused like a laser beam.”

  Uncle Ramon understood those were only half-truths. He didn’t even sound convincing. I realized that I didn’t need to hide the truth from Luis and Gabriel.

  “The real reason is that my papi has another family, another son,” I said, hitting the mute on the remote. “He’s not ready to face me, or have his families mix together.”

  Luis looked upset, maybe even as much as I was when I found out.

  “Does your mama know?” my cousin asked.

  “In her heart she does,” I answered. “She was smarter than me about it.”

  “Smarter than me, too,” conceded Uncle Ramon. “But that doesn’t change anything. He’s still my brother and your papi.”

  I’m not sure why, but I asked Gabriel, “What do you think?”

  “You don’t need my advice,” answered Gabriel. “I’m not here to judge—his actions or your response. And it doesn’t sound to me like you’re judging either. It sounds more like you just want answers. It’s been a long journey. I think you’re almost there.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that. So I just let it sit with me, and I restored the volume on the TV.

  Here in Miami, Marlins Park is rocking with anticipation. The retractable roof is closed and the noise level is high. There’s a distinct energy among the crowd, with the start of Game Six only moments away. Will the visiting Yankees be crowned World Champions here, or will the home team, the Miami Marlins, force a deciding Game Seven tomorrow night? The Bronx Bombers, built on hitting, and the Marlins, built on pitching, are about to collide. . . .

  The first three innings flew past without a single run being scored. Then, in the bottom of the fourth inning, the Marlins’ cleanup hitter hammered a hanging curveball more than 418 feet over the center-field wall. That gave Miami the lead, 1–0.

  That’s when the camera zoomed in on the Marlins’ huge home run sculpture, just over the left-center-field fence. It had pink flamingos shaking their feathers, blue marlins diving beneath waves, and white doves sailing across the sky. Whenever a Marlin hit a home run, all the pieces moved.

  “Look at that thing go,” said Luis. “It’s like a giant pinwheel spinning. Maybe one day I could get the job pressing the button to set it off.”

  A burst of water shot from the sculpture’s base up into the air, followed by the piercing sound of a horn.

  Right away, I thought about that stranger at our baseball game in Cuba—the one blowing his horn as he marched through the crowd. Then I thought about how it felt to hit that horn on the ’59 Buick once we were free. How its vibrations tingled up my spine.

  In the next inning, the Marlins added on a pair of runs, pushing their lead to 3–0. When the bottom of the fifth was finished, Papi walked across the field from the dugout to the Miami bullpen inside the right-field stands. It wasn’t a close-up camera shot. He was looking down at the ground ahead of him with his cap pulled low. So I couldn’t even see his face clearly.

  There’s the great El Fuego making his usual midgame trek to the bullpen. That’s where he’ll ready himself, getting his legendary left arm loose in case he’s needed by the Marlins late in the game. Our best wishes go out to Ramirez and his family. Several of them, including his teenage son, undertook the perilous sea journey from Cuba just days ago, defecting to the US. They’re undoubtedly having a splendid reunion. . . .

  “These announcers know everything,” said Luis, in a sarcastic tone.

  “Listen, I understand the real reunion hasn’t taken place yet. But it will,” countered Uncle Ramon. “Look around, Son. We’re not living in one of those refugee houses, right? What was it, seven families in three bedrooms, the kind of house those poor people stuck at the INS building were begging to get into? Don’t we have it a hundred times better?”

  Luis hung his head and said, “Now I feel like a spoiled baby, making a fuss over not getting Series tickets.”

  “Hey, you’re not a baby anymore,” I smiled at him. “Not since we left Cuba.”

  Between innings there were commercials for everything—beer, sports cars, insurance, energy drinks, and even pills to keep older guys ready for sex. They seemed like fairy tales, filled with talking animals. There was a pig driving a convertible, a duck that could quack a company’s name, and a gecko with an accent who figured out math percentages in his tiny head.

  “Don’t be fooled by those ads,” said Uncle Ramon, after another round of slick commercials. “You don’t need money to enjoy freedom.”

  I guess that was true, because none of us had a single dollar in our pockets. Gabriel had a paper check. But there wasn’t a bank in sight. And he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to cash it.

  The Marlins’ starting pitcher had pinpoint control. He was changing speeds on his pitches, painting the corners of the plate, and hitting the catcher’s target every time. The Yankees hadn’t had a runner past second base all night, and their batters looked completely baffled.

  At the start of the eighth inning, Papi began warming up in the bullpen.

  “This Marlins pitcher’s
having the game of his life,” said Luis. “Does the manager take him out for El Fuego?”

  “I wouldn’t,” I said firmly. “Not unless he puts two runners on, and the tying run comes to the plate.”

  “Of course he’s going to bring your papi in to pitch. Soon as the ninth inning comes,” said Uncle Ramon. “It’s not even a discussion.”

  “What makes you so certain?” asked Gabriel.

  “Because Julio Ramirez Sr. was born to pitch the ninth inning,” he answered, confidently. “God blessed his left arm. Gave him the ability to blow away three straight batters and leave the other team feeling helpless. And in a series like this one, that feeling will carry over to tomorrow.”

  In my heart, I didn’t think God had much to do with anything Papi did.

  When the ninth inning came Papi strode to the mound. The cameras zoomed in as he delivered the last of his warm-up pitches. Uncle Ramon and I both moved closer to the TV screen to see him better. He looked a little heavier than I remembered, and his face was fuller. Then I focused in on his left hand and saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  Maybe forty feet behind home plate, there was a beautiful glass aquarium built into the backstop. It was filled with pink coral and all kinds of tropical fish.

  “If a fastball got away from El Fuego, think he could crack that aquarium?” asked Luis. “Imagine fish flopping all over the field.”

  “They must have tested that glass,” answered Uncle Ramon. “It’s probably unbreakable.”

  “No, I’d bet he could break it,” I said, without hesitating.

  Papi was nearly unhittable that night, except for the two pitches that Yankee batters fouled off into the stands. He struck out the three hitters he faced. Now the World Series was tied at three games apiece. And that put me another whole day away from facing Papi myself.

  26

  I SLEPT ON the floor again that night. I didn’t have a single dream, or at least not one I could remember. The next morning, I woke up early. The sheets and blanket had slipped out from beneath me, and my face was flat against the hardwood floor. When I got to the bathroom, I watched in the mirror as the pressed crease in my right cheek slowly faded.

  I hadn’t played real baseball in nearly a week. My body was aching to compete, to be in motion. No one else was awake yet. Luis and Uncle Ramon were in their bedrooms, and Gabriel was still asleep on the couch. I got dressed and headed out the apartment door without locking it behind me.

  There was no one in the pool. But swimming didn’t interest me. I’d had enough of treading water to last a lifetime. That’s when I started bouncing forward off my toes—building from a fast walk to a jog to a run. I did six or seven laps around the complex, gaining more speed and momentum with each one. After a while, the soles of my feet were itching to break out of that same circular path. So I turned toward the gates and flew past the guard inside that little security booth.

  Suddenly, I was on the streets without a plan or destination. The sweat was pouring down my forehead, stinging my eyes. But that didn’t matter. I was reaching with every stride. My arms were driving forward in perfect rhythm with my legs. And I’d never felt more free.

  I ran past schoolkids with book bags, old ladies pushing shopping carts, men in business suits, and couples holding hands. Some were headed in the same direction as me. Others were going the opposite way. I was in the US, with no dictator or corrupt police to hold me back. I could run as far as my strong legs would take me. On one block, I flew by a coffee shop, a clothing store, and a Burger King. I felt powerful, like one day, if I worked hard enough, I might own all three. Because there was no one with an army behind him to tell me I couldn’t.

  But in my heart, I would have traded anything for Mama and Lola to be running by my side. And almost every time I blinked I saw their faces.

  Then, just as my thigh muscles were beginning to burn, I caught a glimpse of the back side of the apartment complex. I made my way there and leaped over its waist-high fence before I slowed down to a jog.

  Luis was in the pool. But it wasn’t Gabriel giving him a swimming lesson. It was Uncle Ramon instead. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stayed in that grassy patch where I’d coached those two little boys playing Wiffle ball, and I started stretching. After that, I did five sets of two hundred crunches, and then fifty push-ups on my bare knuckles.

  I walked back to the apartment, picking blades of grass off the back of my sweaty hands. Gabriel was inside, packing himself a bag.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked. “What happened to Luis’s swimming lesson?”

  “Ramon’s got that covered. He’s here for your cousin. Besides, this was never going to be forever—not unless we drowned at sea,” Gabriel answered, winking.

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m already where I want to be: in a country with freedom,” he said, closing the bag with a zip and then slinging it over his shoulder. “The real question is, Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, with my feet flat on the floor.

  “I can’t imagine it’s going to take you too long to find out,” he said. “I know what you’re made of. You’ve got a big heart. I’ve seen it. Just listen to whatever it tells you.”

  “Hey, didn’t you say you weren’t leaving until your job was complete—until you delivered me to my papi?”

  “I see you’ve got a handle on that now. I’m not worried.”

  Gabriel gave me a big hug before he headed out the door. From the balcony, I watched him stop by the pool to say his good-byes to Luis and Uncle Ramon. A few minutes later, Gabriel was gone. And I didn’t think that huge check in his pocket was ever going to weigh him down.

  At around three o’clock, another messenger arrived, leaving a second envelope with Uncle Ramon.

  “I’m not getting my hopes up that those are tickets for Game Seven,” said Luis.

  Uncle Ramon shook the envelope one time, and then he opened it.

  First, he took out a blue credit card and said, “Well, now we can go to the store for things we need. But Luis, I think you’ll be pleased at what else is here.”

  “Let me see,” said my cousin, taking the envelope from his father’s hand.

  As Luis looked inside, his entire face lit up. I knew right away it was something even better than World Series tickets. Only I had no idea what it could be.

  That’s when Luis pulled out a small photo of his mother. She was standing beside Uncle Ramon on their wedding day. Luis pressed the picture to his lips.

  “The day your uncle defected, he had that picture in his wallet,” said Uncle Ramon. “He had pictures of everyone in his family.”

  I wasn’t about to ruin Luis’s moment. But in my mind I was thinking, He cared so much about his family that he replaced us with a brand-new one.

  “Win or lose tonight, when I finally see my uncle I’m going to kiss him on both cheeks,” Luis said, holding that picture close to his chest.

  By quarter to four, Uncle Ramon and Luis wanted to go out for food.

  “Primo, let’s test this credit card. We’ll go to a restaurant where you’re not the busboy,” Luis said to me. “We’ll be back in plenty of time for the game tonight.”

  “Not me,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll stay here.”

  “You sure?” Uncle Ramon asked.

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind. You guys go.”

  “We’ll bring you something back,” said Luis. “One of those big racks of pork ribs with french fries, like I saw on the TV commercials.”

  Five minutes after they left, I was at the living room window, focused on what I could see of Marlins Park. Even standing still, I could feel the momentum building inside of me. And before my feet were ever in motion, I knew I’d be heading out the door.

  I left the complex and started walking north. Whatever compass I had i
nside of me was set. I could feel a force almost dragging me in that direction. I walked for more than a half hour, and the closer I got to the stadium, the stronger I felt the pull.

  The streets and sidewalks were getting more crowded. A half dozen blocks from Marlins Park, I began to see police on every corner, directing traffic and keeping people on foot moving. They weren’t about to have a problem with me, because I didn’t have any intention of stopping.

  Two guys around my age came up on either side of me. One of them flashed a ticket, trying to sell it. I didn’t have any money. But in my mind, I’d already paid enough to see Papi. So I shook my head no and walked faster.

  As I approached the stadium, there was a band playing on the corner. It was four older men wearing straw hats with red-and-white-striped jackets. They had a banjo, bass, drum, and trumpet. They were in the shade, looking cool as anything, except for the man with the trumpet, whose puffed-out cheeks seemed like they were about to explode.

  It was probably three and a half hours before the game when I found the players’ entrance. There was already a crowd around it, with plenty of security. I pushed my way close to the front, watching as some of the players arrived.

  Every time one of the Marlins showed up, there’d be cheers and people begging for autographs. There were boos for a taxi full of Yankees. But fans wanted autographs, too. I was glued to that one spot for maybe an hour. Only there was no sign of Papi. Then the crowd started to thin out. And I understood that most of the players were already inside.

  It was hard for me to stand still. My feet just wanted to move forward. But another part of me was willing to wait until midnight, or whenever the game was finished, to finally confront Papi.

  Then someone called my name: “Julio.”

  For an instant, I was frozen solid. Then her hand touched my shoulder and I was able to move again. It was that woman from ESPN, Cadence Myers—the one who’d interviewed me outside the INS building.

  In broken Spanish, she asked, “Why you out here? No ticket?”