VIKING

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First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2015

Copyright © 2015 by Paul Volponi

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Volponi, Paul.

Game seven / Paul Volponi.

pages cm

Summary: “A sixteen-year-old shortstop in Cuba who dreams of playing with the pros must choose between his country and his father who defected to the U.S.”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-101-62154-7

[1. Baseball—Fiction. 2. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 3. Emigration and immigration—Fiction. 4. Defectors—Fiction. 5. Cuban Americans—Fiction. 6. Cuba—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.V8877Gam 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2014000118

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgments

This text is dedicated to the loving memory of my mother, Mary, who was ejected from the stands during several of my baseball games by blind umpires with adequate hearing.

THERE ARE 108 stitches on a baseball. I should know. I’ve run my fingers over every one. The first and last stitches are hidden beneath the surface. But believe me, I’ve felt those, too.

– – –

I was up on my toes, shifting my weight from side to side. It’s important for a shortstop. You don’t ever want to get stuck in one spot, unable to move. So you learn to stay light on your feet. As our pitcher went into his windup, I was focused on the baseball in his left hand, following it all the way through his release.

Spinning out of his hand, it was just a seed of white to my eyes. A split second later, off the hitter’s bat, it had turned into a scalding line drive headed right at me.

On instinct, I raised my glove in front of my face, almost in self-defense. The baseball stuck in its pocket, stinging my palm through the soft brown leather. Then I reached inside, gripping the ball by the seams before I tossed it around the infield diamond.

Six years ago, on my tenth birthday, Papi gave me this glove as a present. At the time it was brand-new and way too big for me.

“Don’t worry. You grow into a glove. Then you’ll have it the rest of your life,” Papi said as I struggled to keep it on my hand. “We’ll play lots of catch together, every day. That’ll help you break it in.”

Before I went to bed that night, Papi oiled the glove’s pocket. He put a stone that was slightly bigger and heavier than a baseball in its center. Then he tied the fingers tightly closed around it, using string from Mama’s kitchen.

“Do this every night and the ball will feel like a feather when it hits your glove,” Papi promised.

So I did.

Back then, every kid I knew was jealous of me. That’s because baseball is practically a religion in my country. And Papi walked through the streets of our hometown, Matanzas, like a god, with me trailing behind. He’d been an all-star pitcher for almost a decade. Not only for the Matanzas Crocodiles, but also for the Cuban National Team—the Nacionales—in all the big international tournaments.

Fans called him El Fuego, for his blazing fastball, which no batter could touch. The only way Papi could have been more respected was if he’d been a general in the military or a high-ranking government official. But most of that respect would have come out of fear.

A few months after my birthday, though, everything changed.

The Cuban National Team traveled to play an exhibition in the US. I was so excited. Papi promised to bring back lots of presents, like blue jeans for Mama and my younger sister, Lola. And Papi said that if he could find a way, he’d bring me a brand-new ten-speed racing bike. I would have gladly settled for a pair of new tires and a chain for my old bike—more than most of my friends’ fathers could get for them.

Every night while Papi was gone, I dreamed about that bike while the stone sat tied inside my glove.

When the Nacionales swept all three games of the US exhibition—against the Baltimore Orioles, St. Louis Cardinals, and Chicago Cubs—it made the front page of every government-run newspaper in Cuba. Only Papi’s name wasn’t mentioned in any of the stories. I figured he might have injured his arm, or the team’s manager decided to use other pitchers. Either way, I was completely disappointed and didn’t know how to explain it to my friends.

The day the team arrived back in Cuba, I was waiting for Papi at home with Mama and my sister. We’d put up red, white, and blue streamers—the colors of the Cuban flag—along with a big congratulations banner that read, FELICIDADES! Mama even made Papi’s favorite dish, fish casserole with sweet onions, green peppers, and yellow rice, for our victory feast. But the hours dragged past with no Papi and no celebration.

Mama must have screamed at us a dozen times about picking food off the plates. And as her dinner turned cold, the shadows slowly climbed the pink and purple walls of our single-story concrete house, touching our wooden front door.

Finally, there was a knock.

It was one of Papi’s teammates.

Mama let him in, and I could tell by the way his eyes were focused on the floor that the news was bad. Maybe Lola could tell, too, because she buried her shoulder in the side of Mama’s chest, waiting to hear. Only I stood on my own, pushing my toes hard into the ground, bracing myself.

“In Baltimore, the hotel lobby,” he said, “El Fuego walked out the revolving door, got into somebody’s car, and drove off with them. He never came back.”

“Defected?” Mama asked with a twinge in her voice that sounded like a combination of amazement and fear.

Papi’s teammate nodded his head. Then his eyes rose up and looked out the window, as if to check if he’d been followed to our house.

“Dios mío,” she said, letting go of my sister just long enough to cross herself.

That’s when I realized Papi was never coming home. He couldn’t. Not without going to prison for being a traitor.

I was in total shock. I could feel an earthquake starting inside of me. My legs got so shaky I had to lock them at the knees to stop the trembling from taking over my entire body.

“Right before he left,” Papi’s teammate continued, “El Fuego whispered to me, ‘Tell my family I’ll find a way for us to be together.’”

That night, the three of us cried in each other’s arms. There were tears of joy for Papi’s freedom and wondering what our future might be with him in the United States one day. But there were tears of worry, too, over what might happen to us in Cuba as the family of a defector. To make those worries even worse, the very next morning police officers confiscated Papi’s car before we could even think about selling it.

In all the time that’s passed since then, we haven’t heard a single word from Papi: no letter, no phone call, no message delivered by a friend—nothing.

It took more than a year of waiting for this empty feeling to completely come over me. When it finally did, it ached more than anything I could imagine. It was like we didn’t exist to Papi anymore, like we weren’t his family, and like I wasn’t really his son.

There are no professional baseball players in Cuba. All the Nacionales have other jobs. Papi had been given a good one, coaching baseball at a nearby school. But without his salary, we couldn’t afford to live in our house anymore. Instead, we had to move into a one-bedroom apartment with sinks that sometimes back up and a toilet that overflows. Now Mama works as a maid, cleaning tourists’ hotel rooms. And I stopped attending school this year to bus tables in the hotel’s restaurant.

Meanwhile, I heard on free radio from the US that Papi signed a second multimillion-dollar deal to pitch in the major leagues for the Miami Marlins.

Whenever I cry now, it’s always tears of bitterness.

A few days ago, the Marlins made it into the World Series against the New York Yankees. Game One of the Series was played in Miami, and Papi came in to pitch in relief. I sat alone on a dark staircase in our apartment building with a small transistor radio pressed against my ear, listening to every pitch thrown by the great El Fuego—something the police could have punished me for.

Papi threw a perfect ninth inning for the save, striking out a pair of Yankees as the Marlins won, 5–4.

When the game was over, with my blood beginning to boil, I ran into our apartment and snapped the string around my glove. Then I grabbed the stone from inside it and marched down to the shore.

It’s ninety miles from Cuba to the coast of Florida. That didn’t matter to me. I reared back and fired that stone as hard as I could toward Papi. And after it left my hand, all that remained was an intense burning sensation in my right arm.

1

MY NAME IS Julio Ramirez Jr., and baseball is my whole life.

With two outs in the top of the ninth inning, we were ahead by just one run. It was an all-star game between the best junior players from here in Matanzas and the best from Colón. Winning meant getting on a bus the next morning and traveling to play a series against other all-star teams in the city of Cárdenas. And that’s exactly what I wanted: a chance for the coaches of the Junior Nacional Team to see me play more.

The name RAMIREZ JR. across the back shoulders of my uniform already gets me a lot of attention. It opens people’s eyes and it closes them on me, too—all because of Papi.

I turned sixteen this year. That means this is my last chance to make the team, to become a junior Nacional, representing Cuba against the best young players from other countries. For me, it’s not about politics or national pride. It’s strictly about baseball.

The team from Colón had a fast runner on first base. He was tall and lanky, like a baby giraffe, with knees that almost reached to his chest when he was in full stride.

I could tell by the way he was leaning that he was looking to steal second. That would put him in scoring position, to try and tie up the game. From shortstop, I used my glove to partly shield my face so the other team couldn’t see. Then I turned toward our second baseman and closed my mouth. It was a signal, letting him know I’d be covering the bag on a steal attempt.

Our pitcher was working from the stretch instead of a full windup, determined not to give the runner a head start. He was a lefty, just like Papi. And he had copied all of Papi’s moves on the mound—the way he snorts like a bull ready to do battle, the way he straddles the pitching rubber with his spikes, and the way he practically glares through a runner who thinks he can steal a base off him.

It doesn’t matter that the government erased Papi’s name from the baseball record books the day he defected. Kids from Matanzas still remember El Fuego. They talk about their hero all the time. They want to pitch like him. Most of them want to play in the major leagues like he does, collecting megachecks. And watching our pitcher work was like seeing a highlight film of Papi from twenty years ago, from before I was even born.

I kicked hard at the dirt beneath me. Then I pounded a fist into my glove, waiting for the next pitch. But after our pitcher came set with his hands, he hesitated for a few seconds, stopping the base runner from timing the rhythm of his pitches. Only that hesitation froze me in my tracks, too, with my feet nearly glued to the ground.

As our pitcher strode toward home plate with the ball, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the runner explode out of his shoes. I held my position as long as I could. Then I broke for the bag, leaving a huge hole behind me at shortstop.

The batter swung and missed.

Our catcher leaped out of his crouch, and the iron bars of his mask spun around his face as his shoulder flew forward.

He threw a perfect strike, just a few inches over the head of our ducked-down pitcher. I could feel the runner bearing down on me, going into his slide feet first, with his spikes pointed up.

There was a pop as the ball hit the center of my glove.

I swiped the tag at the runner’s feet. His spikes caught leather, tearing at the glove’s fingers. Then I pulled my glove away, showing the umpire that I still had control of the ball.

“Fuera!” the umpire cried, punching the air with a closed fist.

The runner was out and the game over.

My cousin Luis raced in from center field, jumping on my shoulders to celebrate. I carried his weight for a few steps before we both tumbled onto the infield grass, laughing and smiling like little kids.

“Now we show those teams going to Cárdenas what hungry Crocodiles can do—take a bite out of their behinds,” said Luis, chomping at the grass with a big grin.

Luis is a year younger than me. He was still in school and probably wouldn’t have been an all-star if his father, my uncle Ramon, hadn’t been our hometown coach. But Luis already knew that and didn’t have any crazy dreams that he could be chosen as a Nacional.

“A few more games in this uniform, off from classes—that’s all I’m asking for. I don’t even care if I ride the bench,” he said as we picked ourselves up off the ground and started toward the dugout, surrounded by our teammates. “But you were terrific today—three base hits and some slick plays in the field. You know those big coaches are making notes on you, and everything they’re writing is good.”

“I just need to keep my mind straight. Stay focused on the game in front of me, not anywhere else,” I said, tossing my glove, end over end, into the dugout.

“Maybe you should forget about listening to that radio for a few days,” said Luis. “Let the Series go.”

I nodded my head to his advice, even though I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

Over the last five years, Luis and I had become much closer, almost like brothers. His mama died of pneumonia about eleven months after Papi defected. That left us like two puzzle pieces that suddenly had a need to fit together—him without a mother and me without a father.

“The two of you, get your gear together. Let’s go home,” said Uncle Ramon, his attention seemingly split between us and someone in the stands. “We’ve got traveling to do tomorrow. Get some rest. No partying.”

“I’ll be at a party, but it’s not for me. I have to work tonight at the restaurant,” I said, trying to give him a high five as I walked past.

Only I don’t think Uncle Ramon even noticed, because he never took his hands from the pockets of his red Windbreaker. He just left me hanging.

Uncle Ramon is Papi’s younger brother. They played together for the team in Matanzas for a while. Now Uncle Ramon works at one of the big sugar mills and coaches part-time at the school where Papi once did. He’s tall and thin, with a pair of strong legs that are usually rooted to the ground. And when his brown hair blows around, Uncle Ramon reminds me of a palm tree that refuses to bend in the breeze.

I changed out of my cleats, packed away my glove and bats, and then slung my equipment bag over my shoulder.

On the walk out of the field house, our lefty pitcher threw an arm around me and said, “I can’t believe the Marlins lost last night! Now the Series is tied one game apiece. They’re not playing tonight, right? They’re traveling to New York.”

“I know,” I said, trying to keep any emotion out of my response.

“Of course you know. Better than me,” he said. “I hope El Fuego gets into the next game, shuts down those damn Yankees. Imagine a pitcher from our town with a World Series ring!”

“That would be something,” I said.

“That’s your genes, your blood,” he said, before patting my back and then turning me loose. “Be proud.”

“Without a doubt,” I said, slowing down and letting him go on ahead.

That’s when Uncle Ramon nearly walked up on my heels from behind.

“Sorry, Julio,” he said. “My mind was somewhere else, thinking about things down the road.”

In a quiet voice, I asked my uncle, “Did I make a big enough impression today?”

He stopped in his tracks. So I did, too.

“This is what I overheard some powerful people say,” he answered in a tone even quieter than mine. “Senior defected. How do we know Junior won’t do the same his first trip outside of Cuba? Is he so good it’s worth the potential embarrassment?”

Hearing that was like getting smacked across the teeth with a baseball bat.

“So I have to pay for his freedom? For him abandoning his family?”

“If some people get their way, yes,” Uncle Ramon said, nudging me forward to start walking again. “Nothing’s written in stone yet. I’m working on lots of solutions. You just concentrate on playing even better, nothing else.”

I carried that heavy load out to the parking lot, where there were more beat-up bikes chained to fences than cars, including mine. Uncle Ramon suddenly veered off to the right to shake hands with an old friend of his named Gabriel, who’d been hanging around our games and practices for the past couple weeks. Luis told me that he’d even slept over at their house a few nights.

Uncle Ramon had introduced Gabriel to us as somebody he used to play baseball with. Gabriel sort of nodded his head to that with an honest enough smile. But when a ball got away from some kids playing catch, I watched him toss it back. Gabriel’s form was awful, with a huge hitch in it. I would have believed he’d never thrown a ball before in his life. Besides, his hands were cracked and calloused. And the lines of his palms were embedded with grease, like he’d done more fishing than playing sports. I never mentioned it to anyone.

“See you tomorrow, boys,” Gabriel called out, waving to me and my cousin after a short conversation with Uncle Ramon.

“Really?” I asked. “You’re driving all the way to Cárdenas to watch us play?”

“Not so far for me. That’s where I live,” he said, getting into an old Chevy. “I’m hitting the road right now. I’ll meet you there. Maybe show you around.”

It all seemed strange. But I had too much on my mind to think any more about it as my cousin climbed into the passenger seat of my uncle’s car, and I unchained my bike.

2

I RODE STRAIGHT home to take a quick shower and change my clothes. Two old men in straw hats were sitting in the shade outside our building, playing dominoes and chewing raw sugarcane. I smiled at them as I slowed down enough to throw a leg over the seat of my bike, balancing myself on one pedal.

Coming to a stop, I lifted the bike off the ground. Then I leaned back to get some momentum in my legs and started with it up the steep flight of stairs in our building.

Opening our apartment door, I got hit with a blast of hot air, as if the walls had been absorbing every bit of heat from that day, refusing to let any of it go.

Mama was at work, but my sister, Lola, was there, studying at the kitchen table. She was still dressed in her school uniform—a white blouse and yellow skirt—with textbooks spread out all around her. And every few seconds, a rotating floor fan from the living room would make it seem like a page from one of her open books was almost turning by itself.

We had no air conditioner. We could barely afford our electric bill as it was.

“How are your math calculations, Julio?” she asked, turning a pencil over and nearly rubbing a hole in her notebook paper with the pink eraser at the other end.

Lola and I actually shared an old laptop, though we didn’t have a license to be on the Internet. We couldn’t come close to making the kind of payments needed to become connected.

“Why aren’t you working on the computer?”

“It just makes me feel even hotter. Never mind that,” she said, with a hint of impatience. “Now, how are your calculations?”

“Okay, I thought, until they started mixing letters in with the numbers,” I answered, dropping my equipment bag to the floor and hearing the bats inside rattle. “But no matter what, two and two still equals four. Unless your father’s a defector; then they try to tell you it’s something different.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked, sounding irritated, with a bead of sweat starting down her right temple. “Please. I can’t get distracted. I have nothing but exams for the next two weeks.”

“Uncle Ramon told me I might not get picked to be a Nacional, because of Papi.”

I suppose there was sympathy inside of Lola somewhere. But she didn’t seem interested in showing me any. Maybe it was the stifling heat or tension over her tests that put a charge into her voice.

“That’s exactly why I’m going to a university one day, to become a teacher,” she said, burying her head inside a book. “I’m going to make my own history, not be stuck with his. You need to do the same.”

“That’s good for you. But I’m not a student. I play baseball,” I snapped, heading toward the shower. “They’re always going to compare me and him.”

“Then jump in the ocean and swim for Miami! Follow Papi!” Lola shouted after me, a second before I slammed the bathroom door shut.

Turning the faucets up high, I caught a glimpse of my anger in the mirror. It made my eyebrows look even sharper, as they arched at an angle, and my thin lips pulled back at the corners. Only I didn’t want to face it. So I yanked the plastic curtain closed. Then I stood in the shower with my head down and the water rushing off the bridge of my nose, like it was a spout. The temperature changed from hot to cold a couple of times without warning. Lola had always said there were ghosts in the shower. But I knew it was just other tenants in our building running water at the same time.

When I finished, I dried myself and wrapped a towel around my waist. The mirror had fogged over with steam. But I’d seen enough of myself and didn’t even consider wiping it clear.

Stepping outside into the hall, I saw that Lola had walked away from her textbooks. She was standing by an open window, brushing her straight black hair.

I guess we could both feel a little bit of breeze now.

“Done with your swim?” she asked, behind a half smile.

“For now,” I answered. “I’ll probably take another one after the game tomorrow in Cárdenas.”

“Well, make sure you don’t drown,” she said. “I’d miss you. You’re my only big brother.”

“Thanks, I won’t,” I said, letting her words sink in as I grabbed a fresh towel from the closet and began to dry my wet head.

– – –

I put on a white shirt, black pants, and a pair of Papi’s old leather shoes. Then I headed back down the stairs and walked the five blocks to the restaurant where I bussed tables. It’s part of the hotel where Mama cleans. It’s called El Puente—“The Bridge.” That’s because Matanzas is the City of Bridges, with seventeen of them crossing the three rivers surrounding us.

My shift ran from five p.m. to midnight. I got there just a few minutes before it started. It’s my job to take away the dirty dishes from the tables, make sure all of the water glasses are kept full, and deliver any part of the meal the customer wants to take home wrapped in tinfoil. The pay by the hour isn’t good. But the waiters and waitresses give me and the other two busboys a small percentage of their tips every night. That adds up. The only problem I ever had was with a waiter named Horatio, who constantly hides his biggest tips by burying them in a different pocket. He gets away with it because he’s the nephew of the restaurant’s manager. Otherwise I’d grab him by his black bow tie, turn him upside down, and then shake him until it rained money.

The customers are mostly tourists. Lots of them are from the US, even though there’s a travel ban from the States to Cuba. They go someplace like Canada first and then fly here. The US ban is because we’re not a democracy and don’t have any real human rights, just the ones our presidente and his soldiers decide to give us.

Living in a country without freedom is like being stuck at the birthday party of someone who believes he’s much better than you. It doesn’t matter that the party stinks and you’re having a bad time. You can’t leave because there are guys guarding the door with guns. And you’d better sing “Happy Birthday” with a smile when the cake comes out, even though you can’t have a piece, or else you could wind up in prison.

During my shift, six or seven customers came in wearing New York Yankees caps or T-shirts. Every time I saw one, my stomach churned with acid over Papi and the World Series. Then, around nine o’clock, the manager called me over to a table and introduced me to a customer as El Fuego’s son.

A man in a Yankees cap shook my hand. Then the manager translated his English for me, even though I understood some of what he was saying.

“Pleasure to meet you, Julio. I’m normally a big fan of your father’s, just not right now. I’d rather see my team win. But you must be so proud of him,” he said.

I nodded and said, “Si. Si.”

The man stood next to me so his wife could take a photo. It was his idea for us each to make a fist. We lined them up, knuckles to knuckles, as if we were fighting over the Series. An instant before the camera’s click, I saw Mama standing in the doorway of the restaurant. She was dressed in her blue maid’s uniform and apron. Her tired eyes caught mine and I looked away from the lens.

His wife wanted a better photo, so we posed again.

Mama jutted her chin in the direction of our apartment and mouthed, See you at home. Then she walked out the door.

After the second photo, the man smiled and stuffed ten pesos into my shirt pocket. That was more than two weeks’ salary for me.

“Gracias,” I responded, feeling better about the whole encounter.

A few minutes later, that river rat Horatio asked about the tip I got.

“Shouldn’t that be for you and me to share?” he asked. “It happened in my section of tables.”

I couldn’t believe his nerve.

I looked Horatio square in the eye and said, “It’s in my shirt pocket. Why don’t you stick your hand in there and take it.”

Only he never tried.

That same couple had me wrap up a pork chop for them to take home. It was a beautiful one that neither of them had even touched. I brought it back to their table, but they forgot it and left the bag behind.

Workers aren’t supposed to take food out of the restaurant for any reason. But I kept thinking how good that pork chop would taste on the bus ride to Cárdenas. So I hid it in a small alcove, beneath a wicker breadbasket. And when my shift was finally finished, I made sure no one was watching as I tucked it beneath my arm and headed out the kitchen door.

– – –

I turned the key in the lock. Then I stepped inside our apartment. Mama was sitting on the far end of the couch in her pink seashell bathrobe. There was a single lamp lit over her left shoulder. She had a newspaper spread open on her lap, reading it while she worked at her fingernails with a small file.

I figured my sister was already asleep in the bedroom.

“A pork chop from El Puente. No lecture, please,” I said, showing off the silver tinfoil like a prize before making a quick detour to put it into the fridge.

When I circled back, Mama had a serious look on her face. But it didn’t have anything to do with taking food from my job.

“Lola told me your name might stop you from becoming a Nacional.”

“Maybe. But my name didn’t hurt me tonight,” I said, taking the ten-peso note from my shirt pocket, then pulling it tight from opposite ends with a snap. “That photo I was posing for.”

I placed it on a small table beside some bills that needed to be paid, like rent and electricity. There was also a bill for the two cell phones the three of us shared, making calls only when it was something really important.

“Your father lives like a king while we struggle,” Mama said. “Sometimes I think money was the reason he defected.”

“Not baseball? Not a World Series ring?”

“He wants a ring? How about this one?” she asked, pointing to her gold wedding band. “Know why I still wear this?”

“No,” I answered, closing the distance between us.

“It’s all I have left,” she said, as her temper began to flare. “This way, I’m the wife of a sports hero who gave this government the middle finger for the whole world to see.”

“And without it?”

“Then I’m just the woman he abandoned.”

“He abandoned me and Lola, too.”

“But he’ll always be your father, no matter what,” Mama said. The newspaper fell to the floor as she stood up. “He won’t always be my husband. I’m not stupid, Julio. You’re old enough to hear this. The great El Fuego has not been alone for six years, not without a woman by his side—one probably ten years younger than me.”

I’d never heard her talk like that before, and now the shadows fell across her face.

“See these fingernails?” she asked, holding her hands out. “Maybe I can’t tell you the name of the woman he’s with. But I’m sure her nails aren’t chipped from cleaning hotel rooms and scrubbing toilets. They’re probably perfect and polished at a salon.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just knew that suddenly I was even angrier at Papi.

“You need to make your own life now. Take that money. It’s yours,” Mama said, becoming calmer and kissing me good night on the forehead. “Treat yourself to something nice. His name owes you that, for having to carry it this long.”

Then she went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

For almost a half hour, I paced the living room, cursing Papi to myself until I was too exhausted to keep going. Finally, I took the cushions off the couch and folded out the bed inside. Then I lay there for a while with the light on, staring up at every crack in the ceiling over my head.

3

BY SIX THIRTY a.m., I was on my feet again. The sunlight was just starting to push past the curtains as I packed up my baseball gear and got myself ready to go. Only I didn’t touch the tip money from the night before. And I didn’t go near the refrigerator either. Instead, I left that pork chop where it was, for my mother and sister, who were both still sleeping.

The team was meeting in the parking lot outside our field. That was more than a mile away. So I lugged my bike down the stairs. Then I tied my equipment bag to the back before I rode out into the street.

Almost all the cars on the road here are American, built in the 1950s—Chevrolet, Plymouth, Ford, and Dodge. They’re huge cars with wide bodies, fancy grilles, big headlights, and shining chrome everywhere. Some have windshields that wrap all the way around. Others have sleek fins or wings in the back, with long red taillights that make them look like rocket sleds ready to blast off.

It’s been that way since the US stopped selling cars to Cuba in 1962, to protest our government. It’s like living in some kind of time warp. We see modern sports cars like Porsches, Jaguars, and BMWs in contraband magazines and pirated DVDs of movies. Everyone here knows about them, what they look like. But I guess we’re supposed to pretend they don’t really exist. We know about the Chevy Nova, too. In Spanish, no va means “doesn’t go,” so we all thought that was pretty funny. But I don’t think anybody here would turn down a new car, no matter how stupid its name.

There aren’t any spare parts coming into Cuba either. That doesn’t matter. People here will use anything to keep their cars running, like leather belts that once held up pants and electric fuses from toasters. When cars break down totally, people keep them in their yards behind locked fences and make money selling off the parts one by one. And if I had known the police officers were going to confiscate Papi’s car, a 1958 Dodge Royal in good condition, I would have pulled out the brakes to sell and left those officers rolling off the road, straight into the surf.

Pedaling closer to the field, I saw a big yellow school bus parked in the lot. The morning sun was getting stronger, glistening off its roof. As I sped through the gate, I noticed the driver inside that bus walking the length of it, opening all the windows before it became a big metal hotbox. Lots of our players were already there, and more were arriving right behind me, by bike and on foot. Just one other vehicle was there. It was a Russian-made car and almost like new, maybe from the 1980s. There was no doubt it was for the top tier of the Junior Nacional coaches to ride in.

Uncle Ramon was standing inside a small circle of those coaches, talking. His back was to me. Just to his right, I could see the bloated face of Coach Moyano, the one responsible for picking the players. Moyano was short and overweight, wearing pants that were baggy enough for two people to use as a tent on a camping trip. I’d seen him a dozen or more times. The bottom half of his eyelids were always puffed out, like he’d never had a good night’s sleep in his life. And except for the red Nacionales cap on his head, you probably would have figured him for a butcher or a sanitation worker before a baseball coach.

I was getting off my bike and resting it against a fence when Moyano’s eyes settled sharply on mine. I felt like he was looking right through me, judging me inside and out, as he chomped away on an unlit cigar. From the corner of his mouth, he spit a stream of brown saliva onto the ground. Then he said something, and Uncle Ramon turned to look in my direction. That’s when I quickly turned away from them both.

A few feet away from me, Luis was lying flat on his back on the paved asphalt. His eyes were closed, his bag beneath his head as a pillow. He was surrounded by six or seven of our teammates, looking equally exhausted after a night of partying. Only most of them were up on their feet.

“Junior,” said one of our guys, reaching out to connect his fist with mine. “I’m glad our best player looks like he’s ready to swing for the fences right now.”

“You could wake me up in the middle of the night to hit. I wouldn’t care,” I said, bringing my hands and wrists together in front of me, as if I were gripping a bat. “But listen, no more ‘Junior.’ From now on it’s just Julio.”

“Got it,” he said, before lowering his voice to nearly a whisper. “Man, if you’re not picked starting shortstop for the Nacionales, it’s a crime.”

I didn’t say a word back. But I extended my fist one more time to bump with his again.

“Hey, Cuz,” Luis called up to me from the ground. “My pop didn’t want to leave his car here overnight. So we walked all the way. Guess who carried the equipment?”

“Don’t have to guess,” I answered. “The sweat stains by your armpits say you were the donkey—Uncle’s little burrito.”

“That should be my official position on this team,” he said, smiling. “You know it’s true.”

Uncle Ramon was twice as hard on Luis as on any other player. He had to be. That way the other guys didn’t resent Luis being an all-star. In fact, Luis got less playing time than anyone. And his was usually the first name out of my uncle’s mouth whenever he needed somebody to take a bucket and gather up over a hundred loose baseballs in the outfield.

The day he picked Luis as part of the team to represent Matanzas, Uncle Ramon had told me in private, “A father needs to do this for his son—find a way to keep him by his side. Right or wrong, that’s a father’s job.”

That struck a raw nerve in me. And I went home feeling more jealous of their relationship than I could ever remember.

The driver started up the bus with a ggrrrr-rrrr-rrr. Then the doors folded open and players began piling inside. I gave Luis a hand, pulling him to his feet. Beneath him, on the gray asphalt, he’d left behind a damp imprint of his body that the sun was already starting to fade.

As I climbed the bus’s steps, a dark-skinned man with a bushy mustache and goatee, sitting in the driver’s spot, turned up the volume on a boom box jammed between the dashboard and his seat.

“Muchachos, my name is Paulo. It’s fifty-three miles to Cárdenas,” he bellowed down the rows of seats with a big grin, as salsa music drowned out the sound of the engine. “There’s no bathroom on this bus. So take care of your personal business now, before it becomes my business.”

“We pee out the window!” somebody called out.

Everyone cracked up laughing, including Paulo.

“If you do, be very careful,” Paulo replied, without missing a beat. “Birds are hungry to eat little inchworms this time of the morning.”

That got an even bigger laugh. Suddenly, it seemed like no one was interested in sleeping anymore. I parked myself by a window in the row right behind Luis. On the open seat next to me, I put my bag with all of my baseball gear. That’s when I noticed Uncle Ramon walking toward the bus, while that car with Moyano and the other coaches inside was pulling out of the lot.

“I must be loco to want to ride in this hunk of junk instead of that air-conditioned dream,” announced Uncle Ramon as he climbed aboard. “But I just love to be around baseball players.”

That got a huge cheer, and even Paulo raised his voice in approval.

Then, as the bus jerked forward, I looked out the window and saw that Luis’s imprint on the asphalt was almost gone. As we rolled to the gate, I realized the chain on my bike was unlocked. I didn’t want to cry out like a baby for the bus to stop. I just hoped the bike would still be there, with its handlebar stuck through the chain-link fence, when I got back.

Since those Nacional coaches had been hanging around, kids were careful whenever they talked about El Fuego being in the World Series. They didn’t want to be overheard glorifying a traitor, hurting their own chances of being picked for the junior traveling team. But with Moyano and his crew out of earshot, and Uncle Ramon riding with us, the conversation turned to that subject fast.

“I heard it might be raining at Yankee Stadium. That the game tonight could get postponed,” said one of our players.

I tapped at the transistor radio in my pocket, making sure it was still there.

“It would have to be enough rain for Noah and his ark,” replied another player. “That’s a World Series game you’re talking about.”

“Tonight’s game is a huge one,” said Uncle Ramon. “One team is going to take a two-to-one lead in the Series.”

“Still, it’s not Game Seven. When it’s tied up, three to three,” said our left-handed pitcher, who stood in the aisle mimicking Papi’s windup, “that one’s for all the marbles. Everything. With the whole world watching.”

Then he followed through, releasing an invisible baseball in my direction.

My heart jumped a little as I almost put my hands up to catch it.

“Imagine making millions of US dollars to play,” our pitcher added. “Money. Freedom. Baseball. That’s the life.”

I let that sink deep inside of me. Meanwhile, a steady hummm vibrated up through the wheels and into my seat as we passed over the metal grating of the bridge, leaving Matanzas. Out the window, I could see the river below. And without a shred of wind, the blue water looked smooth as glass, with the bus’s yellow reflection sailing across.

“It’s not about the money. I guarantee it,” responded Uncle Ramon. “I used to be El Fuego’s catcher, before there was any money or fame. That was when we played for pride on fields littered with broken bottles, in shorts and T-shirts. We were both crazy for the game. Anyone here know what they call the catcher’s equipment—the mask, shin guards, chest protector?”

“I know,” answered Manuel, our catcher. “Tools of ignorance.”

“That’s right—because you take an unholy beating back there. You have to be half-stupid to even want to play the position,” said Uncle Ramon, knocking a fist against his own skull, before displaying his two crooked pinkies. “You break fingers, block pitches in the dirt with your chest, and take foul tips off every part of your body. And don’t even think about going behind the plate without wearing a cup to protect your jewels.”

“I got hit there once,” said Manuel, cringing a little bit. “Even with a cup it hurts.”

“But catchers know the game better than anybody, because we see the whole field in front of us,” said Uncle Ramon. “I used to start out to the mound in the middle of an inning, to tell El Fuego what I was thinking. He’d wave me off, saying, ‘The only thing you know about pitching is that you can’t hit it.’”

“What did you say back?” asked Manuel.

“Nothing. He was my older brother,” answered Uncle Ramon. “But there was one league game when an umpire from Havana was squeezing the strike zone on him really bad, calling all of El Fuego’s pitches on the corner of the plate balls. I turned around to look at him and that umpire says, ‘I’ll tell you what a strike is and what’s not. Look at me again and you’re ejected.’”

“What happened?” asked one of our players.

“The next pitch, I called for one high and outside, just above my right shoulder, where that umpire was squatting behind me. At first El Fuego shook me off. But I called for it a second time, until he finally nodded his head,” said Uncle Ramon. “He put that pitch exactly where I asked for it—his best fastball. Then I lowered my mitt a few inches.”

Luis glanced back at me. We’d heard this story plenty of times growing up.

“The pitch hit that bastard in the middle of his mask—ping,” said Uncle Ramon. “Knocked him out cold.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Manuel asked, excitedly.

“They called us both to appear in front of the local sports commissioner. Right after the game, before we could get our stories straight,” he continued. “El Fuego said it was his fault. That he crossed me up by reading my signals wrong. That I was expecting a curveball. The commissioner screamed at us for twenty minutes. Then he let us go with just a warning. My brother was pissed at me for a few hours, for causing all that trouble. But later on, he slapped my back and said, ‘Screw that umpire for trying to take away what’s mine. He got exactly what he deserved.’ We laughed the rest of the night over it.”

Papi’s version of that story wasn’t exactly the same as Uncle Ramon remembered it. Some of the facts of who did what were a little different. Only the conclusion didn’t change: nobody would ever again take away what belonged to El Fuego.

4

MORE THAN AN hour later, we reached Cárdenas. The bus rolled along the coastline, past rocky beaches, the bay, and empty docks where fishing boats had probably been out on the water since before sunrise.

Then our driver, Paulo, turned the wheel inland, into the countryside. On his lap, he began unfolding a paper map until it looked like there was no way on earth it could ever become a neat rectangle again. Eventually, we pulled up to a baseball field behind an old boarding school with a one-story, flat-roofed dormitory.

The Nacional coaches, including Moyano, who was still chomping on that unlit cigar, were already there, waiting beside their car.

“This is it—the place where you’re going to make your mark,” Luis said to me. “Outplay those other shortstops for a spot on the junior team.”

“How about you?” I asked, as Paulo brought us to a stop and the bus’s doors opened with a belch of air. “What are you going to do here?”

“Maybe play a few innings. Catch some rays in the outfield,” he answered with a widening grin. “Then hit the beach in my uniform top. Impress the local senoritas. That’s my plan—like a little vacation.”

Uncle Ramon was the first one off the bus. He was talking with those big shots while the rest of us unloaded the gear and gathered outside. A few dark clouds were hanging low in the sky over our heads, covering up the sun.

A moment later, Moyano, with his hand on Uncle Ramon’s shoulder, spoke to us. “When this tournament is over tomorrow, some of you will be playing for me as Nacionales,” said Moyano, through the chewed-up cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Other teams are here from Cárdenas, Santa Clara, and Puerto Padre. They’re your competition. We only want the best of the best. Cuba’s best. Our proudest. I won’t accept anything less. You know who you are. How you have to perform. You only let yourselves down when you fail, because we’ll find someone hungrier to take your place. Remember that. Now your coach will give you instructions.”

As a sprinkle of rain began to fall, Uncle Ramon cleared his throat and stepped forward from Moyano’s grasp.

“Dormitory number four, that’s ours. It’s two players to a room. Breakfast is in the cafeteria, and then we’re on the field for practice at eleven o’clock. We play Puerto Padre at twelve thirty. I’ll post the lineup inside our dugout soon.”

He seemed to be done talking, so most of us started toward the dorms, including me. Then Uncle Ramon spoke again and my feet came to a halt, gripping the gravel below them.

“For lots of you, this is a dream. But it’s a dream that can slip away with age faster than you think. I know all about that,” he said, touching a few gray hairs around his temple. “Don’t let this chance pass you by without a fight. Approach it with passion. At least then you’ll always be able to live with yourself, no matter what the outcome. Now, go prepare yourselves.”

Walking to the dorms, I felt a kind of electricity revving up and pulsing through me from Uncle Ramon’s words. And I could feel that same energy jumping off most of my teammates.

As another raindrop tapped my forehead, I separated myself from the others by falling back a little bit. Then, instead of entering the dorm, I walked behind a large wooden shed filled with gardening tools. I looked around in every direction. When I was sure no one could see me, I took the transistor radio out from my pocket.

I wanted to know about the weather for the World Series.

The reception from the US stations during the day isn’t nearly as good as at night. It’s constantly cutting in and out. So I pressed the blue plastic radio with the black dials up against my ear, struggling to hear.

Nightly forecast . . . intermittent showers . . . Yankee Stadium . . . Game Three of the Series . . . tied at one . . . the visiting Miami Marlins . . . under way at eight . . . clearing later tonight . . . now a word from . . . all your lumber and hardware needs. . . .

– – –

Luis and I shared a tiny room with two single beds in it. They were perfectly made up, covered in worn-out comforters and pillowcases. A see-through plastic tub, to store belongings, peeked out from the floor beneath each one. There was a nightstand with a lamp on it between the beds. And the one bathroom was down the hall for the entire team to use.

I thought of the fancy hotel suite that Papi was probably staying in, after arriving in New York on the Marlins’ private jet. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of wanting to trade places.

My cousin grabbed the bed closest to the door.

“Sometimes I need to go in the middle of the night,” he said. “This’ll make it easier. I won’t wake you.”

“That’s fine,” I said, pulling the tub out from under my bed. “This is better than sleeping on a foldout couch. That’s all I care about.”

Before Luis unpacked, he put a small framed photo of his mother, Blanca, on the nightstand. He crossed himself. Then, with a click of the lamp, the warm, bright light shone on her face.

Nobody expected my aunt to die. She was completely healthy before getting pneumonia. The doctors said my aunt was so strong that she’d walked around with it for two weeks doing her normal chores—laundry, cooking, a weekend shift in the sugarcane refinery. So when the phone call came from the hospital that Aunt Blanca had died, none of us believed it. We thought there had to be some mistake. But there wasn’t.

I swear, Luis cried for a week straight. His eyes would water everywhere—home, church, the funeral, and school. And it didn’t look like he had one bit of shame over it either. When Papi left, I cried a lot, too. Only I wouldn’t do it in front of anyone. I didn’t even want people to see that my eyes were red.

Since then, we’ve had plenty of sleepovers together, both at my house and his. Luis would always say his prayers before bed. Like a little kid, he’d get on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him and close his eyes. Then his mouth would move with no sound coming out, until he was finished. I never poked fun at him over it. I’d just stay quiet and try to be respectful.

“My son has faith in his prayers,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “I quit praying a long time ago. I believe God already knows what we want. Why should I bother Him? I’ll work on those things myself.”

I stopped believing in a lot of things when Papi turned his back on us. And if I ever have any praying to do, I save it for when I’m rounding third base, hoping to be safe at home plate.

– – –

The cafeteria was packed with more than a hundred players and coaches. We were stuck in a long line of people holding red plastic trays and moving slowly between two silver rails along a glass counter. Older women wearing paper hats that looked like sailboats were serving breakfast. There were scrambled eggs and bacon, waffles, cold cereal, fruit, and tostada—toasted bread—to dunk in milk or café con leche.

I’d been drinking coffee for a few years, and liked it most in the morning.

“That stuff’s nasty,” said Luis as I poured myself a cup. “Too bitter.”

“Stick to chocolate milk, little boy,” I needled him. “When you’re ready to put some hair on your chest, I’ll let you try some of this.”

“I’ve had it before. Makes me jumpy. I’m hyper enough,” he said, biting into a strip of bacon as we moved forward. “But I like coffee ice cream.”

As we came off the line, the cafeteria looked like it was divided into four separate camps. That’s because the all-star teams were sitting at their own tables, dressed in different colored uniforms. But there were only three players who weren’t from Matanzas who had my attention. Those were the other shortstops I was in competition with. The most important one was Chico López from Puerto Padre, our opponent that afternoon. He was a show-off with a big ego. They called him “Matador,” because he used his glove like a bullfighter wields a cape. He tried to make even the most routine plays look flashy that way. And on his feet he wore a pair of spikes painted gold, just to stand out.

Once I reached our section of tables, my eyes went searching for Matador.

Only his eyes found me first.

“Behind you, coming off the breakfast line,” Luis said, tapping my shoulder. “That hotdogger’s looking right at you.”

His gold spikes were hanging around his neck like a pair of boxing gloves. And the closer he got, the more his eyes riveted onto mine.

“That’s a challenge if I ever saw one,” said Luis, sounding insulted. “A challenge to my family.”

“Calm down. He’s grilling me, not you.”

Matador stopped a few feet from our table.

“All those millions and your pop can’t buy you a decent pair of shoes,” he said, spying my beat-up cleats on the floor beside me while balancing his tray on the fingertips of one hand. “What a pity.”

Luis cursed at him. But I just focused on the black pupils of his brown eyes.

“Nope, no Nike shoes,” I said, dunking bread into my coffee. “Just that glove I wear. You want to try it on one day? See if it fits?”

He sucked his teeth at me with a sharp thhh and walked off.

“Want me to knock that tray out of his pretty little hands? I will,” steamed Luis. “I’ve got nothing to lose. They suspend me, I’ll have more time for the beach.”

“That’s tough talk coming from somebody with a chocolate milk mustache,” I said.

Then I stared down Luis until he was almost forced to smile.

“Let Matador run his mouth,” I said, poking my eggs with a plastic fork. “He doesn’t understand how much it motivates me. None of them do, especially those coaches for the Nacionales.”

After breakfast, we all grabbed our gear and headed for the field house. We changed in a damp locker room, behind and a few steps below our third-base dugout.

I looked into the one mirror there, tightening the belt on my red uniform with the green crocodile swinging a baseball bat. Then I pulled my cap down low over my eyes.

“Crocodiles, let’s take the field together!” shouted Uncle Ramon from the doorway, with a clap of his hands. “One team! One mind! Matanzas!”

We moved through a short hall, with our spikes scratching the floor, and then into the dugout. That’s when I first caught sight of the field. Maybe it was something that had been building up inside of me, begging to be released—the pressure, the anger. I wasn’t sure. But for a moment, seeing that field was like walking out into a brand-new world. Every dark cloud in the sky had burned off beneath the sun. The grass was the brightest green I’d ever seen, still glistening from the rain. There wasn’t a single rock or even a pebble on the base paths. And I didn’t know how a baseball could ever take a bad hop on a diamond that perfect.

So I stepped out onto the grass. It was cut about an inch high all the way across in two different directions, looking like a checkerboard. The soft cushion felt great beneath my feet. It reminded me of walking on the thick carpet in the hotel lobby where Mama worked.

I decided to loosen up my legs by jogging in the outfield. Soon Luis was running beside me. The outfield fences were a few feet lower than the ones back home.

“I love these low fences. Watch this,” said Luis, increasing his speed.

Luis headed straight for the fence in full stride. Then he planted his foot at the bottom and scaled it with a flying leap. He threw his arm way over the top, as if he were bringing a home run back into the park.

“I could have jumped right over if I wanted,” said Luis, grinning and hanging on top of the fence by his armpit.

He seemed so happy to be up there, I went sprinting for that fence myself. Then I leaped and took flight, joining him. The two of us just hung there for a while, laughing and looking over both sides. It wasn’t until Uncle Ramon called the team together for fielding practice that I even thought about coming down.

I put my glove on and took about twenty ground balls at shortstop, firing a half dozen of them over to first base. A few minutes later, Uncle Ramon walked to the mound to pitch batting practice. So I raced into the dugout to grab a bat and take my swings. Pinned to the wall was the starting lineup. In the leadoff spot, Uncle Ramon had written my name in thick black marker.

PLAYER POS.

1. Ramirez Jr. SS

As I stepped back outside with a bat on my shoulder, I heard my name—“Julio!”—and clapping from the stands. Maybe forty or fifty people were already there, watching practice and waiting for the first game to begin. The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Following the echo of the last few claps, I saw it was Uncle Ramon’s friend Gabriel. He was wearing a flower-print shirt, shorts, sandals, and sunglasses. And I couldn’t help thinking he looked as out of place there as that fat slob Moyano did being a baseball coach.

5

SOON IT WAS Matador and his Puerto Padre teammates’ turn on the field. I sat in our dugout watching him take ground balls. The growing crowd in the stands was really into it. There were oohs and aahs every time he flashed leather, and even I was impressed with his glove.

Then Matador finally booted a ball, trying to be too slick.

“Why are your spikes yellow? So you can have some mustard on that hot dog?” Luis, who wasn’t in our starting lineup, shouted. “I hope that one tasted good!”

The players on our bench loved that remark.

“Bueno,” said Uncle Ramon, clapping quietly. “I knew there was a reason I picked you for this team, son.”

Luis was grinning from ear to ear. Matador glanced into our dugout, spitting sunflower seeds from his mouth and pointing to the ground with his middle finger. Most of our guys were pissed at that. So was I. Only I kept my expression blank, not wanting to show any emotion or get involved in that nonsense.

After the players from Puerto Padre took batting practice, a professional-looking grounds crew came onto the field. I guess they worked for Moyano and the Nacionales. They used a bucket of chalk dust to mark the lines between fair and foul territory, and a rigid template to draw the batter’s box. Then they cleaned the footprints from all the bases and home plate, leaving them sparkling white. Their work was almost perfect, except for a few inches down the right-field line. That’s where their straight line bent a bit, becoming uneven. None of the coaches or players complained about it. But I saw it plain as day, and deep down, it really bothered me.

Uncle Ramon went out to home plate, to meet with the umpires and exchange lineup cards with the coach from Puerto Padre. For some reason Moyano was out there, too. That blowhard was dominating the conversation. And everyone there seemed to be listening intently, as if all of the baseballs in Cuba belonged to him.

A few minutes later, Puerto Padre took the field. A bunch of younger kids marched out in their school uniforms. One of the boys held the Cuban flag and two others had drums hanging from their necks. The instant they started to beat the rhythm of our national anthem, everyone took off their caps and hats. Then those kids started singing. So did lots of people. I just moved my mouth without any words really coming out.

“Hasten to battle . . . do not fear a glorious death . . .”

My mind was mostly on the game. But for a few seconds, I thought about how Papi took his cap off now to the US anthem and sometimes the Canadian one whenever the Marlins played there.

Our anthem was written by a general during a war. Eventually, he was captured by the Spanish, and he sang it while they lined him up in front of a firing squad.

“To live in chains is to live in dishonor . . . hear the call of the bugle . . . hasten, brave ones . . .”

When the singing was finished I stuffed my cap into my back pocket. Then I put on a protective batting helmet.

I moved closer to the plate, taking a few practice swings with a weighted donut on my bat. It was like whipping around a heavy tree branch. But once I popped that donut off, my swing felt lightning-fast.

“Be a hitter, Julio,” said Uncle Ramon, coaching third base.

Their pitcher took his final warm-up toss before I stepped into the batter’s box. Digging my heels into the dirt, I purposely wiped out the chalk line behind me. That way I could plant my back foot where I wanted, and not be trapped inside that small space.

No pitcher wants to begin the game by falling behind in the count. So I was sure he’d throw me a first-pitch strike. I stayed loose and relaxed during his windup, zoning in as the ball escaped his hand.

With that pitch halfway to home plate, time seemed to slow down. I could see the baseball clearly—the white covering and every red stitch across its seams. An instant later, I heard the crack of the ball off my wooden bat. It was slicing over the second baseman, heading for the gap between center and right field.

Sprinting down the first-base line, a split second before I made the turn toward second base, I heard a horn blow from the stands, maybe a trumpet or a bugle. The sound of it jolted me forward a step. Picking up my head, I saw that the right fielder had cut off the ball. But the decision inside my head was already made for me.

The voices and crowd noise filled my ears as I streaked for second, reaching with every stride.

“Rápido! Rápido!”

A few feet from the bag, I dove headfirst, with my arms out in front. I went sliding through the dirt until I was almost swimming in it.

My hands grabbed the base before Matador slapped his tag on my shoulder.

I stood up as fast as I could, even taller than Matador now with that base safely beneath me. Then I smacked the front of my uniform clean, creating a cloud of dirt that settled on Matador’s gold spikes.

That’s when that horn in the crowd blew again.

My eyes searched the stands, trying to find it. There were probably close to four hundred people there now. It sounded like it was coming from where Gabriel was. Only I could see that he didn’t have one.

The next batter ripped a base hit into the right-field corner, more than a foot inside that crooked foul line. I steamed around third base with Uncle Ramon’s right arm spinning like a windmill to urge me on. I scored the game’s first run and didn’t slow up until three strides past home plate.

Waiting on the top step of the dugout, Luis was the first one to give me a high five.

“That’s how to start things,” he said as I plopped myself down on the bench, trying to catch my breath.

My heart jumped at another blast from that horn. Only I was too winded to get up and see where it was coming from.

We scored two more runs that inning to take a 3–0 lead.

In the bottom of the first, Matador came to the plate for Puerto Padre. He was a slap hitter who choked up on the bat with a tight, white-knuckled grip. He’d step partly out of the batter’s box after every pitch and go through his usual routine. First he’d tap at his gold spikes with the bat. Then he’d lean back and readjust his helmet. Finally, he’d hold his hand up to the umpire to show that he wasn’t ready yet, while he reset his stance.

“That whole show of his is about calling attention to himself,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “If Matador ever tried that with your father on the mound, he’d get drilled in the rib cage with a fastball.”

Matador chopped down on the ball, sending a two-hopper my way. I could see him motoring down the line. I knew I had to charge the ball and get to it as quickly as possible. The thick grass slowed it up, and I was running out of time. So I made the decision to forget about my glove and barehand the ball. It spun sharply into my palm, biting at my skin. Then I positioned my fingers around the seams and, in one motion, gunned the ball to first on a frozen rope.

I heard the pop of the first baseman’s mitt an instant before those gold spikes hit the bag. I was already smiling in Uncle Ramon’s direction when the umpire called Matador out. If there’s anything Papi handed down to me, it’s this cannon I have for an arm. But for the next few minutes, inside my right hand I could see and feel the imprint from the stitches on that ball.

I came to bat in the next inning with two runners on base. Puerto Padre’s pitcher had been getting roughed up, and I could see how angry he was. Matador called something to him, too low for me to hear.

It didn’t take long, though, for me to guess what he’d said. Not after the first pitch knocked me back off the plate with a whistle. It was chin music, meant to make me start thinking instead of reacting. Only I wouldn’t bend to anything like that, and just dug my heels in even deeper. I slammed his next pitch over the center fielder’s head, up against the wall Luis and I had climbed.

There was no hesitation as I rounded first. I was intent on at least a triple. Hitting second base, I was in full flight as I passed Matador, who’d drifted into the outfield, waiting for a relay throw.

Flying for third, my head rose up and the breeze took my helmet off. As I felt it go and saw Uncle Ramon giving me the stop sign—to come in standing up without having to slide—I dropped my hands behind my back, catching my helmet before it hit the ground.

Confidence was soaring through me. I stood on third base like I owned it, as if no one could ever take it away. Not Matador. Not an umpire. Not even Moyano. I felt like Superman in a baseball uniform. Then Uncle Ramon pointed to the helmet in my hands. I wanted to toss it aside. Only something in me thought better of it. I spread the earflaps wide and put it back on my head.

Three innings later, we were leading 9–0 when Matador came to bat with two outs and the bases loaded. I wanted to whisper to our pitcher to drill him in the ribs. But that would have given Puerto Padre their first run. And I liked looking at their row of goose eggs on the scoreboard.

Instead, I pounded a fist into my glove, keeping ready on my toes.

The next pitch was a mistake. It was a slider, left up and out over the middle of the plate. I swear I saw Matador’s eyes light up as his bat rushed forward. He hit a lined shot headed straight for me.

It was rising in a hurry and I had just a fraction of a second to set my feet.

I leaped straight up into the air.

I was up so high I would have believed there were springs on the bottom of my shoes and not spikes.

My left elbow nearly came out of its socket as I thrust my arm skyward, with only my glove to trust in. The ball caught the very top of the webbing, and I squeezed my fingers. I crashed to the ground with my arm still in the air, away from my body. Then I heard a roar from the crowd. The bottom half of the ball had stuck inside my glove, with the top half peeking out. It looked like an ice-cream cone. And I gently carried it that way to our dugout as my teammates slapped me on the back to celebrate.

“This is for you,” I said to Luis. “Here’s that ice cream you wanted.”

It looked like Uncle Ramon was putting him into the game, because he had a helmet on and a bat in his hands. Luis stuck his tongue out and took a big pretend lick.

“Thanks, Primo,” he said. “Tastes even better knowing who you robbed for it.”

Then Uncle Ramon, with a face as serious as a stone statue’s, took the ball and glove from my hand. I thought he might be taking me out of the game. But that wasn’t it.

“Someone wants to speak to you,” he said, pointing to the hall that led to the locker room behind our dugout. “Go now. See what it is.”

All I could think was that even Superman had Kryptonite to worry about. So I took a deep breath and a hesitant step in that direction, trading a sparkling baseball diamond for the shadows inside that doorway.

6

I DESCENDED SOME stairs and turned the corner into the damp locker room. No light was on. But several small streams of sunlight were seeping in through the slatted wall, from the field outside.

In the center of the room, Moyano was sitting on a tabletop. His stubby legs, dangling beneath him, didn’t even reach the floor.

“Junior, please enter,” he said, drenched in shadows. “We need to have some conversation.”

“My name’s Julio,” I replied, adding more bass to my voice so it would carry in that near-empty room.

“Of course it is. Just like your papi’s.”

Moyano’s fingers struck the side of the table. The next moment, they seemed to be on fire. Then I saw him cup the long wooden match inside his hands and finally light the cigar that had been in his mouth since we’d left Matanzas.

“I understand you want to represent Cuba, as a Nacional,” he said, through a cloud of smoke that was already drifting in my direction. “Give me a good reason. Why should that be?”

“Because I’m the best shortstop my age,” I answered, with more emotion than I was comfortable with. “Baseball’s my life. I live it, breathe it.”

“I can sympathize. This game is my life as well,” he said. “Not playing, but assembling a team that brings our leaders glory. That also includes choosing players who will safeguard them from embarrassment and shame—the kind your traitor father brought upon them.”

I wanted to charge Moyano right there, knocking him off that table and onto his fat ass. It was all right for me to think and feel anything I wanted about Papi. I didn’t want to hear a negative word about my own flesh and blood from that ugly toad.

But I understood that he basically held my future in his hands. That’s when I steadied myself, thinking this might be part of some test, to see how I’d react.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I decided to keep quiet.

“You must have felt that shame. At how he abandoned you, your family,” he said, turning his eyes, with their bulging lower lids, toward my locker. “Look at your clothes hanging there. How old are they? How many times has your mama used a needle and thread on those pants? I know your father doesn’t dress that shabby. You don’t look like a millionaire’s son.”

The smoke from his cigar reached me, and I could feel a burning inside my nostrils.

“If you become one of my players, I’ll dress you. You’ll be wearing a uniform that I give you. I’ll be your new papi.”

I didn’t want to charge Moyano anymore. Instead, I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands. That way he’d never open his mouth again.

“Maybe you’re listening to him pitch in the World Series,” he said. “I’ve heard that a few players from Matanzas still have some misguided pride in El Fuego.”

I shook my head no. I’d been smart enough to leave my transistor radio in the dorm room, beneath the mattress of my bed.

Suddenly, the locker room rattled with the stamping of feet from our dugout. We were probably scoring more runs, and I could hear the echo of Uncle Ramon’s voice cheering the team on.

“It’s hurt him, too, you know—your uncle,” said Moyano.

“What has?”

“Your papi’s actions,” he answered. “He’s a good coach. Maybe even Nacional material. But he can never be trusted to travel off this island. Could be he disappears while we’re playing in Amsterdam or Japan. Why not? His wife is already dead.”

I couldn’t believe he was talking about Aunt Blanca that way, as if her death was just another circumstance for him to make decisions.

“Maybe El Fuego sends someone for him. Ramon decides to leave his son behind. It happens. True?” he continued on, like I was a pincushion for his jabs. “I enjoy my job. I can’t risk those things, not for a coach.”

That remark started me thinking. In my mind, that meant there was a chance Moyano might risk it for a player, a star shortstop.

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 something 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.

8

FROM HIS CHAIR, Uncle Ramon kicked his shoes off and dug his feet deep into the sand.

“Your papi was able to get a sum of money into Cuba through a Canadian turista,” he said, as the smell of swordfish filtered through the salty air. “That money was given to Gabriel.”

I was pissed. My family had struggled for every peso, just to meet the bills. No wonder Gabriel could afford steaks like these.

“Why?” I demanded. “How come our money went to him?”

“So Gabriel can get us out of Cuba,” Uncle Ramon replied, before popping the top on a can of soda with a tsssp.

Those words seemed to hang in the air for a moment—get us out of Cuba.

I only felt the weight of them when Luis grabbed hold of my arm and gasped, “Holy crap.”

My heart began beating harder and harder inside my chest, and I had to actually think about taking my next breath.

“And that’s his payment?” I asked, hoping to steady myself.

“Payment?” repeated Gabriel, turning the steaks on the grill with a long metal fork. “No. There’s nothing for me. That money covered the entire cost of building—”

“Look! Down the beach!” interrupted Luis. “Police!”

There were two officers on a motorcycle with a sidecar. It had three wide wheels, meant to power its way over the sandy shore. They were slowly making their way from the far end of the beach toward where we’d camped.

“Just act naturally. Remember the truth: you’re baseball players from Matanzas celebrating a victory over Puerto Padre. Nothing more,” instructed Gabriel. “Besides, I know these two, what they’re all about.”

“You know them?” asked Luis.

“I make it my business to,” answered Gabriel, through the smoke from the barbecue.

The policemen rolled past the families and kids without any interest. But they took a long glance at the two girls reading on their blankets. They seemed about to pass us, too, before Gabriel called out to them, “Officers! A moment, please!”

I shot Uncle Ramon a concerned look, already feeling the sweat on my palms.

“I’ve learned to trust him,” Uncle Ramon said quietly, barely moving his lips. “There’s no other way.”

Gabriel took one of the steaks on a paper plate down to the officers, who were maybe ten yards from the water. They had some conversation. Then one of the officers gave us a thumbs-up and called out, “I used to play baseball myself.”

A minute later, they were gone with their steak.

“They’ll pass this way again in a few hours, just before sundown,” said Gabriel, who’d walked back to us. “Their last patrol of the day. That’s when we’ll be packing up.”

“We’re going to sit here that long?” asked Luis. “And do what? Talk?”

“How much of this does my mama know?” I asked Uncle Ramon.

“She knows enough,” he answered. “That there’s a plan, and that it’s happening sooner rather than later.”

“How soon?” I asked.

“Tonight,” answered Gabriel, handing me a steaming plate of fish.

“What about her and Lola?”

“Your mother thinks the trip is too dangerous for Lola,” answered Uncle Ramon. “And she won’t leave her daughter behind. Your sister knows nothing of it.”

“They’re both staying?” I asked.

“Your mother’s made her choice,” my uncle said. “Now you need to make one.”

“How about me?” asked Luis.

“I’m your father,” said Uncle Ramon. “You go where I go, and we’re leaving Cuba.”

Luis nodded his head, taking a plate of his own.

I turned to my cousin and said, “Besides, you don’t want to be the son of a defector.”

Then Uncle Ramon looked at us both and said, “I’m sorry about all the deceptions, for keeping you in the dark so long. But the fewer people who knew, the better our chance of making it this far without being arrested.”

“Papi’s money,” I repeated to myself in disgust.

“I know you’re angry at him, Julio. But your papi does love you. He wants you to be free,” said Uncle Ramon, peeling off a chunk of fish with his fingers. “And if you decide to stay, well, Moyano will know that he can trust you. He’ll make you a Nacional for sure.”

With all of that churning inside my stomach, Gabriel sat down, making four of us in a tight, seated circle.

“Before we make any decisions, let me be honest with you boys. Tell you what I know of a journey like this one,” Gabriel said. “When I was eight years old, from this beach, I boarded a raft for the US.”

My uncle stopped him and said, “If it’s too painful, you don’t need to go through all the details again.”

“Thank you, amigo,” said Gabriel, who took a deep breath before he continued. “Both my parents were dead and my grandfather was getting too old to take care of me. Our neighbors were planning an escape. It wasn’t much of a raft, just wood and rubber tied together with ropes. They made oars from fish boxes. My grandfather gave them the rubber from some old car tires he had. So they agreed to take me along. There were eight of us—three grown men, two young women, one very old woman who could barely walk, me, and their family dog. Before the trip, we all went to church together.”

“To pray?” asked Luis.

“Yes,” he answered. “The priest even gave me my first Communion—the body and blood. As soon as it got dark, we put the raft into the water. The moon was cut like a sickle—thin and sharp. Everything went smoothly that night. But the next morning, instead of sun, there were black storm clouds and ripping winds. First, our food and water got washed overboard. Then, piece by piece, the raft started to come apart.”

A pair of kids chasing each other, kicking up sand behind them, did a close lap around our camp.

“Hey, watch it!” Luis hollered. “Keep—”

Uncle Ramon stopped Luis cold, showing him a single finger over his lips, followed by a long look.

Gabriel resumed his story. “We all huddled in the middle of the raft. At some point, the dog spotted something in the water and jumped in after it. I heard him barking for a while. But I never saw that dog again. The others tied the old woman and me to the raft. The waves pounded us. I couldn’t open my eyes. They were stinging from all the salt water. When the sun finally came out and the waters calmed, there were only five of us left. Over the next eight or ten hours we floated in the middle of nowhere. Then the raft broke apart even more. I was clinging to the old woman. She was dizzy by that point, seeing things that weren’t there. The others each had their own section of raft. We were floating within fifty yards of each other when we heard an engine in the distance. It was a boat. Unfortunately, it was Cuban.”

“So they brought you back here,” I said.

“They did, to the docks in Cárdenas,” he answered. “But before they pulled us from the water, the old woman asked me about the boat. ‘Who is it?’ she wanted to know. I’d already recognized the flag on its side. All I said to her was, ‘We’re saved.’”

“What did they do to you all?” I asked.

“The surviving adults went to prison. I got sent to an orphanage and never saw my grandfather again,” answered Gabriel, setting down his plate in the sand. “The old woman, I believe she died happy, because she never made it back to shore.”

“For almost thirty years now, Gabriel has worked as a fisherman in these waters,” said Uncle Ramon. “He knows these currents like the back of his hand—where they run, how swiftly they can change.”

“And thanks to El Fuego, now I have a vessel of my own to captain,” added Gabriel. “One that will hopefully sail us to freedom.”

I stood up and silently walked down to the shoreline, alone. I stared at the northern horizon, that distant point where the water and sky touch. I thought about what it would take to reach it. To be in a place where the higher-ups in Cuba didn’t have control over me. Would it be worth maybe never seeing Mama and Lola again? Would it be worth risking my life?

For all his tough talk on the pitcher’s mound, Papi never risked his life for freedom. He walked through a revolving door in a hotel lobby and into a waiting car. But now he wanted me to take a chance on practically swimming to Miami.

I dropped my eyes down to the whitecaps, watching them roll all the way to shore. One after another, they turned to foam on the beach until they disappeared back into the surf. And after a minute or two, my heartbeat seemed to be in sync with the rhythm of the breaking waves.

At the water’s edge, there was a horseshoe crab turned upside down. It was stuck on its back. Its legs were moving a mile a minute, going absolutely nowhere. And its spiked tail kept whipping the damp sand, trying to flip its round shell upright. Finally, I walked over and picked it up, water seeping into my sneakers.

Despite all its armor, that horseshoe crab was lighter than I’d imagined. I was gentle enough with it, tossing it underhand into the ocean, where it vanished beneath the surface with a plunk.

When I turned back around, Uncle Ramon was standing a few feet behind me.

“This is all happening too fast. It’s not a decision about me. It’s about my whole family. I’m not going to have an answer for you, not without talking to Mama first. I’m not leaving her and my sister behind without a word, the way Papi did. That’s not who I am, or who I’m ever going to become.”

9

GABRIEL PRODUCED A cell phone that looked like it had never been used. I guess the government couldn’t trace or listen in on any calls if it was brand-new. He held the phone out to me, and I took it from his hand. Then I turned my back to the three of them before I dialed. In the few seconds those numbers were changing into tones, a thousand moments went racing through my mind—from the time I could first remember following Papi around in short pants until right now. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say. I just knew that my tongue was waiting to start in motion.

I heard Mama’s voice say, “This is Luz Ramirez.”

My heart jumped.

I said, “Mama, I’m in Cárdenas with—”

That’s when the rest of Mama’s message greeting began talking over me.

I hit the “end” button fast, without even thinking about leaving her a message.

“You’ll have time to call back,” said Uncle Ramon from over my shoulder. “There’s a two-hour window for you to make a decision.”

I turned back around and Gabriel said, “Your papi would be crushed if we made the crossing without you.”

“I’m not living my life for him anymore,” I said, standing on a small mound of sand. “I’m sorry to possibly disturb his plans.”

“Julio, you see that man with his family over there?” asked Gabriel, pointing about forty yards away. “He’s not here by accident. Twenty minutes before sunset, he’s going to walk off this beach. He’ll bring back my vessel and leave it in a small clearing past those thick bushes. Then his family will pile into my car and take it home to keep.”

“What Gabriel means is there’s a structure to our plan. There has to be,” said Uncle Ramon. “Being dependent on a single phone call can’t destroy its timing.”

I started dialing another number.

“Lola?” Luis asked me.

Uncle Ramon put his hand over the phone, shutting it. I tried to yank it away, but his grip slid down to my wrist, holding me there like a vise.

“Remember, she doesn’t know,” said Uncle Ramon. “This isn’t the time for her to find out. She’s very emotional and talkative. That could hurt us.”

“I wasn’t going to tell her. I’m not that stupid or mean,” I said as Uncle Ramon loosened his grip.

A moment later, Lola picked up the cell we’d shared.

“Listen, Mama’s not answering her phone at work. I need you to go down to El Puente and let her know I’m trying to call.”

Lola pitched a fit and I waded through every one of her complaints.

“I know you’re studying, that it’s hot outside. But I need to speak to Mama. Do this for me. Please. What? No, it’s not about me becoming a Nacional,” I told her. “I just may be away longer than I expected, to train some more. I need her permission. It’s important. When? All right, but as fast as you can. Listen, I don’t say it enough, but you’re a great sister, much smarter than I’ll ever be. Okay. Thank you.”

As I closed my hand around the phone, Uncle Ramon nodded his head to me, and I took it as an apology. Then I turned toward Luis. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I could see the growing panic in his eyes. Luis said he wanted to go for a walk on the beach, just to “stretch his legs.” I decided to go with him.

“Sure. Walk. Relax. Just stay within our sight,” said Gabriel, who seemed calm as could be. “The four of us shouldn’t get separated for any reason. We’ll discuss this more when you get back.”

When we got out of earshot, walking along the water’s edge, Luis said, “Julio, you know that I can barely swim, right? I should have practiced my whole life for this.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’ll be at least one life preserver on Gabriel’s boat. If I’m there with you, it’s yours. I promise.”

“What would we even do in the US?”

“I can’t put myself in that situation yet. But you’ll escape the Moyanos on this island. I’m sure.”

“You have to come. I’d be lost without you,” Luis said.

“You’re stronger than you know. I’ve seen it,” I said, kicking the broken seashells at my feet.

“I keep thinking of that photo. The one I left in our dorm room,” said Luis. “If we leave, I won’t have a single picture of my mother. I’d give a hundred pesos to have it with me right now.”

“You still have your memories.”

“But I have to close my eyes to see her that way.”

“Sometimes that’s better,” I said. “Then your memories can never change.”

“Maybe your mama and sister will bring me a photo, the day they leave Cuba.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, squeezing the phone tighter inside my hand.

That’s when I started thinking that if I did go, I’d most likely never see Mama and Lola again. That they’d become images in my mind. The same way Aunt Blanca had become for Luis and Uncle Ramon.

Luis stopped us about fifteen yards from those two girls reading. They were probably twenty years old. But that didn’t discourage Luis from running a hand back through his jet-black hair.

“Who knows what could happen tonight. A big wave might drown me,” he said. “I’m going over there. Turn on the charm, see where it gets me. You coming?”

“Not worth the effort,” I answered. “Either way, we’ll never see those two again.”

“That’s the point. I’ve got nothing to lose,” he said, walking off toward their blankets.

The sun was sinking in the sky. Maybe it was down half a thumb’s worth since I’d last noticed. Everything else in my life seemed to suddenly stop. It was like I was alone on my own island, waiting for a sign to move in some direction. And hanging over that ocean in front of me was Papi’s shadow.

I didn’t know what I wanted or where I belonged. I just knew that I’d had enough—six long years of trying to make sense of an empty feeling.

After a few minutes, Luis came back flashing a strip of paper with a phone number on it.

“I told them there was going to be a party after we won the tournament tomorrow. That I’d personally get them invited,” he said, leading me back in the direction we’d come. “And that you were too shy to talk to them. They thought that was cute.”

“What are you going to do with the number?”

“Maybe put it in a bottle, like a note. Throw it overboard from Gabriel’s boat.”

“Why did you even bother talking to them, then?”

“Think of the story. Two girls waiting for me to call. Then they find out I’m either in the US or in prison or dead,” said Luis.

“Something to tell their friends?” I asked.

“Bigger. It could become famous, like a folktale.”

Suddenly, the phone inside my hand began to vibrate. It felt like an earthquake starting in my palm and spreading through my entire body. I flipped open the phone and it stopped. But I could still feel a rumbling in the pit of my stomach, shaking me to the core.

“Who is this? I don’t know this number,” Mama said in a defensive voice.

“Mama, it’s me. I’m in Cárdenas, on a borrowed phone,” I answered, with Luis’s eyes glued to mine. “Didn’t Lola tell you?”

“No, I took a break at work and saw the missed call. Is everything all right?”

“Mama, I’m on the beach, with Luis and Uncle Ramon, and someone else. They say that it’s time. Time to—”

“Shhh. Don’t speak it,” she interrupted. “Do what you need to do, Julio. This is your life. Live it.”

“Mama, I don’t—”

“Julio, you need to go. Find what you’re searching for.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wait, I see Lola coming.”

“Mama?”

“Julio, make your decision and know that I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

“I love you, too, Mama,” I said, before I heard Lola’s out-of-breath voice and then the connection cut off.

“So?” asked Luis nervously, as I closed the phone.

“I guess those girls are going to have some story to tell about meeting us.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Luis, throwing both arms around me and hugging me tight. “But remember, you were too shy to talk to them.”

The rest of the way back, I walked on the damp, hard-packed sand closest to the water. I didn’t want the ground shifting beneath my feet. At some point, I saw the tracks we’d left behind heading toward us. I stopped for a second to look down at them. It was a strange feeling, like suddenly being present in my past. Then I picked my head up and kept right on walking into my future.

When we reached camp I handed Gabriel his cell phone.

“A journey like this makes people family—that’s what you said,” I told him. “Well, I’ve already got an uncle and cousin here. But I’ll give you a chance to earn your way in.”

“I accept that,” said Gabriel, reaching out to shake my hand. “I can’t ask for anything more.”

“No one can. That’s the highest bar there is,” said Uncle Ramon, who looked as if a huge weight had just been lifted off him.

“There’s still lots to talk about and little time,” said Gabriel, glancing at the sun.

“Before any more talk, let’s pray,” said Luis.

Nobody argued with that. We all knelt in a tight circle, bowing our heads, even me and Uncle Ramon.

10

OVER THE NEXT half hour or so, we each downed two sixteen-ounce bottles of water to hydrate ourselves for the trip. Gabriel couldn’t say exactly how long we’d be at sea. Instead, he was more like a weatherman giving a forecast he wouldn’t stake his reputation on.

“Depending on the currents, we could reach the coast of Florida inside of two days,” he said, before putting both hands out in front of him as if to halt any hopes of a guarantee. “But the weather can change in minutes. Even storms miles away can have an impact, driving us off course, spinning a small vessel in endless circles.”

“You have a compass, don’t you?” asked Uncle Ramon.

Basically, the only reason to have a compass in Cuba is to help you defect. So you could get into serious trouble being caught with one.

“Think I’d take you and two young boys onto that ocean without one? I’m not the devil,” Gabriel countered, with a twinge of annoyance. “As a kid I experienced what happens when it’s tried that way.”

That was the first time I’d seen Gabriel tense. It didn’t seem like much to get upset over. Maybe his nerves were getting tighter as the sun slipped lower.

“I’ve got other supplies, too,” Gabriel continued, his voice leveling out. “Food, water, flares, and an extra can of gasoline.”

So I figured his boat had a motor. I felt better knowing that, like we could choose our own direction if the currents didn’t cooperate.

“Ramon and I will sit in the front. Julio and Luis, you’ll be in the back,” he added. “Oh, and we’re going to be low to the water, very low. That’s by design, to avoid being detected on any radar. If it’s choppy we’ll get slapped in the face by a few waves. Be prepared to get soaked.”

That’s when I took the transistor radio out. I wrapped it in a pair of plastic bags to keep it from getting wet, as the others eyed it.

“We might need this way out there. You never know,” I said, trying not to make a fuss.

“You’re right. Could come in handy,” said Uncle Ramon, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing me a new 9-volt battery. “We could hear a World Series game on it, too. Give us something else to focus on.”

– – –

The tide rolled in and the water’s edge kept creeping closer to our camp. From a distance, those two girls waved good-bye to Luis as they walked off the beach. He didn’t return the wave, though. Instead, he just glanced their way like somebody they should have been starstruck to meet. Then that man got up and left without his family, just the way Gabriel told us he would.

“I want you boys to take the barbecue and cooler to my trunk,” said Gabriel, giving us his car keys. “But leave the chairs behind. It’ll look better when we hang around to see the stars.”

Even with the charcoals emptied, I could still feel the warmth from the barbecue as I carried it back. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining Mama and Lola in my arms for one last embrace.

Gabriel’s car was the only one remaining behind those rocks.

“When we walked off that baseball field today, I wasn’t thinking about anything like this,” said Luis. “Things can change fast, huh? My mother passing, your papi—thought I was all through growing up for a while.”

“Maybe it never stops,” I said as he opened the trunk. “In a few hours, we might be looking back at right now, thinking we didn’t know shit.”

“I just hope my next learning curve is about life in the US, not how to shower in prison,” said Luis, stowing away the cooler and leaving enough room for me to fit the barbecue next to it.

“No, I hope the next curve I see comes out of a pitcher’s hand. That I’m waiting on it to break, right before I drive it over some center-field fence and round the bases.”

Luis slammed the trunk lid down and then gave me a high five.

“Amen to that, Cuz,” he said.

A minute later, I saw those two police officers slowly rolling back down the beach on their motorcycle. Only this time, because of the tide coming in, they were going to be much closer to us.

“Act like we’re packing the chairs up next,” said Gabriel, casually folding one.

Suddenly, I heard the rev of an engine, and the officers’ motorcycle turned in our direction.

“I don’t trust these two,” Uncle Ramon said, barely moving his lips. “What if we have to jump them?”

“Easy, Ramon,” whispered Gabriel. “They’re probably looking for more food, or beer.”

I was wishing I had a baseball bat in my hands. I’d be more comfortable wielding one of those than any weapon in this world.

Their wide tires kicked up a ton of sand before the officer driving pulled back on the throttle, four or five feet from where we were standing.

The one sitting in the sidecar of that three-wheeler said, “So you boys are baseball players, huh? When I played, shortstop was my position. I had a lot of range with my glove and a good stick, too. I even dreamed of one day becoming a Nacional, representing Cuba. Now I wear this uniform.”

“This is our star shortstop. My nephew,” said Uncle Ramon, who’d moved to the outside of the officer’s right hip, where his pistol was holstered.

“I’m not surprised. I used to have a build like yours, like a whip. That was before I put on an extra twenty pounds sitting around,” he said to me. “Where are you from? Not Cárdenas. I’ve been stationed here for three years. I would have seen you play.”

“I’m from Matanzas,” I answered, taking a step closer to the one on the motorcycle, in case I had to defend my uncle.

“Ahh, the Crocodiles,” he said, turning to his partner.

Meanwhile, Gabriel had slipped an arm around Luis. I guess to stop him from doing anything stupid.

“These boys are very dedicated,” said Gabriel. “Baseball is all they dream about.”

“What’s your name?” the officer asked me. “I’ll keep an eye out for you in the future.”

“My name’s Julio.”

About thirty yards behind those officers sat that last family on the beach, minus their father. And maybe another forty yards farther down the beach, I saw the bushes start to shake and shimmy a little. Then they went completely still.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

Ramirez was on the tip of my tongue. But I bit it back, thinking he’d probably heard of Papi. And that might make him suspicious about us being here.

“Sanchez,” I said, giving him Mama’s maiden name and praying he wouldn’t want to see any kind of ID. “My name’s Julio Sanchez.”

I felt sick to my stomach at having to deny my own name. But that was all on Papi, and the politics of Cuba.

“Very good,” the officer said, nodding to his partner, who put the motorcycle in motion. “Remember, the beach closes at sundown. You have to be on your way soon.”

“Thank you, officers,” said Gabriel. “We appreciate your concern.”

In the distance, that father had just reappeared from the bushes. The officers were traveling in his direction. He began pulling at his pants zipper, as if he’d gone off from his family to pee. Then the motorcycle rolled right on past him without slowing down.

“That’s one obstacle out of the way,” said Uncle Ramon.

“Men are a small obstacle compared with what we’ll be facing,” said Gabriel. “But you’re right.”

That entire family walked off the beach together. A minute later, I heard Gabriel’s car starting up from behind the trio of huge rocks that separated us from the sandy lot. Once it pulled away, and the echo of it faded, everything that was about to happen felt even more real.

The sun was in flames now, burning orange and yellow in the red-blue sky as it went sinking into the horizon. It reminded me of one of Papi’s fastballs blazing into a dark catcher’s mitt.

Gabriel’s plan was for each of us to walk straight into the bushes, one by one, while the others kept lookout along the beach. His order was me, Luis, Uncle Ramon, and then himself.

“That clearing I mentioned, it’s small and about thirty paces straight into the bushes,” emphasized Gabriel. “Don’t get yourself moving sideways. You’ll miss it completely.”

When the moment came, I headed into the bushes without hesitation. But a few strides into the thick brush, I had to reset my bearings to sidestep a branch full of sharp thorns. When I did, I found myself standing in the middle of a cloud of mosquitos. They were hitting my arms and legs like I was the last warm meal on earth. And every time I’d slap at one spot, five or six of them would bite me somewhere else. So I bolted forward, praying I was still going in the right direction. I shoved aside branch after branch that either snapped back at me or cracked beneath my weight until I finally arrived at the clearing.

First, I saw the green body of a Buick automobile. There was something strange attached to the grille—a wide, pointed front that looked like the bow of a ship. I searched for a boat, maybe one on a small trailer behind the car. But there wasn’t any. Then I saw the weld marks, sealing the car’s four doors shut, and the supplies tied down in the backseat.

That’s when it hit me: we’d be sailing to the US in a floating car.

For some insane reason, I reached my arm inside the open driver’s side window. I was about to tap the horn, as if I needed to hear how it sounded. Then Luis came stumbling through the bushes. His eyes focused on the car/boat in astonishment, and then on mine.

11

ONCE WE ALL got into the car/boat through the open windows, Gabriel turned the key in the ignition. I don’t know what he had done to that Buick’s engine. Or maybe it was just my own motor going full throttle. But it felt like there was enough horsepower under the hood to climb Pico Turquino, the highest mountain in Cuba.

“Buckle your seat belts!” cried Gabriel, his voice blaring over the engine.

There was nothing to see through the windshield but dense brush.

An instant later, as we jolted forward, leaves were flying everywhere. Three of them, on a tiny brown branch, landed on my lap. Then the air was filled with sand and I could hear the tires straining for traction on the beach.

“Hold on tight!” shouted Uncle Ramon.

The Buick struck the water with a thud. I guess we were doing almost thirty miles per hour. It was like hitting a low brick wall that only partially moved. Suddenly, there was nothing in front of us but ocean and a darkening sky. The pointed bow attached to the front sliced through the waves, and I was praying its tip would lead us straight to the States.

“Should I roll up my window?” asked Luis, in a near panic. “I’m getting wet. Are we leaking?”

“That’s just the spray from the surf,” answered Gabriel, grabbing for what looked like an air pump. “I’ll get us higher up.”

Then he flipped the switch on the pump and two long inner tubes on either side of the Buick began to inflate, lifting us.

“Any more big surprises?” asked Uncle Ramon, who sounded like he’d had no idea Gabriel’s boat would be a Buick.

“Only if the rubberized seams don’t hold and she takes on water,” replied Gabriel, who now had a compass in his hand as he turned the wheel. “Then I’ll be the one surprised.”

“You can control this thing?” asked Luis, with a voice wavering between wonder and fright.

“There’s a rudder on the back. It’s synced up to the steering wheel,” answered Gabriel, despite his intense focus on the direction we were headed.

I exchanged a quick glance with Luis. This was like that roller coaster ride we took in Havana last summer. It was all happening so fast we didn’t know where or when the next sharp turn was coming. But this wasn’t any amusement park.

The ocean muffled most of the engine noise. We were all breathing hard, even Gabriel. I don’t know how much adrenaline four people could possibly have pumping. But right then, inside that floating car, it was probably a world record.

Gradually, our questions and conversation died down. There were stretches of silence between us when all I could hear was the water rushing by and the sound of my heart beating hard. Eventually, I looked out the back window and I couldn’t see any trace of Cuba. Everything I knew, everything I was raised on was gone, except for the three leaves on that tiny branch.

It was strange to be without a country, without borders or boundaries. I was feeling small and lost, like I was too insignificant to be a new mark on a map. Fears piled up inside me until I almost started bawling right there. Then we hit the first big wave. For an instant, I believed we were actually airborne.

“Wooo!” hollered Uncle Ramon, as if he were riding a wild bull. “If that’s what freedom feels like, I’ll have some more!”

I’d seen him smile before. But this wasn’t the same smile he wore after winning a baseball game. It was completely different. This one was etched deeper into his face, like no one could ever take it away from him. That got me to feeling bigger, stronger, and I raised my spine until the top of my head nearly touched the roof of that car/boat.

My entire life I’d lived under some kind of authority—El Presidente, his generals, political ministers, police. Almost all of them were like Moyano, and some much worse. I realized this was the first time I didn’t have to watch my words. There was no one in power lurking in the shadows. No one I was forced to respect out of fear.

Right then, I thought about Papi—about the moment he walked out the revolving door of that hotel lobby in Baltimore. How he probably experienced these exact same feelings. I guess that was something we shared now, no matter how I felt about his leaving.

The Buick was practically our own country—a floating metallic island. It didn’t matter that it was made in Detroit, USA, or kept running for decades with spit and glue on Cuban soil. Until we either got caught or washed up on somebody’s shore, we didn’t have to answer to anyone. It was only God who was above us, however He laid out the currents and weather in our path.

“I think I’m getting seasick,” said Luis, his complexion turning nearly as green as the paint job on the Buick.

“Maybe that’s why Gabriel left the windows open,” I said, shoving his head outside into the stream of salty air. “Breathe deep and try not to puke.”

“Your cousin’s right,” said Uncle Ramon. “You don’t want to lose any fluids. Water’s precious on this trip.”

I stuck my head out the opposite side. There was more light than I would have imagined. I could see for about fifty feet in every direction, as a constantly moving curtain of darkness kept an even pace with us. But there was no limit when I looked straight up. A crescent moon was shining, partly lighting the way. And the stars around it were burning bright, like someone had punched a thousand holes in the nighttime.

That’s when I reached my arm over Gabriel’s shoulder. I hit the horn in the center of the steering wheel, and it let out a long beeeeeep! I swear it was like music to my ears—better than any salsa, merengue, reggae, or rock. So I punched the horn again. And this time when I did, I hollered out, “Freedom!”

Then Gabriel said, “Everyone together: one, two, three.”

The four of us screamed “Freedom!” until his hand lifted from the horn.

I grabbed the branch with the leaves from my lap. I thought about my family as I pulled the first leaf off. I remembered how we used to be, when Papi was a Cuban hero. When we walked around Matanzas with our heads held high, like El Fuego’s fastball would never lose its velocity. Then I tossed it out the window.

Plucking the second leaf, I thought about all the baseball I’d played in Cuba, my teammates, and every drop of sweat I put into becoming a Nacional. I’d barely opened my hand when the wind outside sucked that leaf away.

“If I started my own version of the Nacionales, right here, would you play?” I asked Luis, only half kidding.

“You’d want me?” he replied, looking much less green now. “Sure. What would we call ourselves?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Tortugas Marinas.”

“Why not? I’ll be a sea turtle,” said Luis. “I was a crocodile this morning.”

“Count me in,” said Uncle Ramon. “And I don’t want to coach. I’m coming out of retirement to play catcher.”

That was good by me. But I didn’t even consider asking Gabriel to play, not even to be polite. I’d already seen him try to throw a baseball.

I pulled away that third leaf, thinking about Moyano and everyone in power like him. Then I crumpled it up inside my palm and heaved it into the waves.

All that was left of my homeland was that small piece of branch. I put pressure on it at both ends, watching it bend from the middle. It had a lot of strength for its size. Only I made sure to back off before it snapped. That had me thinking about the people of Cuba—the farmers, factory workers, fishermen, maids, and busboys. How they had to deal with the system there every day of their lives, especially Mama and Lola. So I carefully dropped that branch into the water, hoping with all my heart that it would eventually find a place to put down roots and grow even stronger.

12

WE’D BEEN ON the water for more than two hours, thankfully without a police boat in sight. Then Gabriel got us into a swift-moving current and turned off the engine to save gas.

“This is where I hoped we’d be, with a chance to make it,” he said. “We’re probably past the first ring of security. With any luck we won’t run into one of our navy ships on an exercise.”

“How would we know if one’s coming in the dark?” asked Uncle Ramon.

“Three red beacons about fifty feet apart, riding way over our heads,” answered Gabriel. “We’re small enough, though, that we shouldn’t show up on their radar. So even if one happens by, it might not see us and could steam right on past.”

“Or it could plow straight through us,” said Uncle Ramon. Gabriel gave him a hesitant nod.

Luis kept checking the wristwatch hanging from a belt loop on his shorts, telling us how long we’d been at sea.

“It’s supposed to be ninety miles to Miami,” said Luis. “A car can go at least forty-five miles an hour. How come we can’t make it there in two hours?”

“The ocean’s not a paved highway, and the currents don’t run in a straight line,” said Gabriel, eyeing his compass to make sure we were still headed north and a few degrees west. “And we’re not moving at anywhere close to forty-five miles an hour. But if the wind keeps blowing from the south, it’ll only help speed us up.”

Luis’s watch was a birthday present from his mother just a few months before she died. On its face, it had Mickey Mouse, with his two white-gloved hands pointing to the numbers. It was a cheap kiddie watch, but Luis treated it like it was made of gold. He’d worn it on his wrist for nearly five years, even after the cracked leather band had gotten way too small for him. Sometimes it had looked like it was cutting off his circulation. And if he’d ever flexed his forearm, it might have gone flying off, like he was the Incredible Hulk or something. So about a year ago, Luis started wearing it on his belt loop.

“When we get to Florida, I’m going to take you to see the real Mickey at Disney World,” Uncle Ramon told his son. “Then you can ask why he only has four fingers.”

“Okay, but I’d rather meet those cute Disney princesses,” said Luis. “Besides, I thought Mickey lost that other finger in a mousetrap.”

“No, that was his Cuban cousin, Eduardo Mouse,” said Uncle Ramon, in a biting tone. “He was reaching for a crumb of cheese in El Presidente’s palace. Then, wham!”

We all laughed loudly over that. And I swore to myself, if we got dragged back to Cuba in handcuffs, I’d tell that joke to the judge before he sentenced me.

Gabriel started eating sliced pieces of raw squash, and offered us some. With a look of disgust, Luis shook his head. Then he went looking through one of the supply boxes in the backseat.

“This is more like it,” said Luis, opening a small bag of potato chips. “These should settle my stomach.”

Luis shoved the bag at me and I took a few.

“I thought we’d save those for a celebration, when Florida was in sight,” said Gabriel, as I sucked the salt off a chip without breaking it inside my mouth. “But I’ll take one, too.”

“Speaking of celebrations,” I said, “do you think the team’s back at the dorm yet?”

“They should be,” answered Uncle Ramon. “It’s about that time, when Moyano will realize something’s wrong.”

“I’d like to see his face when he figures out we’re gone,” I said. “Maybe he’ll swallow a lit cigar.”

“Don’t forget,” said Uncle Ramon, “your teammates and Paulo will be there to experience his anger firsthand. Moyano will bring the police in and have them questioned half the night.”

“Of course, the Cárdenas beach patrol will report they saw the four of us at a different beach,” added Gabriel. “That will get the players and your bus driver off the hook.”

Uncle Ramon and Gabriel quietly exchanged a satisfied look, as if they’d planned that chess move in advance.

I guess every adrenaline rush, no matter how big, has to subside eventually. And after a few more time-checks by Luis, with the water completely calm, it began to feel like we were just hanging out in a parked car overlooking the ocean. So I took out the transistor radio, tuned in to the game, and turned the volume up for everyone to hear.

Bottom of the sixth inning here at Yankee Stadium, in pivotal Game Three of the World Series. The Miami Marlins lead the Bronx Bombers four to three, with two outs and the bases empty.

Our ears perked up at that. Because with the Marlins ahead in a tight game, Papi could be coming in soon to pitch the final few outs and shut the door.

It’s been an unusually warm and humid fall night in the Bronx. The sweat continues to cascade down the face of the Marlins’ starting pitcher. He’s worked in and out of trouble all game. Here’s his one-hundred-and-third pitch of the evening already. Oh, that’s way high and outside to the Yankees’ power-hitting second baseman. That’s an indicator the Marlins’ starter may be feeling fatigued. The most pitches he’s thrown in a game so far this season has been one hundred and twelve. And that was in a nine-inning, complete-game performance. Now he checks the signs. He’s into his windup. Fastball, low and outside. That one registered just eighty-eight miles per hour on the radar gun. Prior to that pitch, he’s consistently been in the low to mid-nineties all night with his heater. Two balls, no strikes the count. The Marlins’ pitcher to the bill of his cap with his hand, wiping away the perspiration. Here comes the pitch. It’s drilled deep into right field. There’s no doubt about this one. It’s going, going, gone! And we’re tied up at four apiece.

Uncle Ramon punched the dashboard. Gabriel quickly grabbed his still-clenched fist so he couldn’t hit it again.

“You don’t want to break your hand,” said Gabriel. “We may need all of your strength to survive.”

“Sorry, I get stupid over baseball,” said Uncle Ramon.

I saw a movie once where an air bag popped out at a guy who’d punched the dashboard, smacking him in the face like a big pillow. But this Buick was made probably twenty years before air bags were put into cars.

The fans are still on their feet here. That home run has also sparked quick action in the Marlins’ bullpen, as a pair of middle relievers are beginning to warm up.

– – –

Papi is the Marlins’ closer. So he most likely wasn’t coming in to pitch unless Miami regained the lead or the game was on the line.

“Don’t worry, Julio. Miami is going to jump back out in front. I can feel it,” Luis said to me, between crunches on a chip.

I knew Luis didn’t mean anything by it. But for some reason, his words got me riled.

“What do I care if Miami wins? I’m not on that team!” I snapped. “You think because he sent money for this floating car that I have to live and die by what he does? I don’t. This is his game, not mine.”

I could see the surprise in Luis’s eyes as he backed off.

After a moment of silence, Uncle Ramon calmly said, “Understood, Julio. But we’re headed to Miami. There’s a huge Cuban community there. We’re not going to root for the New York Yankees, are we? They just buy up free agents like they’ve got more money than God. I prefer a little Latin flavor to my baseball, a little humbleness.”

It was the sound of Uncle Ramon’s voice, and not his words, that mattered. It was as if he’d thrown me a life preserver in the middle of the ocean. His speech gave me a few seconds to stop struggling, to think, to breathe.

“There’s another reason, too,” Uncle Ramon continued. “A few seasons back, the Marlins’ manager, a loudmouth Hispanic who loves to hear himself talk, said he respected Fidel Castro, because he was tough enough to survive as a dictator. Well, the Cubans in Miami protested by boycotting the team. Eventually, the Marlins fired that idiot manager’s ass over the remark. And I respect that.”

I let that all sink in for a few seconds. Then I said, “You’re right. Why would I ever root for those Yankees over the Marlins?”

13

OVER THE NEXT hour the waters turned choppy. We rode into an almost continuous flow of short, strong waves that hit us head-on. Then they started coming from the sides—tap, tap, tap. And that Buick began to feel like a punching bag being worked by a heavyweight boxer who was just warming up.

A bank of clouds rolled across the moon, blocking out a lot of our light.

“It’s getting even darker out there,” said Luis.

“Don’t worry. We don’t need to see,” said Gabriel. “As long as we follow this compass, we’re headed toward freedom.”

“How about following the North Star? It’s supposed to be the one burning brightest. I learned that in science class,” said Luis, ducking his head out of the window to look straight up. “I think I see it—the one with the twinkle.”

“That’s good, but we need to head north and a little bit west, Son,” said Uncle Ramon. “Let Gabriel do his job. I have faith in him.”

I wished I had that kind of blind faith. But I would have given anything to see exactly where we were going, to follow a bunch of clear markers to Florida. Instead, my cousin, my uncle, and I were risking everything on the direction of a compass needle pointed inside the palm of Gabriel’s hand.

I thought about holding that compass myself, to see if it would point the same way for me. But I didn’t want to take that kind of responsibility and maybe even screw us up.

The game was still going on. It was the top of the eighth inning, and the Marlins got a runner to third base with two outs. Their scrappy leadoff batter had worked a walk after fouling off six or seven straight pitches. He advanced to second on a sacrifice bunt, and then over to third on a groundout to the Yankees’ second baseman.

“That’s what I love about this team,” said Uncle Ramon. “These Marlins will scratch, claw—whatever it takes to get a run across. They don’t have the same power in their lineup as the Yankees—no superstars. But they’ve got the passion to succeed and the fire in their bellies to do it.”

“You think heart beats talent?” I asked him, as we absorbed another quick blow in that chop.

“Not always,” he answered. “But talent without heart—that talent’s just a waste of a God-given gift.”

Here’s the pitch. Fastball, low in the dirt. And the ball kicks away from the Yankees’ catcher! It’s rolling to the backstop, and here comes the go-ahead run from third base. Across home plate and the Marlins regain the lead, five to four. We’ll have to see how that’s scored—a passed ball on the catcher or a wild pitch on the pitcher. Either way, the Marlins are back on top.

“See, they manufactured that run out of nothing. Did it without a single base hit,” said Uncle Ramon, extending a fist to bump with both Luis’s and mine. “Of course, if I had been the Yankees’ catcher, that ball would never have gotten by me. I would have blocked it with my chest, knee, foot—any part of my body. And I would have done that for a sandlot game. For the World Series? I would have gotten down low enough to eat dirt if I had to.”

“I’d eat dirt to be at Yankee Stadium right now,” said Luis.

“That would be the taste of freedom,” said Gabriel, turning his attention away from the steering wheel for a moment to look at us. “And I’d have delivered my three crates of fish safely.”

“Was that your code word for us?” I asked.

“Maybe 007 could have come up with something better,” answered Gabriel. “I tried to keep it simple.”

“So you never talked directly to my papi?”

Gabriel shook his head and said, “Just his representative.”

I felt satisfied with that, knowing Papi didn’t speak to Gabriel instead of me.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, the Marlins brought in their setup man to pitch. The announcer said that Papi was throwing in the bullpen, getting ready to pitch the bottom of the ninth. The Yankees’ first two hitters made weak outs. But momentum in baseball can change fast, especially in a one-run World Series game. The next batter slashed a double into the right-field corner. That was followed by an infield single to put runners on first and third.

“What are they waiting for?” asked Luis. “Why don’t they bring in El Fuego?”

“Because everyone’s a damn specialist these days,” said Uncle Ramon. “The Nacionales play it the same way. They want their closer to only pitch in the ninth, like his arm could get tired doing any more than that.”

The Marlins’ setup man walked the next batter to load the bases. Then he lost the strike zone completely, starting off the next hitter with two straight balls that weren’t even close to the plate.

The Marlins’ manager is walking out to the pitcher’s mound. He looks at the bullpen and signals with his left arm. He can wait no longer. We’re going to see Julio Ramirez, otherwise known as El Fuego, who recorded a club-record forty-eight saves this season.

Luis whistled and clapped, as if he was really at the game. He even tried to stand on his feet, until his head hit the roof of the Buick. But I sank deeper into the backseat, tightening my grip on the transistor as the chop outside got a little heavier.

This is Ramirez’s sixth season in the majors. He was one of Cuba’s all-time great pitchers until he defected and signed with the Miami Marlins. He’s lost a little bit on his fastball over the last few years, but he still throws smoke. Ramirez claims to be thirty-seven years old. Many doubt that number, however. His age is uncertain, since he arrived in the US without documentation.

“Thirty-seven, huh? That makes me a year older than my older brother,” said Uncle Ramon. “I understand his thinking, though. No team wants to give an old man a long-term contract. The younger, the better. Anyway, he was already cheated out of millions when he was the best pitcher in the world and all the Cuban government gave him was a few more hours coaching schoolkids.”

Ramirez finishes his warm-up tosses on the mound. He’s ready. I don’t know how to describe the look in his eyes as he stares down the Yankees’ center fielder, who reenters the batter’s box. I suppose the only appropriate word would be intense. The crowd is on its feet. Listen to them, more than fifty thousand strong. Ramirez inherits a two-and-oh count on the hitter. The bases are filled with Yankees. There’s absolutely nowhere for the Marlins’ closer to put him without forcing in the tying run.

“Does he challenge him with one down the middle?” I asked Uncle Ramon.

“Not just challenge him. That guy’s about to see smoke,” he answered.

Here’s the pitch. Swing and a miss. That one registered ninety-nine on the radar gun.

“To be called World Champion, believe me, your papi will turn back the hands of time,” said Uncle Ramon. “As if he’s twenty-one years old again. That kind of desire.”

That made me wonder what Papi would do to be with me. And why he hadn’t done anything.

Strike two! Ramirez painted the outside corner with that one. The plate’s seventeen inches wide, and he nicked the very edge of it—that eighth-of-an-inch black border. The batter wisely took that one, because he probably wasn’t going to hit it. Maybe just foul it off. That’s expertise on both ends, and a masterpiece of a pitch.

“This batter’s toast,” said Uncle Ramon. “He might as well start walking back to the dugout now.”

Ramirez from the stretch. Here’s the pitch. A swing. Strike three! Punched him out with high heat. And look at the reading on the gun—one hundred and one miles per hour!

If the government had planted secret microphones on the ocean floor, we probably would have been taken to prison. Because we let out a roar so loud and so long, the Cuban navy could have followed the sound right to us.

14

IN THE TOP of the ninth inning, the Marlins scored another two runs, adding to their lead. Then, in the bottom half of the inning, Papi shut the door, setting the Yankee hitters down in order—one, two, three—and giving Miami a two-games-to-one lead in the best-of-seven series.

Every time I’d listened to Papi pitch before, I was sitting alone. Lots of times it was as dark as it was right now. That was because I was usually in the stairwell, hiding the transistor radio and the fact that I wanted to hear anything about him at all.

“God willing, we’ll be in Florida before the team flies back,” said Uncle Ramon. “They could sweep the next two games in New York. Then they’d arrive in Miami as World Champions. That’s how I’d like to see my brother after all this time: walking off a plane as a World Series winner, maybe even MVP. We’d be waiting in the crowd, right up front. I wouldn’t want him to know we were coming. That moment he first saw us, I know the look on his face would be priceless.”

I tried to imagine that scene the way Uncle Ramon described it. Only every time I did, it changed when Papi’s eyes met mine. That’s when the crowd disappeared, and it became just me and Papi. I could see him opening his mouth to speak. But before he ever did, that vision froze up solid and then faded to black.

“Maybe they’ll have a big parade,” said Luis. “It would be like a double celebration, the Marlins winning and our freedom. We could all ride in a brand-new convertible, waving to the fans along the streets. And I mean new—as in this century, not from the 1950s. What do you think, Julio? What a way to raise our cool factor, first week in the States. Girls will treat us like pop stars.”

I loved Luis. But sometimes he was absolutely clueless as to what was going on inside of me.

“All of that sounds great,” said Gabriel. “But Julio and his father may need some space, some privacy to resolve whatever the time apart has put between them.”

Uncle Ramon quickly jumped in with his take on things.

“I want to make it clear to you, Julio,” he said. “What your papi did in leaving, that was all about family. It was about you, your sister, and mama. It wasn’t a selfish thing. It was about your future, all of our futures. He did the hard work, took the chances. Now it’s our turn. He never abandoned you or any of us.”

I could tell that Uncle Ramon believed every word he was saying. I could hear the pride he had in being Papi’s brother. And I didn’t want to insult him by not having the same pride in being Papi’s son.

“I know he still loves me,” I said, turning off the transistor.

“That’s right,” said Uncle Ramon. “Remember, Julio, he gave you his name. I’m sure he looks in the mirror and sometimes he sees you staring back.”

I glanced into Gabriel’s rearview mirror. For some reason he’d left it hanging over his head, maybe to convince people this ’59 Buick wasn’t going to be traveling anywhere else but down a dirt road in Cuba. Staring back at me was my own face, in a small, wide frame. There was nothing to see behind us anymore. There was nothing outside the windshield up front either, except for the hope of where we were headed.

“How come I didn’t get your name?” my cousin asked his father.

“Because your mama, since the time she was young, dreamed of having a child named Luis,” he answered.

After a few seconds of silence, I looked Luis up and down and said, “It’s a good thing you were born a boy. With that name, you would have made an even uglier girl.”

Uncle Ramon burst into laughter.

“Oh yeah? You never heard of Luisa? That would have been my name,” said Luis, beginning to blush a bit.

“Sure, we’ll call you that from now on,” said Uncle Ramon, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Just make sure to shave the fuzz on that upper lip.”

“Don’t worry, muchacha, there are plenty of razors in Miami,” quipped Gabriel, with a widening grin. “Waxing parlors, too.”

“Ha-ha. That’s so funny,” Luis muttered, sulking.

That put an end to all the talk about me and Papi.

My legs were starting to cramp from being in the tight space of that rear seat. There were shooting pains in both my hamstrings. I didn’t have room to completely straighten them, though. So I clenched my teeth and dealt with it, feeling like they were two giant rubber bands about to snap. I kept changing positions, putting one leg over the other and then back again. Only it didn’t help.

Finally, I found a tiny comfort zone with my left elbow resting against a wooden box of supplies and my right knee jammed up against the back of Gabriel’s seat.

Luis was complaining that his foot had fallen asleep.

“Everything’s pins and needles,” he said, leaning back until he was practically shaking his foot in my face.

That forced me to rearrange myself, losing my good position.

“I hate the feeling of being numb,” Luis said.

“It’s better than cramps,” I told him, annoyed.

Then I went searching desperately for that comfort zone again. But no matter which direction I contorted my body, I couldn’t find it.

The choppy waves continued to slap at us. And after a while, the rocking they delivered started to take on a rhythm. I’m not sure exactly when I drifted off. I just remember opening my eyes sometime later with everything quiet inside the Buick and my legs feeling stiff as boards.

Luis was sleeping across from me, his two hands tucked beneath his head like a makeshift pillow. In the front seat, Uncle Ramon’s head looked heavy, sinking lower every few seconds as he gazed into the darkness beside Gabriel.

I didn’t want to disturb any of them. So I pressed the transistor up to my ear, keeping the volume as low as possible. I was hoping to hear some of the postgame comments and maybe even an interview with Papi. But that was all over with, and there was just a deep-voiced announcer wrapping things up.

The Marlins’ clubhouse was positively brimming with confidence after tonight’s game. The feeling in there was electric. Coming into the Series, there was a lot of bravado on the part of the Miami players. The wild-card team talked big about taking down the mighty Yankees—baseball’s Goliath—with a slingshot of slap hitters and a single stone. But now I think they truly believe it’s possible. A lot of Miami’s younger players are gaining confidence and poise under pressure from the leadership displayed by the team’s veterans. Reliever Julio Ramirez was keeping the team loose by having his three-year-old son, “Little Smoke,” stamp his feet on a Yankees cap. Then there was . . .

I couldn’t listen to another word after hearing that.

I closed my eyes tight, shutting off the radio. Suddenly, it felt like there was a crushing weight on the center of my chest. Without looking, I would have believed it was Papi inside that Buick, jumping up and down on me in a pair of new spikes.

Pretending to be asleep, I sat there in silence, struggling to keep my tears on the inside. I already understood that this weight belonged to me alone. And that if I told Uncle Ramon about Papi’s kid, it would fill up every moment of us being out here, sinking me to the bottom even faster.

15

THE NEXT TIME I opened my eyes it was light outside. The sun was blasting through the windshield. I needed to put a hand in front of my face to cut the harsh glare. Luis was already awake beside me, leaning over into the driver’s seat. But it took me a while to realize that it was Uncle Ramon behind the wheel.

“Look, Julio, my father’s the captain of a ship,” Luis said, as Gabriel caught some shut-eye. “I’m going to steer next.”

Uncle Ramon reached up and adjusted the sun visor before he said, “Son, this isn’t a ship. It’s a floating car. And the only way you’re going to navigate is if you swallow the compass and your nose points north.”

“Why? You let me drive your car in plenty of parking lots,” Luis said, sounding hurt. “I don’t need a stinking license. We’re outlaws.”

“Your job’s to keep track of time, Luis,” said Uncle Ramon, softening his words a bit. “You’re the only one with a good watch. We need to know how long we’ve been out here so we don’t run out of gas. There isn’t exactly a service station around.”

“How long has it been?” I asked.

“Almost thirteen hours,” answered Luis, checking the watch on his belt loop.

“With any luck, one more day at sea for us,” said Uncle Ramon, his hands positioned solidly at ten and two o’clock. “Forget the transistor, Julio. We could be watching the next World Series game in color, on a big flat-screen TV. Maybe even in your papi’s new house. I’ll bet he has a two-car garage, five or six bedrooms, swimming pool, a butler, and a housemaid.”

“Housemaid, huh?” I muttered, with the image of Mama in her maid’s uniform filling my head.

I remembered Mama’s words about Papi. About how there was no way he was alone, living without a woman. Now I knew she was absolutely right. And that could have been the reason she didn’t want to come with us.

“If he doesn’t have one, maybe he could hire Mama. She has experience at that job now,” I sniped.

“Julio, put that anger aside,” Uncle Ramon said. “Your mama did what she needed to do to support her children. I don’t know why my brother didn’t send her money. But I’m sure he had reasons.”

I used to want to believe that, too. Sometimes, especially in the first few years after Papi had gone, I’d talked myself into it. Now I knew what Uncle Ramon didn’t—that I had a half brother. And he didn’t just magically appear. The stork didn’t drop him on Papi’s doorstep one day. He got here by Papi doing my mama wrong.

“I’ve said enough. I’m done with it,” I told him. “I need to stretch out. I can’t sit here anymore. My legs feel like they’re in knots.”

So I started to climb out the window.

“You going for a swim?” asked Luis. “There could be sharks.”

“Careful, Julio,” said Uncle Ramon.

I wasn’t going into the water. Instead, I made my way across the roof of the Buick and slid down the rear windshield. I sat on the back bumper between the two tail fins, looking at where we’d been, at where I came from. It was the closest thing I could find to being alone. For a second, I thought I heard Luis climbing out his window. But Uncle Ramon probably fished him back, knowing I needed some privacy.

I sat there for maybe twenty minutes, thinking, as I watched the rudder and the wake of white-capped water slipping behind us. Then, before I climbed back inside, I unzipped my pants and took a long piss into the ocean.

Gabriel wiped sleep from his eyes and checked the compass.

“You’re a natural-born navigator,” he told my uncle. “We’re right on course. Why don’t you keep the wheel for a while?”

“It’s pretty simple stuff,” said Uncle Ramon, deflecting the praise. “All there is to do is keep a straight line just left of the needle. The rudder does the rest.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Luis gave him a long stare.

“Is that so?” my cousin asked.

Uncle Ramon quickly had a response on his tongue. But I could see him pull up short on what he was about to say. Then he hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath, as if he was preparing to swallow his pride.

“I don’t see why you can’t steer for a while later on,” he said, before he exhaled. “As long as the waters stay calm.”

“You mean the way they are right now?” asked Luis, with his eyes lighting up like he’d just lined a pitch into the gap between outfielders.

Uncle Ramon shifted his gaze to Gabriel, who nodded his head. I laughed at watching my uncle try to climb into the backseat as he and Luis switched places. But once we were sitting side by side, the shape and color of Uncle Ramon’s eyes reminded me too much of Papi’s and I stopped laughing.

For the next half hour or so, Luis held the wheel with Gabriel guiding him. Uncle Ramon broke out a supply of PowerBars he’d “borrowed” from Moyano’s secret stash behind the counter in the players’ cafeteria. I enjoyed every bite. Then I used the silver wrapper to reflect the sun into Luis’s eyes as he steered.

“Go on, keep distracting your cousin like that,” Uncle Ramon warned me. “A few degrees off and we could wind up in the Bahamas instead of Miami.”

“That might not be the worst thing in the world,” I said, focusing on the waves in the distance. “We’d still be free, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes, but it would be one more obstacle to your papi’s helping us,” he answered.

“I don’t know how much help I need,” I countered. “I already know how to be a busboy.”

Over the next few hours the sun got much stronger. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky or a shred of wind. After a while, that Buick started to bake. The temperature inside must have gone up at least twenty degrees, with the windshield acting like a giant magnifying glass, intensifying the rays. The air got so heavy I could barely breathe.

Bathed in sweat, I tried to climb onto the roof outside to escape that oven. But as soon as I touched my hand to the green metal, I yanked it back, my fingers burning.

“It’s on fire up there,” I said, pouring some of our drinking water on my hand to ease the pain.

“It’s a piece of sheet metal. You could fry an egg on that roof right now,” said Gabriel, in a tone that suggested I should have known better. “That’s why I brought along what’s under the rear seat.”

I reached down and felt the big plastic tarp. With Luis and me working from opposite windows, we unrolled it across the roof of the Buick. Meanwhile, Uncle Ramon grabbed a bucket meant to bail out the car/boat in case it leaked. He leaned outside and filled it with ocean water, before dumping it onto the tarp. Then my cousin and I stretched ourselves out on the roof, like we were on a beach blanket back home in Matanzas.

Gabriel passed up to us a tube of heavy-duty sunblock, and we rubbed it into our faces and bare chests. It was beautiful riding on top of that Buick, with nothing in sight but the horizon up ahead. Then, out of nowhere, a school of flying fish put on a show for us, jumping out of the water and taking flight before vanishing beneath the waves.

“This is what it’s going to be like in Miami,” Luis said. “The two of us sitting on top of the world like a pair of princes.”

“You think?”

“Of course. Who else is your papi going to spend his time and money on?”

“That’s a good point,” I replied, as the heat building up below that tarp started to seep through to the surface.

16

I WAS LYING flat on my back with my eyes closed when I heard a splash. Then I thought I heard Luis’s voice laughing and full of joy. But after I opened my eyes and the sun’s glare cleared, I realized Luis was still beside me on the roof of that Buick.

“The water feels amazing!” shouted Uncle Ramon, swimming alongside the car/boat. “It’s cold, but it feels great! Did you see my cannonball?”

“No, I missed it,” Luis called back in excitement.

Uncle Ramon’s voice sounded so much younger, and almost exactly like Luis’s, as he floated in the ocean.

“I saw your cannonball!” said Gabriel, laughing out loud from behind the wheel. “You should have seen it, Luis! Your father made a huge splash, bigger than El Presidente lowering himself into his bathtub.”

Uncle Ramon looked so satisfied and free, I couldn’t stay on that roof for another second. So I took off my sneakers, lifted my arms up over my head, and then dove in.

A chill hit every part of me. A million goose bumps tingled on my skin. My eyes were closed as I went down deeper, straight as an arrow. Then my momentum stopped. I knew that I couldn’t be anywhere near the bottom. So I opened my eyes, craning my neck upward. I saw a glimmer of light above me. As a long stream of air bubbles escaped from my nostrils, I propelled myself toward it. I broke the surface and took a deep breath, with the taste of salt water dripping from my lips.

“Neither of you are worried about sharks?” asked Luis.

Uncle Ramon shook his head and said, “There’s no fear in me today. I won’t allow it. And I’m here to protect your cousin.”

“Sharks want whales and barracuda. Not little guppies like us,” I said.

“This is our ocean now,” said Uncle Ramon. “We’ll enjoy it. Right, Julio?”

“We should all be enjoying it,” I answered, swimming toward the Buick.

“I’d love to be out there,” said Luis. “But I’m a terrible swimmer.”

Climbing back into the car/boat, I grabbed the long nylon rope beneath the front seat. I already knew that Uncle Ramon wasn’t getting out of the water if Luis jumped in. So the rest had to be on me.

I took the rope and tied it around Luis’s waist before he handed me the watch from his belt loop for safekeeping.

“This is crazy,” said Luis as I doubled the knot.

“Fishermen in China teach their kids to swim this way,” said Gabriel.

“We’re not going to China. We’re going to Miami,” said Luis, still hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

Without warning, I shoved Luis into the water.

He came back up to the surface with a cough, spitting out seawater and flailing his arms.

“Relax and you’ll float naturally,” Uncle Ramon told him.

I wouldn’t leave any slack in the rope. At some point Luis stopped swimming and just held on to it.

“I feel like you’re fishing and I’m the bait,” said Luis.

“Do you want me to pull you in?” I asked.

“Not yet. I want to be as brave as my father,” he answered.

“No fear. Verdad, Luis?” asked Uncle Ramon.

“Verdad,” replied Luis.

Gabriel showed no interest in swimming.

“I’ve been in the water too much in my life,” he said, from the driver’s seat. “If I had my choice, I’d rather learn how to fly. It’s always been a dream of mine.”

Within a few minutes, Luis and Uncle Ramon got out of the ocean. We were all back inside the Buick, looking to escape the sun for a while.

“Enough fun,” said my uncle, with beads of salt water clinging to his bronze shoulder blades. “Now this ocean needs to take us to the States. We must be getting much closer.”

“Maybe halfway,” said Gabriel, studying the horizon.

“It’s been almost twenty hours,” said Luis, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper that was completely drenched. “The girls from the beach at Cárdenas, their phone number—it’s ruined. I can’t read this.”

“Forget about the girls you knew in Cuba,” Uncle Ramon told him. “I know it’s hard to think about at your age, boys, but the women in your future, the ones who are going to have your children one day, they’re what’s important now. Because your own sons are going to be born free. That’s a gift I couldn’t give to you, Luis—a gift my brother’s trying to give us now.”

Deep down, I understood that speech made plenty of sense. But right then, I didn’t want to hear about any gift Papi was giving me. Because I knew now I was at best second-in-line behind his new son. I might have been even third or fourth, if Papi had been super busy since he’d gone. And I resented the fact that I had to risk my ass for freedom while some kid called Little Smoke had it before he took a dump in his first diaper.

A few hours went past, and the waters were getting choppy again. The hottest part of the day was over. But I got a reminder of how intense those rays had been when my back and shoulders touched the seat. I hadn’t used any of Gabriel’s sunblock on those spots. And I could feel the stinging burn now.

“Look out there!” cried Luis. “What’s that floating?”

It looked to me like a little island, barely big enough for one person to stand on. For an instant, I thought about jumping in and swimming to it. Only I didn’t need to. Instead, the waves brought it right to us.

“It’s three coconuts connected to some palm leaves,” said Uncle Ramon, who scooped them out of the water.

“They had to fall off a tree somewhere,” I said. “Maybe one that’s close by.”

“It’s possible,” said Gabriel, with the horizon still empty. “Or maybe they’ve been out here longer than we have.”

“Think we should keep them?” Uncle Ramon asked, after he stripped the palm leaves and held up the coconuts, which were still in their green casings. “If so, somebody’s going to have to do the hard work of splitting them open.”

“Of course we should keep them,” said Luis, taking them into the backseat. “There’s milk inside. What if we run out of drinking water?”

“Do whatever you want,” said Gabriel. “Personally, I wouldn’t waste the energy. If we’re out here long enough to run out of water, a few ounces of coconut milk aren’t going to save us.”

But Luis held on to them anyway, and started cutting away at their casings using a small knife that Gabriel gave him from the glove compartment.

Later on, we had dried apricots and figs for dinner. I could have eaten each one in a single bite. Only I decided to take my time, making our meal last, like we were a real family sitting around a kitchen table at home. Then I thought about Mama and Lola. How I might never share another meal with them again. And even though I was still hungry, I told Luis, “You can finish my figs, Primo. I know they’re your favorite.”

A few minutes before sunset, a commercial jet roared through the sky maybe three or four miles to the west. That’s when Gabriel and I exchanged a look, like we both wished we had wings to fly.

“We’ve only been out here twenty-three and a half hours. Less than a whole day,” said Luis. “How could it be sunset?”

“That’s a good thing,” replied Gabriel. “It means we’re making progress, moving north. Night falls in Florida before it does in Cuba, because of the curve of the earth.”

The darker it got, the more the wind and the waves picked up. A ton of clouds moved in. That left us with less than half the light we had from the moon and stars the night before. So Gabriel’s compass became even more important.

Sooner or later, I knew it was coming. I wouldn’t mention it first for anything. But after a couple of hours, Uncle Ramon said to me, “Take out the transistor. Let’s hear the game. It should be in the fourth or fifth inning by now.”

I was just happy to miss the pregame stuff, when an announcer was more likely to mention something about Papi’s new son again.

It’s the bottom of the second inning here at Yankee Stadium. . . .

“Second inning?” Luis said, checking his watch. “Maybe they were delayed by rain.”

“No, it’s more than that,” said Uncle Ramon. “Listen to those fans cheering. They’re wired.”

It’s been an offensive onslaught early on. And it’s been all Yankees. The Bronx Bombers are living up to their nickname. They lead it eleven to nothing already, scoring seven runs here in the second inning, adding to the four runs they scored in the first. Still, runners on second and third for the Yanks with just one out here.

“Turn it off, Julio. I can’t listen to any more,” said Uncle Ramon. “We’ll turn it back on later. Maybe Miami will make the score closer, salvage some self-respect. But this game’s over.”

“It’s all about tomorrow night now,” added Luis, still hacking away at the trio of coconuts. “About who’ll win Game Five, and go up three games to two.”

I was happy to turn off the transistor. I was even happier the Marlins were losing big. That way there’d be practically no chance of Papi getting into the game. So whenever I did turn it back on, the announcers would be talking about the personal lives of other players instead.

17

HOURS PASSED AND the waves started to get stronger. The Buick began to really rock. I was bouncing around in the back, worse than in any school bus I’d ever ridden on.

“I feel like an American cowboy in one of those rodeos,” said Luis, bouncing as much as me. “Only their rides last just ten seconds or less.”

“Better hold on to your coconuts then,” I told him.

“That’s right,” said Uncle Ramon. “Ten seconds is nothing to us. We’re Cuban cowboys. We’ve got major-league cojones, made of steel. We’ll take this ride for days if we have to. There’s no quit in us. That’s why the Marlins are going to win the Series. They’ll ride out their rough patch, too. Julio, check the game.”

“What’s the use?” I asked.

“I want to see if they’ve closed the gap,” said Uncle Ramon. “What kind of guts they have.”

“They’re just ballplayers,” I said. “We’ve got the guts. We’re the ones defecting.”

“You mean, like your papi?” he countered.

I didn’t want to argue anymore. So I turned on the transistor, waiting to hear if things would get bumpier.

Seventh-inning stretch and what a night it’s been for the Yankees. They lead the Marlins by an American football score, fourteen to three. They’ve pounded every Miami pitcher to take the mound tonight, and I don’t believe the Marlins will be wasting any of their better bullpen arms in this one. I think they’ve already conceded. . . .

Uncle Ramon waved his hand in disgust, and I took it as a signal to put the radio away. After that, there was nothing but the sound of the waves crashing. And I was satisfied in keeping my secret for at least another night.

I was the only one who hadn’t steered the Buick yet. I wasn’t about to ask now, though. Not in heavy seas. But I was sitting right behind Gabriel, watching him grip the wheel and imagining how it would feel to set my own course. Then I squeezed my own hands tighter, as if they were wrapped around a wooden baseball bat.

– – –

I closed my eyes and could see myself walking up to home plate. I’m not sure when things blurred for me, but they blended from a daydream to a sleeping dream. As I settled into the batter’s box, wiping out the chalky back line with the heel of my spikes, I could hear the voices of the crowd echoing from the stands. It wasn’t the sound of cheers. But there weren’t any boos either.

A catcher was in a deep crouch behind me. I could see him out of the corner of my right eye, and hear him pounding his mitt. I wasn’t sure whether there was a home-plate umpire or not. And I wasn’t about to turn around to find out, instead keeping my concentration on the left-handed pitcher on the mound.

The bases were loaded, and the runners took their leads. The pitcher glared in for the catcher’s sign. As he lifted his head, beneath the brim of his cap, I saw that it was Papi. Either he didn’t recognize me or he didn’t care. He nodded his head to the sign and was practically breathing fire. I didn’t have any choice. I knew what kind of heat was coming. So I steeled myself, with all of my senses ready to react.

Papi toed the pitching rubber. Then he brought his hands together, set, with the baseball hidden inside his glove. I could even read his name stitched along the thumb in script—El Fuego.

His right leg kicked out. Then he dropped his weight down, and drove forward with the lower half of his body. His left arm whipped over his head. And suddenly, the white baseball was in my eyes. It was flying at me so fast the red seams looked as sharp as razors. So I started my wrists forward and brought around the bat head.

First I heard the crack of the ball off the bat. Then I felt the vibrations traveling through my hands. It was like the sting of bees, wrenching my fingers from the inside.

The baseball rocketed right back at Papi.

For an instant, we were both frozen in time—me at home plate and him on the mound—with that ball lined directly at his chest.

When I realized he’d never get his hands up in time, I felt an immense surge of satisfaction. But as the ball struck him, Papi disappeared in a puff of smoke.

– – –

I lurched forward in my seat, waking up with a start.

“Julio, are you all right? You were asleep,” said Uncle Ramon.

“I’m fine,” I said, with my heart still pounding.

“Were you dreaming about girls or defecting?” asked Luis.

“Neither,” I answered, still trying to get my bearings. “It was baseball.”

“That’s dedication,” said my cousin, who was working on freeing the second coconut from its casing. “If I had your natural talent, I wouldn’t be dreaming about baseball. I’d be dreaming about everything baseball could get me, like a fat contract full of US dollars.”

“Believe me, son, if you had a connection to the game like Julio,” Uncle Ramon said, “it would take over your life. Part of it would be pleasure. The other part would be fear of not making it. That what you have inside isn’t good enough, especially when you have to live up to a legend like his papi.”

I looked my uncle square in the eyes and said, “I don’t need to live up to anything Papi’s done. He’s not my hero.”

“Men aren’t supposed to be heroes. They’re supposed to be men,” said Gabriel, still glued to his compass with the waters getting even rougher. “That means they’re going to have flaws, sometimes serious ones. Even the legends.”

“It’s been six hard years. Perhaps you feel like you don’t know him now,” said Uncle Ramon, returning my gaze until a jolt from a wave broke our eyes apart.

“I don’t know him,” I said, with some gas to my voice. “Neither do you.”

“I know he’s not a stranger. He’s my brother, my blood, just like you are.”

Then Luis came between us with some stupid comment about his own special talent.

“Having a girl on every beach in Miami. That’s what I’m going to be known for,” he said.

Gabriel laughed loudly over that, while Uncle Ramon scoffed at his son’s so-called purpose in life. Luis took it all with an easy smile, rolling with the tide. That’s when I started to wonder if my cousin’s real purpose at the moment wasn’t to get me out of that conflict with Uncle Ramon.

A few minutes later, Luis said to me, “I never took baseball too seriously. But there is something I really love about it.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s no clock. No time limit,” he answered. “A game could go into extra innings and take forever to play out. Other sports, you know when the end is coming. Time runs out. Baseball’s got some magic to it that way. No one can say exactly when it’s going to be over. So things can always change.”

I nodded my head, surprised that Luis even thought about such things.

Sometime around midnight, the wind picked up enough that we had to close all the windows. It was the first time I started to feel boxed in inside that Buick. None of us had showered for more than a day, and there was a growing funk in the air.

I turned on my side, away from the rest of them. Then I tucked my mouth and nose into the crook of my arm, preferring the smell of my own stink to anyone else’s.

18

SUNRISE CAME. ONLY it was still dark outside. The sky was a dense gray, while the clouds were black and multiplying.

“Those are storm clouds—violent ones,” said Gabriel. “I’ve got lots of experience with them on the ocean, and none of it’s good.”

A moment later, the first jagged bolt of lightning ripped through the sky. A few seconds after that, a booming clap of thunder pounded at my eardrums.

“Can we get electrocuted out here?” asked Luis nervously. “What if lightning hits the car or the water around us?”

“That’s the least of our worries,” replied Gabriel, who was suddenly in a struggle with the steering wheel attached to the rudder. “We’re in a big metal box—that’ll protect us.”

“And that’s enough?” Luis followed up.

“Electricity will run through the metal and into the water, grounding us. That’s science. Sometimes you just have to trust in it,” Gabriel said, as another thunderclap echoed inside the Buick.

“When I was young, my mother told me thunder was the angels bowling in heaven,” said Uncle Ramon. “That it was the sound of them knocking down all ten pins, getting a strike.”

“Mama told me that story, too,” I said.

“Angels bowling?” mocked Gabriel. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

The next coupling of lightning and thunder was almost simultaneous.

“I think that means we’re moving closer to the center of the storm,” Uncle Ramon said.

“Or it’s moving closer to us,” I added.

“Well, we’ve had thirty-seven good hours. We can deal with some rough weather,” said Luis. “How long could a storm like this last?”

Gabriel didn’t offer him an answer.

– – –

I thought I knew what big waves were before that day. I didn’t. Every time I believed that Buick couldn’t rise any higher on a crest, it did. Then we’d fall off the top and into the watery canyon below. It was like a bad ride at an amusement park that had gone out of control and wouldn’t stop.

“They must have used broom handles for shock absorbers on this thing,” said Luis as we bounced around the cabin.

Then Luis started to get sick to his stomach again. Only this time there was no open window for him to hang his head out of, not without us getting flooded by those waves.

Uncle Ramon had one hand pressed up against the ceiling, trying to steady himself. In his other hand he held the compass, while Gabriel wrestled with the wheel to keep us on course.

“We’re headed west now! Turn right!” shouted Uncle Ramon, an instant before he passed me the compass.

There were four hands on the steering wheel now, as Gabriel and Uncle Ramon both did battle with it.

I watched the needle and called out directions to them: Right! Left! Straight! That must have gone on for fifteen minutes. In the middle of it all, one of those damn coconuts flew across the cabin and clonked me in the head.

“Luis, you idiot! Get rid of those things!” I screamed.

But with the windows closed, it was all he could do to shove them down beneath the rear seat.

The sweat was pouring down Uncle Ramon’s face. He was leaning so far over, he was almost on Gabriel’s back. That’s when his right arm must have caught a cramp.

“Augh!” Uncle Ramon cried, letting go of the wheel.

Suddenly, we were spinning in circles. There were no more directions for me to call out, because we were headed in every one. The compass needle was turning as fast as we were. And I couldn’t look at it without getting dizzy.

I reached for my seat belt, but I couldn’t get it into the buckle.

Then, for an instant, everything went black as a wall of water swallowed the Buick. I don’t know if I was praying. But oh God were the only words I could find until we came out on the other side of it, still in one piece.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The Buick began to vibrate, like a steel hammer behind us was striking it from side to side.

“That must be the rudder coming loose,” said Gabriel, gauging his words. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt us too bad.”

In my mind, I kept seeing the Buick splitting in two and the four of us being separated on the ocean. It wouldn’t have even mattered who could swim and who couldn’t, because the waves were going to take you wherever they wanted.

Every time I heard Gabriel’s voice, I thought back to the story he’d told—about surviving that storm on the raft when he was a kid. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind at that moment. And if he wasn’t scared out of his wits, then he was putting on a good show to keep the rest of us from going into a complete panic.

The water outside was churning with whitecaps. It felt like someone had just tossed the Buick into a giant washing machine. I could feel the tide pulling us down and then the inflatable rubber balloons on each side of the car/boat buoying us back up.

It went on that way for probably three or four hours. I can’t say for sure, because Luis didn’t give us a time-check once. Maybe he couldn’t read his watch as we spun. Or maybe he didn’t want to torture us with knowing how long we were being tossed around. At some point, though, I felt almost immune to it, like my body had adjusted itself through some kind of internal gyroscope.

– – –

The first hint that it was ending came when the wind’s howl died down. Not long after that, spears of sunlight broke through the cloud cover, reaching the water. Then the waves got smaller and came farther and farther apart.

“Is it over, or do you think we just sailed through it?” asked Uncle Ramon.

“Either way, it’s put us somewhere,” answered Gabriel, who looked completely wiped out from the battle.

My uncle, who hadn’t shaved in probably three days, didn’t look any better. And it was the first time I’d noticed gray hairs in his budding, sandpaper beard.

“You think the storm pushed us forward or back?” I asked, before I rolled open my window and swallowed a big breath of fresh air.

“There’s really no way of telling,” answered Gabriel, as I handed him back the compass. “All we can do is keep heading north and slightly west.”

With the sun’s return, the heat started to build again. Luis went back to work on that last coconut. I shot him a glare while I rubbed the lump on my head.

“Don’t worry,” he said to me. “If we need to split one open, we’ll use my noggin this time.”

I didn’t comment back, but it was exactly what I was thinking.

A few hours later, Uncle Ramon broke the calm.

“Ship!” he shouted. “Off to the right! There’s a ship on the horizon!”

“Where?” I asked.

“I see it!” screamed Luis, pointing in that direction. “Way out there. See? It’s small. It looks like a smoking cigar on the water.”

It was maybe ten or twelve miles off, steaming away from us.

“Should we shoot the flares?” asked Luis. “Signal that we’re here?”

“Can you make out any markings on it?” Gabriel asked Uncle Ramon. “A flag? Anything?”

“No, I can’t,” he answered, with his voice dropping low in disappointment. “And I know what you’re thinking. The storm could have pushed us anywhere. That ship might even be Cuban.”

“It couldn’t be,” I said. “We’ve been out here too long.”

“Forty-five hours,” said Luis. “Nearly two whole days.”

“If it’s not a US ship, it’s risky to give ourselves up,” Gabriel said, continuing on our course. “Captains from other countries might get orders to turn us over to Cuban authorities, just to make it easy on themselves.”

That seemed to end any potential argument. And within a few minutes, that ship had sailed out of sight.

When the Buick was almost out of gas, I grabbed the extra ten-gallon container and climbed out onto the trunk. I leaned over the tail fin, connected the spout to the opening of the fuel tank, and tipped the red plastic container back.

Out of nowhere, a seagull started circling. I watched him make four or five passes, with his eyes seemingly glued to mine. Once the container was empty, I took a half-eaten energy bar from my pocket and broke off a small piece. Then I tossed it onto the roof. Without ever touching down, the bird scooped up the morsel with its beak.

I was hoping he’d fly off in the same direction we were headed. But he flew from the glare of the sinking sun into a thick bank of clouds before I lost him.

“Nephew, we have less than half our food and water left,” said Uncle Ramon. “Are you going to waste even a single crumb on a seagull?”

“Maybe Julio was luring the bird in. So we could eat him,” said Luis.

“That wasn’t it at all,” I said. “I was trying to bribe him.”

“Bribe him?” asked Uncle Ramon, confused.

“I was thinking he might give Gabriel flying lessons one day.”

“That’s nice of you, Julio,” Gabriel said, with a widening grin. “But that’s something every man has to learn for himself.”

Inside of the next hour, the sun went down over the horizon.

“That’s three minutes earlier than yesterday,” said Luis, excitedly.

“So the storm didn’t push us back,” said Uncle Ramon.

“No, but it could have blown us sideways,” said Gabriel.

Still, we hadn’t moved toward Cuba. And that was enough to send us into a celebration where we each ate and drank more than was rationed out for that night.

I put off tuning into the game for as long as possible. But eventually, Uncle Ramon wore me down.

Top of the fifth inning here at Yankee Stadium in a swift-moving contest. The Marlins lead Game Five by a score of one to nothing on a solo home run back in the second inning. Other than that, the pitchers have dominated this evening, with a brisk wind blowing in from right field. . . .

“See, it’s a pitcher’s night,” said Uncle Ramon. “Your papi’s probably going to play a big part in this one. Maybe save it. Mark my words.”

Over the next four torturous innings, the Marlins had base runners everywhere. They even had a man on third base with less than two outs—twice. But they couldn’t get either of those runners home, while the Yankee hitters went down quietly, one after another.

If the Marlins were going to win, I wanted them to blow the game wide open. I didn’t want to hear a single word about Papi saving the day. I didn’t want him to be the hero. Not mine and not anybody else’s. But when the bottom of the ninth inning finally arrived, the score hadn’t changed.

To a chorus of sustained boos from Yankees fans, Julio Ramirez completes that long walk from the bullpen to the mound. If El Fuego, perhaps Cuba’s greatest pitcher ever, can shut the door on the Bombers, the Marlins will take a three-games-to-two lead back to Miami. They’ll be just one game away from a World Series Championship. And even as Ramirez kicks at the dirt around the rubber with his spikes, that much-talked-about intensity and passion appear to be already at full throttle. . . .

“That’s his Cuban blood running hot,” said Uncle Ramon. “Where we come from, you either have desire or you die a nobody.”

“Matanzas!” cried Luis.

“Victory!” shouted my uncle.

I nodded my head and clapped my hands. But somewhere in the darkest part of my heart, I was rooting for Papi to get hammered on that mound.

19

AS THE GAME played on the transistor, I yanked the third coconut from Luis’s grasp. I wedged the fingers of both of my hands into the opening he’d made. Then, using all my strength, I tore away the green casing with a grunt.

“There, now all three of them have their shells exposed,” I said, shoving it back at him. “Crack them open anytime you want.”

“Yeah? I thought you wanted me to chuck them,” said Luis.

But I wouldn’t get into it with him, and didn’t respond.

Ramirez ahead in the count, no balls and two strikes, on the Yankees’ right-handed-hitting third baseman. Here’s the windup and the pitch. Swing and a miss. El Fuego blew it right by him for strike three. One out in the bottom of the ninth. . . .

“My brother’s untouchable in situations like this,” said Uncle Ramon, his voice ringing with confidence. “And when you add on the thought of being World Champion? I wouldn’t want to be any of these hitters right now.”

“He’s bringing the fire,” said Gabriel.

“That’s because it’s burning inside him,” said my uncle. “Since he was a kid.”

Strike one to the Yankees’ right fielder. The former Japanese all-star standing in against the former Cuban National. Ramirez right back to the rubber. He gets his sign from the catcher and quickly goes into his windup. The pitch—an absolute BB on the outside corner, strike two. That registered one hundred and one on the radar gun. No wonder the batter let it go by. Ramirez ready to go again. But the hitter steps out of the batter’s box, asking for time, trying to disrupt Ramirez’s rhythm. He’s back in now. El Fuego focused and into his delivery. Oh, and Ramirez got him to chase one out of the strike zone. Strike three!

“Uno mas,” said Uncle Ramon, pumping a fist in the air. “Just one more out!”

All I knew was that Papi was about to be a hero in front of the whole world, and I didn’t want to hear it happen.

Here’s the first pitch to the Yankees’ left fielder. He swings and it’s a high chopper over the pitcher’s head. Ramirez spears at it. Oh, it deflects off his glove. The runner’s safe at first. And suddenly, the Yankees have life. If Ramirez had only let that ball go. His second baseman was right there. It looked to be a sure out. Now the tying run is on first base. . . .

“Come on, my brother. Trust in your teammates to do their jobs,” said Uncle Ramon, as if the transistor was a one-way microphone feeding directly into Papi’s ears.

The crowd’s into it now, and here’s the Yankees’ first baseman stepping to the plate. Ramirez working from the stretch. He deals. First-pitch swing. And there’s a long drive to left field. It’s off the wall and right back to the left fielder. Here’s the relay throw. The runner’s being held up by the third-base coach. The batter chugs into second with a double. And listen to the voices of the Yankee faithful in the stands. . . .

“Can you pray for an out in a baseball game?” asked Luis. “Is that allowed?”

“If it isn’t, I earned a ticket to hell before I was fifteen,” said Uncle Ramon flatly.

Then Gabriel turned away from the wheel and said, “You can pray for whatever moves you. And Ramon, I don’t believe your passion for baseball will bring you to the gates of hell.”

The designated hitter to the plate for the Yankees now. The tying run is at third. The winning run at second. . . .

The vibrations from the sound of the radio ran through my arm. I gazed out the window into the darkness. Then my eyes settled on a star—one almost off by itself, one that seemed to be burning around its edges.

Ramirez undoubtedly wishing he’d kept his glove off that chopper up the middle. That was the error that began this potential Yankees rally. But it’s a decision he’ll have to live with, and here we are with high drama in the Bronx. El Fuego goes into his stretch. There’s one high and tight. Ball one. The crowd booing as Ramirez brushes the Yankees’ DH back. Ramirez glaring in. He quickly comes set again. Here’s the next pitch. He swings. It’s ripped into right center! It’s rolling back to the wall. Both base runners score. And the Yankees win! The Yankees win! They now own a three-games-to-two lead in this best-of-seven series, with the scene shifting back to Miami in two days. Oh, how fortunes can change in the space of just a few pitches. . . .

Sinking into the backseat, I shut off the transistor. I struggled to keep any expression at all off my face. Part of me was smiling on the inside, thrilled that Papi had blown the save and taken his lumps. But another part of me felt like a complete traitor—a traitor to my family, and to whatever ties I had left to Cuba. And I kept feeling both of those opposing sides as the Buick rose and fell with the waves.

Uncle Ramon was quiet for a good while after that loss. Then, finally, he said, “Don’t worry, Julio. Your papi will be all right. There are still two more games left. And pitchers like him, they have a short memory. They need to. It’s the only way they can move forward. Wipe the slate clean and go out to the mound next time and be focused.”

Those words—short memory—stuck with me like a huge boulder tied around my neck. I thought about sharing that weight with Uncle Ramon, telling him about Papi’s new son. But in the end, it was my burden to carry.

“I think you described Papi perfectly,” I said. “I don’t believe he has any problem putting things behind him.”

“Life’s always into the future, never backward,” said Uncle Ramon. “There’s no stopping that.”

“The world could spin ten times faster,” said Luis. “I’d never forget my mother.”

Uncle Ramon nodded his head in silence.

After a moment, Gabriel said, “It’s where we’ve been and what we take with us that count.”

“You sure you’re a fisherman, and not a philosopher?” I asked him.

“There’s lots of time to think on the ocean. The way it pushes and pulls you,” Gabriel replied.

“Maybe that’s what the tides and currents are all about,” said Luis.

That’s when I looked at my cousin like he might have been a professor, if he’d had the chance to go to school without any females around to distract him.

Sometime around midnight, Luis announced, “It’s been fifty-three hours.”

“Your papi’s probably on a plane home already,” Uncle Ramon told me. “I wonder who’s closer to Miami right now, him or us?”

I didn’t have an answer. But for a while after that, I was drawing lines in my head on an imaginary map—one line for Papi’s plane, and one for the Buick. Sometimes those lines intersected in Miami. Other times they were miles apart. Only no matter what, none of them ever took a straight course.

Later on, around three o’clock in the morning, I was drifting in and out of sleep. On the surface, the waters were calm. And except for the muffled sound of the engine, everything inside the cabin was quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, the Buick was broadsided. I felt a blast of power shake me from left to right. For an instant, we were up in the air, and I swore we were going to flip over, like a turtle on its back.

“Hold tight!” screamed Gabriel, from behind the wheel.

I could hear the cries of my uncle and cousin, too. But I couldn’t make any sense of them. My brain was shaking inside my skull. And all I could think was that another car had run a red light, slamming my passenger door. Then I remembered where we were, and thought maybe a huge ship had collided with us.

The Buick splashed back down, right side up. And just as suddenly, everything was peaceful again.

Uncle Ramon reached into the rear, grabbing Luis and me by the arm.

“Are you boys all right?” he asked.

We both nodded before looking out the windows for the lights of whatever had pounded us. Only there was nothing at eye level except darkness.

“What the hell was that?” Uncle Ramon asked Gabriel.

“Maybe it was some kind of sea monster,” said Luis, who sounded like he was only half joking.

“My best guess is a rogue wave—a small one,” answered Gabriel, still getting himself together. “A big one would have capsized us for sure, and then buried us beneath a ton of water.”

“A rogue wave?” I asked.

“Strong currents and winds, even miles away, can cause them. Those pressures clash head-to-head, building, until all that force rises up. And when it does, you don’t want to be in its path.”

“Like a wave on steroids,” Uncle Ramon said. “One with ’roid rage?”

“Sounds right,” said Gabriel.

“But everything was so smooth and calm,” Luis said.

“It’s a reminder of where we are. Of what can happen at any moment,” said Uncle Ramon. “It’s not that different from living in Cuba.”

“It is a reminder,” I said, “that sucker punches like that can come no matter where you are.”

20

THE BACK OF my eyelids were filled with orange light. So even though my eyes were still shut, I knew that the sun had come up. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in days. The worst taste in the world was living inside my mouth. I opened my lips a crack to suck in some fresh air, trying to diffuse it.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my upper arm in a frenzy. I figured we were about to be slammed by another monster wave, and my entire body tensed.

It was Luis, and he shouted, “Land! I think that’s land!”

He was pointing straight ahead into the distance. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus. Uncle Ramon was awake now, too, jumping up and blocking my view. But when I finally was able to see over his shoulder, I saw that Luis was right.

There were tall buildings and a beach, maybe four or five miles away.

Only Gabriel was sitting calmly behind the steering wheel.

“When were you going to let us know?” Uncle Ramon asked him excitedly.

“At first, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. That I wasn’t dreaming,” answered Gabriel, with a look of satisfaction. “Then I decided that I didn’t want to cheat you out of that moment of seeing it for yourselves.”

“Is it Miami?” I asked.

“We won’t know for sure until we’re there,” answered Gabriel, pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

“Pinch me, Julio,” said Luis. “I want to know that this is for real, not a dream.”

“All right, but you don’t need to pinch me,” I replied. “None of my dreams have been this good lately.”

Getting closer, we could see windsurfers on their boards. Luis and I climbed up onto the roof of the car/boat and started waving. Then a cluster of windsurfers gathered, before turning their sails around and heading toward us.

“Think they’re excited to meet Cuban refugees?” Luis asked.

“No, I think they’ve never seen a green fifty-nine Buick before,” I answered.

That’s when I heard the siren. There was a big gray ship, probably a mile off, closing in from our right. I could see the US flag on its side.

Gabriel hit his horn in return, and the sound waves vibrated through the soles of my feet.

“You see the red, white, and blue?” asked Luis.

I nodded my head, thinking how it was the same three colors as the Cuban flag, only with fifty small stars instead of a single giant one.

A voice came over the ship’s loudspeaker in Spanish.

“This is the United States Coast Guard!” it bellowed, with an echo. “You are in US waters! Shut off your engine! Put your hands on top of your head!”

– – –

“Have we made it far enough to stay?” I asked my uncle, leaning down into the cabin. “Not to get sent back?”

Uncle Ramon climbed onto the roof with us, while Gabriel kept driving with the engine still running.

“Gabriel thinks this is good enough,” said Uncle Ramon.

“How could it be better?” I asked.

“If we were standing on US soil,” he answered.

The voice on the loudspeaker repeated its demands. Then that ship launched a smaller, faster boat, full of uniformed men.

“I’m not taking any chances,” I said. “I’m going to swim for the beach.”

Luis told his father, “You go, too. Maybe it’ll help us all.”

“No way I’ll leave you here,” my uncle said, an instant before I dove into the water.

I was swimming in a straight line, as fast as I could, riding every wave to pick up speed. Gabriel finally shut off his engine. Glancing back, I could see them all with their hands on their heads.

That smaller boat reached the Buick, and now a second one was motoring after me. I was kicking my legs harder, reaching with every stroke. I was already exhausted. But there was no way I was going to stop.

Ahead of me, one of the windsurfers had broken away from the others, coming in my direction. He reached out a hand, like he wanted to pull me onto his board. But I kept on swimming.

“Behöver hjälp?” he asked, lowering the sail and paddling alongside me.

I didn’t know what language that was. All I knew was that it wasn’t English. And that really freaked me out, like I might be swimming toward the wrong shore.

That boat was getting closer, and I’d reached a group of windsurfers, maybe a hundred yards off the beach. I was so focused on going forward that my brain couldn’t link together their words. But my ears understood they were speaking both English and Spanish to me.

My arms felt like limp rubber bands, and my lungs ached until I thought they were going to explode. Then, about fifty yards out, I heard the cheers from the people on the beach. And that sound gave me an added surge of strength.

I heard the motor of that boat getting closer. So I turned my head to see where it was. That’s when a wave broke overtop me and I swallowed a mouthful of seawater.

I was closer to the shore than that boat was to me. I was choking and gagging now. Someone grabbed me around the shoulders and started dragging me in. But as soon as it was shallow enough for my feet to touch the bottom, I got myself free from that person’s grasp and propelled myself toward the sand.

Before I knew it my chest was out of the water, and then my waist. I staggered onto the dry sand, falling to my knees. I touched the ground like it was home plate and I’d been rounding the bases. Only I wasn’t safe. I was free.

The applause and the motor were ringing in my ears.

I collapsed face-first into the sand, and it stuck all around my lips and mouth. I’d seen photos of people kissing the ground, grateful to be somewhere. But this was different. I could taste it.

Then someone in the crowd turned me over, putting something ice-cold into my hand.

“Drink. Drink,” a woman said in English.

I looked and it was a can of Pepsi.

The sound of the motor stopped and the circle of people around me opened. A man, maybe in his early thirties, with a complexion that looked like mine, came walking through. He was wearing a blue uniform and hat, with a holstered pistol strapped to his right hip.

I put the can down into the sand, before I ever took a sip. Then I held out both my wrists, expecting him to handcuff me.

He stood over me with his hands on his hips. Then in Spanish he said, “I’m Chief Petty Officer Sebastian Rodriguez. You sail from Cuba? Looking for asylum?”

I nodded, with the salt water dripping from my chin.

“You didn’t have to swim so fast. Once you hit the water, I wasn’t going to stop you from reaching shore. I’m just glad you didn’t drown. Do you need a doctor?”

I shook my head. And when I finally caught my breath, I asked, “You won’t send them back, my family in the car/boat?”

“It’s not up to me,” he answered. “There’s a government agency—Immigration and Naturalization Service. They take care of that. But unless you’re terrorists, you’ll probably all be allowed to remain. Basically, it’s your reward for surviving the trip.”

“I’m not a terrorist,” I said. “I’m a shortstop.”

“That’s always better,” he said, smiling from the corners of his mouth.

I couldn’t believe it. I was actually here, alive and in one piece. It was like being reborn. Every breath seemed new, and even the sun felt different on my skin.

Suddenly, there were more sirens, this time from the street beyond the beach, and the sound of another motor on the ocean in front of me.

Uncle Ramon, Luis, and Gabriel were coming ashore with some officers in a small boat. Then a pair of ambulances and three carloads of agents in blue Windbreakers with the letters INS across the front and back arrived.

Luis leaped onto the sand. He ran up and threw his arms around me.

“How long?” I asked him.

“Sixty-two and a half hours,” he answered through his hug.

“That’s a long trip in a Buick,” said Officer Rodriguez. “Who put that thing together?”

“That was our guardian angel here,” answered Uncle Ramon, kissing Gabriel once on the forehead. “We made it on a wing and a prayer, right?”

“Always,” answered Gabriel, with his hands clasped to heaven.

“My men are checking it over from top to bottom now,” said Officer Rodriguez. “If it’s clean, you’re probably in good shape to stay.”

“Don’t worry. No drugs. No guns,” said Uncle Ramon.

“Just three coconuts waiting to be cracked,” added Luis, lightly punching my arm.

People all over the beach were taking photos of us with their cell phones. But Officer Rodriguez wouldn’t let any of them pose with us.

“Buena suerte con su beisbol,” said Officer Rodriguez, wishing me well before handing us over to a Spanish-speaking INS agent.

“Good luck?” questioned Uncle Ramon. “This is the son of El Fuego, soon-to-be World Champion. He was born with skills.”

That statement brought more cheers and photos from the crowd.

I couldn’t tell by the look on Officer Rodriguez’s face if he’d ever heard of Papi or not. But for some reason, I almost wished he hadn’t.

“Family’s important,” said Officer Rodriguez, with his brown eyes on mine.

Then he turned away and gathered his men, before walking back to his boat.

We didn’t want any medical treatment. So that INS agent took us to his car.

“Excuse me, but what year model is this?” Luis asked him as we got in.

“I believe it’s a twenty-twelve,” he answered.

“Can you imagine that, Cousin? A two thousand and twelve,” Luis said in awe. “I’ll bet you it rides like a dream.”

21

RIDING IN THAT car, I couldn’t take my eyes off the faces of the people on the streets of Miami. The INS agents wouldn’t let me open any windows. But even through the tinted glass, I could see the light in people’s eyes, and how much less weight they carried here. They were young and old, black, white, brown—a few even had hair dyed crazy colors, like orange and purple. But none of them seemed afraid of being who they were. And I just knew that back in Cuba, people would think twice about standing out from the crowd, thinking there was always a chance of getting in trouble over it.

“Julio, what if we see your papi walking around?” asked Luis. “We could jump out of the car and yell, ‘Surprise!’ I swear I’d kiss his feet for getting us here.”

Before I had to come up with a reply, Uncle Ramon said, “El Fuego’s not going to be walking in the streets, not today. He’s going to be at home, resting for the game tomorrow night.”

But I began to wonder—what if we did see Papi on the street? Would he be holding the hand of his new son? Or would he be walking alone, forgetting about his family, the same way he did to Mama, Lola, and me?

Then I noticed the GPS built into the car’s dashboard. I tapped Luis on the shoulder, pointing at it. His eyes opened as wide as mine. Part of me felt like we were finally living in all of those modern movies I’d seen, while another part was already feeling guilty that I was here without my mother and sister.

“We could have used that on the ocean,” Luis said.

“Why? Such little faith in me to guide you?” replied Gabriel, behind a wry smile.

The agent who was driving must have been impatient. Because instead of waiting at a red traffic light, he tapped a switch and the siren let out a short whhaaaa before we went through the intersection. One block later, we turned into an underground parking garage beneath a tall office building. Then an elevator took us up to a third-floor processing center.

The scent of the place tickled my nose. It was unbelievably clean, like someone scrubbed it down with bleach every hour.

Once you got past a long hallway of offices, there was a big open room with hundreds of fluorescent bulbs shining down. Maybe a dozen other refugees were there. And one of the agents said a small group of them had washed ashore from Cuba just a few hours before we had, but that most of them were at a hospital, and in bad shape.

“I have a phone number I need to call,” Gabriel told an agent. “We already have representatives and a sponsor here.”

“I’ll pass that on to my superiors,” said the agent, walking away. “For now, just relax and get comfortable. Your processing will take a while.”

The windows nearly stretched from the floor to the ceiling, letting in lots of light. Only those windows wouldn’t open. Cool air was being pumped in through vents.

Round tables, plastic chairs, and cots dotted the room. The refugees were spread out among them, talking, looking at paperwork, and sleeping. Against the far wall, beneath a framed picture of the Statue of Liberty, there was a table filled with free food. It had coffee, juice, bottled water, and fruit. There was also a tray of packaged treats, including Twinkies, Sno Balls, Suzy Q’s, and Ding Dongs.

I saw those treats and couldn’t help thinking about Lola, who was practically addicted to them. Papi used to buy them for her on the black market—in illegal stores the government didn’t know about—before he defected. After that, we didn’t have the money to waste. But every year on her birthday, Mama and I would scrape up enough to buy her a whole box.

“Hey, Primo. Who would be crazy for one of these?” asked Luis, a moment before shoving an entire Twinkie into his mouth.

“I know,” I answered, losing my appetite.

The agent came back and handed Gabriel a cell phone. I watched as he dialed the number by heart.

“Is that my brother’s number?” Uncle Ramon asked him.

“I’m not sure,” answered Gabriel as it rang. “I’ve never called it before.”

I saw Gabriel’s shoulders lift as someone on the other end picked up. I moved closer to him, trying to hear.

“We’re here. Everyone’s safe, in good health,” Gabriel said. “We’re at the immigration building in Miami.”

I couldn’t make out the voice as Gabriel listened to the short response. Then he gave the agent back his phone and said, “Someone will be here for us very soon.”

“Someone?” asked Uncle Ramon.

Gabriel nodded.

A few minutes later, the agent brought us into an exam room, where a woman doctor in a white lab coat was waiting. She listened to our heartbeats with a freezing-cold silver stethoscope. Then she used a tongue depressor and a tiny flashlight to look down our throats. After that, she asked about any diseases we’d ever had, like measles or chicken pox.

“Julio, this is just like taking a physical to play baseball,” said Luis, who then lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “Think she’ll hold our nut sacks and make us cough?”

I cracked a half smile over that, but wouldn’t answer.

Finally, she gave us each a small plastic container to pee in. They were numbered from 189 to 192.

“That’s how many people we’ve processed this year,” she answered, after I asked what the numbers meant.

It didn’t seem like a lot. But I understood it didn’t reflect all the people who weren’t as lucky as us. The ones who’d died trying to get here, or who got caught and were rotting in prisons.

We went back to the main room, waiting to fill out our paperwork and be interviewed. There was a Cuban family—a mother, father, and small daughter—at a table near us. The mother had a wide bandage on the right side of her forehead. Gabriel went over to ask about it.

“My little girl was falling out of our raft. By the grace of God I caught her,” she said, crossing herself and then raising her eyes toward the fluorescent lights above. “I hit my head on a wooden oar. It made a big gash. But I’m all right.”

“We’re from Havana. Pleased to meet you,” said her husband, shaking Gabriel’s hand, as Uncle Ramon walked over as well. “Two days we made it here. The wind was pushing us the whole way.”

“You arrived this morning?” asked my uncle.

“No, five days ago,” he answered. “We’ve been trying to get placed in a refugee house. So we don’t wind up sleeping on the streets and finding trouble.”

“What kind of house is that?” Luis asked the man, going over by the little girl, who was playing on the floor with toy soldiers and animals battling on either side of a blanket hanging down off a cot.

“Maybe fifteen people living together in a few rooms—different families sharing food, looking for work,” he answered. “Houses like that are spread out all over Miami. But they’re hard to get into. You’ll see when you try.”

“Not us. My uncle’s famous,” scoffed Luis, picking up one of the girl’s toys. “We’ll probably be living in a mansion and—”

That’s when Uncle Ramon gave him a swift kick in the behind.

“I’m sorry. My son thinks he’s more important than he is,” Uncle Ramon explained to the man, with a sharp glare for Luis. “Good luck to you and your family finding an opening in a house.”

Luis knew that he’d screwed up, acting obnoxious. So he tried to be extra nice to that girl, making a helmeted soldier fight a striped tiger for her, including sound effects.

“Get ready to shoot,” Luis told her, before putting an empty Ding Dong wrapper to his mouth and puffing it up with air. “One, two, three!”

Then Luis slammed the wrapper between his palms, producing a loud pop!

Nearly everyone turned around to see. Even though it was just a kid’s game, it got quiet for a while, and I could feel the anxiousness in the room until it slowly faded away.

We were stuck there for the next seven hours, watching TV on a Spanish news station and listening to music on my transistor. The signal came in much better now that we were in Miami.

“Very soon?” Uncle Ramon nudged Gabriel. “Is that what the voice told you?”

“You waited almost forty years to be free,” Gabriel replied. “A few hours in the US and now you’re impatient?”

I guess we all were, especially once the sun went down.

Luis even stopped checking his watch after a while. But I think the impatience was getting to me the most. I wanted to see Papi face-to-face. And I wanted the freedom I’d risked my life for to become something more than four beige and blue walls and a tray full of free Hostess cakes.

Then, just as I was about to lose my mind in that room, we were called into a small office. On a table were four pens and four forms to fill out.

A Spanish-speaking agent introduced himself to us. He was about to walk us through the forms when the phone on his desk rang.

“Un momento, por favor,” he said, and then picked up the receiver.

A few seconds later, he turned his attention back to us and said, “Someone has just arrived to represent your party. May I invite that person to join in?”

“Yes, absolutely,” answered Uncle Ramon.

“Send him in,” the agent said into the phone.

Suddenly, against the hallway wall, by the open door, I saw the immense shadow of a tall figure. I rose up in my seat a little. Then I swallowed hard at the thought of what might happen next.

22

THE SHADOW SLID forward, turning razor thin. My eyes had to refocus as it rounded the corner, going from shadow to substance. And when my brain finally caught up to my eyes, I realized that it wasn’t Papi.

Instead, it was an older Hispanic man in a suit and tie, carrying a sharp leather briefcase. He introduced himself to the INS agent first.

“I’m Antonio Oliva, attorney for Julio Ramirez Sr.,” he said, before turning to us. “I’ll be representing each of you in this process. Now, which one of these young men is Julio Jr.?”

“I am.”

“Your father wanted me to express his great relief and answered prayers that you’re finally here,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “He’s focused on the World Series right now, with his obligations to the Miami Marlins. That’s why I’m here in his place. But he’ll be with you soon. He promises.”

Mr. Oliva wouldn’t turn my hand loose until I nodded, acknowledging his speech.

“You mean, as soon as he wins the World Series,” added Uncle Ramon.

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” said Mr. Oliva. “But what else would I expect from El Fuego’s brother? I can see and hear the resemblance.”

Right then, I was willing to bet anything that Papi hadn’t sent a replacement to read his new son a bedtime story that night.

“I have their forms already filled out. All they need to do is sign,” said Mr. Oliva, producing the pages from his briefcase. “How quickly can these gentlemen be released to Mr. Ramirez?”

“Released to my brother,” said Uncle Ramon in a reverent tone.

“I take it that Mr. Ramirez is willing to clothe, house, and feed them?” asked the agent.

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Oliva. “Employ them as well. In a manner of speaking, Gabriel is already on his payroll. And obviously the young men will be enrolled in school.”

“I know what happens in US high schools,” Luis whispered to me. “I’ve seen lots of movies. Students can do anything they want here—sing, dance, hang out in the halls.”

“I’ll go through the paperwork,” said the agent. “If it’s correct, they should be released shortly.”

Mr. Oliva gave Uncle Ramon his card and said, “When everything’s in order, call that number. I’ll arrange the rest from there.”

I didn’t know what there was to arrange. This was starting to seem more like a business meeting than a family reunion. And I hadn’t thought it was possible, but the closer in miles I got to Papi, the farther away from him I felt.

I picked up the pen and found the blank line with the X next to it. I wanted the signature that let me walk free on the streets of the US to look amazing. But I guess my hand must have been shaking, because when I was finished, it looked like I’d signed that paper in the dark.

When we walked back into the big room, some of the refugees who were gathered around a TV in the corner began pointing to us. A Spanish news station was showing a video of our Buick on the water from this morning. Then on a split screen, side by side, they showed photos of Papi and me—him in his Marlins uniform and me on the beach.

“Less than a day in the States and you’re on TV,” said Luis. “Maybe we could get our own reality show together. It’d be perfect—two hot young Cuban guys, their first year here. Your papi could pull some strings.”

I shook my head at Luis like he was insane.

“Your cousin doesn’t need that kind of publicity,” Uncle Ramon said. “His ability to hit a baseball will get him everything he needs in life.”

The idea that I couldn’t miss as a big-time baseball player sounded just as crazy to me.

The hours crept past and we were all exhausted. But none of us wanted to sleep.

It was a few minutes after midnight when Uncle Ramon said, “The first time I wake up in America, I don’t want it to be here, guarded by agents. I want it to be in a place where I can walk out the door whenever I like and really be free.”

“I want to wake up in a king-size bed in my uncle’s house,” said Luis, leaning back on a cot with a rolled-up blanket beneath his head as a second pillow. “No more foldout couches for Julio. Right, Cuz?”

“I’d sleep on the floor if I had to,” I said, glancing over at that family we’d met from Havana. “If it was worth it to me.”

The three of them were asleep on two cots pushed together—the man and woman on either side of the small girl tucked safely in between them.

“We all make our own beds,” said Gabriel.

“Is that right?” I questioned. “It never happens that someone else makes it for us?”

“You said it yourself, Julio,” he quickly countered. “You can always get up and go sleep on the floor.”

“Gabriel, how about you? Where are you going from here?” asked Uncle Ramon.

“I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” he answered. “My job of safely delivering the three of you isn’t completely over. Not yet, at least. Until it is, I don’t have to think about what’s next for me.”

Then Luis said, “I thought that lawyer, Oliva, was taking over now.”

“Not in my mind,” replied Gabriel. “He might walk us out the front door. That’s one thing. I promised to bring Julio to his father.”

“Seems like Game Six and Game Seven are standing in the way,” I scoffed.

“I believe it’s more than that, at least from your side,” Gabriel said, without sounding like he was judging anyone. “Six years can bring a lot of baggage with it.”

I didn’t respond to that.

It was almost three o’clock in the morning when the agent who’d been processing our paperwork appeared. He handed Uncle Ramon a cell and said, “Congratulations. You can make that phone call now.”

Ten minutes later, a black limo pulled up outside the INS building.

Mr. Oliva wasn’t anywhere to be seen. And as we walked out to the car, a driver in a small round cap came around and opened the door for us.

Out of nowhere, a woman holding a tape recorder called my name. She had red hair and her Spanish wasn’t great. But I understood her well enough.

“Julio, I’m Cadence Myers, ESPN. How does it feel to be in America? To be free?”

I looked at Uncle Ramon, to see if he thought I should speak. But he seemed as interested in my answer as she was.

“I hope it will be worth everything, leaving behind my family,” I said, talking into the machine.

“And your father? How will it be? Sharing love with him again?”

My eyes became fixed on the two tiny wheels slowly turning inside that recorder as I answered, “It will probably change my life. Maybe both our lives.”

“Mucho gusto,” she said, an instant before those wheels came to a stop.

Then we climbed into the car with no idea where we were headed.

I’d counted seventeen traffic lights when Marlins Park first came into view.

“There it is. That’s the baseball stadium,” Luis said excitedly.

It was so big I couldn’t believe my eyes. It looked like a giant flying saucer. And even though there’d been no game that night and it was mostly dark, it still shone with plenty of turquoise and white lights.

“I think those red flashers on top are so anything flying low to the ground doesn’t hit it,” said Gabriel.

“It’s beautiful,” said Uncle Ramon. “Julio, that’s where your papi pitches. That’s something special. Maybe one day, you’ll play there, too.”

“If Uncle pitches long enough, it’s possible you’ll both play on the same team,” said Luis. “Like Ken Griffey Jr. and his pops once did.”

But right then, that idea sounded crazier than any reality TV show Luis could have concocted.

23

THE LIMO PULLED up to the gates of a two-story apartment complex. There was a uniformed guard stationed out front in a little booth, and our driver needed to get a parking pass from him to enter.

“See that guard? It’s his job to keep the wrong people out,” said Uncle Ramon.

Even when Papi was the most famous baseball player in Cuba, anybody could walk up to our door and knock.

“The wrong people?” I asked. “You mean, like busboys and factory workers?”

“No, I mean autograph hounds and favor seekers,” he emphasized. “The salary ballplayers get paid in the States makes it so they won’t leave you alone.”

Inside the complex, there were six buildings laid out in a circle, with manicured lawns, shrubs, and palm trees in between.

“Look in the middle—there’s a huge swimming pool with a twisting slide,” said Luis. “And all of those lounge chairs. That must be where the honeys go sunbathing in bikinis. Maybe even topless.”

We slowly rolled up to building number four. I could see Mr. Oliva standing in the glow of our headlights, his red tie still knotted tight.

Getting out of the limo, Luis asked him, “Is this the apartment where El Fuego lives?”

Mr. Oliva put a finger to his lips and murmured, “Please, keep your voices low. It’s close to four in the morning. The people on the ground floor are probably sleeping. We’re upstairs. Follow me.”

So we did. The keys in Mr. Oliva’s hand looked shiny and new as he opened a trio of locks on the heavy wooden door.

We walked into the living room, which was connected to a large open kitchen on one end and an outdoor balcony overlooking the lighted pool on the other. The apartment was spotless and the air was a little musty, as if no one had been living there for a while.

“Are we staying here for a few days?” asked Uncle Ramon.

“No, this is your new home,” answered Mr. Oliva, handing him the one set of keys. “It was rented once the plan to defect became a reality. That’s how much faith Mr. Ramirez had that you’d make it.”

“How big is this place?” asked Luis, beginning to explore.

“There are three bedrooms—for Ramon, Luis, and Julio,” Mr. Oliva continued. “Gabriel, of course you’re welcome to stay until your business with Mr. Ramirez is complete.”

Uncle Ramon and I exchanged glances. We didn’t need any words. We both quickly understood that Papi didn’t want me in his house.

“So where does my uncle live?” asked Luis.

“Mr. Ramirez owns a modest home in South Beach,” answered Mr. Oliva.

“Modest, in South Beach?” questioned Luis. “I heard that place is packed with mansions.”

But Mr. Oliva started toward the front door and said, “I’ll call tomorrow to see if you need anything. There are boxes of new clothes in the bedrooms. I hope they fit. There’s lots of Marlins gear, too.”

At that moment, I couldn’t see myself wearing a Marlins shirt.

Standing just on the other side of the door, Mr. Oliva turned around. He finally loosened his collar and tie, and then said, “I know this hasn’t exactly been a family reunion so far, especially for young Julio. I’m sure that in the coming days, you’ll find the connection you’re looking for. For heaven’s sake, the World Series is on the line.”

Maybe that was as personal as somebody’s lawyer could get. After all, we weren’t his family. He was just paid by Papi to do a job. But his speech didn’t change the way I was feeling.

Then Mr. Oliva left, along with the limo outside.

I turned to Gabriel and said, “Why don’t you take one of the bedrooms? I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m used to it.”

“No, that’s not my place here,” he said.

I opened the sliding glass door to let in some fresh air. Then I walked out onto the balcony overlooking the pool. I rested both hands on the iron railing, staring at the little cuts and ripples on the surface of the light-blue water.

“Quite a change from twenty-four hours ago,” said Uncle Ramon, walking out behind me.

“There are waves out there,” I said, trying to see through to the bottom of the pool. “How’s that possible? There are no currents or winds. No kids splashing.”

“Maybe it’s the pull of the moon, or the way it just has to be,” he answered. “Listen, Julio, my brother is a man of family, ever since we were young. I know the last six years have been hard on you. But remember, he’s the reason we’re standing here.”

“The reason I’m standing here is freedom,” I said.

“That’s only partly true,” said my uncle. “Now you have to deal with the rest of it. And there’s going to be no easy road.”

Luis walked out onto the balcony. He was wearing a Marlins home jersey with the tags still hanging from it, along with a huge smile. I figured we were about to hear all his plans for tomorrow—for turning Miami into his personal playground, before anyone got the bright idea of sending us back to school.

I was surprised when he called Gabriel to join us, and then said, “Before we left Cuba, we prayed on the beach to make it here alive. Now that those prayers have been answered, I think we should give thanks.”

We all bowed our heads in silence. But what jumped into my mind was the thought of my half brother. I didn’t know him or his name. But I was positive he followed Papi around the way I used to—like he was some kind of superhero. So after giving thanks, I prayed the kid would never lose faith in Papi the way I had, even if I was going to be jealous of that.

After everyone else was gone, I stood on the balcony a while longer, watching those little waves in the pool. I decided that I really didn’t care how they got there. That if I wanted things smooth I would have sat in my bathtub back in Cuba, instead of crossing the ocean in a ’59 Buick.

By the time I went back inside, Luis and Uncle Ramon had claimed their bedrooms. Walking into the remaining one, I saw the huge bed, dresser, boxes of clothes, and private bathroom. Right away, I thought how Lola would die for a bedroom like this. And if we were still living in the same house, how I’d do anything for Lola to have a bathroom of her own. That way I could actually get some time on the toilet.

But deep down, I knew it was more than that. The truth was that I was going to miss being her big brother every day. Because even when she was a royal pain in my behind, she was still my sister—someone I’d shared losing Papi with.

I got into the bed, but I just couldn’t get comfortable. Despite being bone tired, I kept tossing and turning. Then I remembered what I’d said to Gabriel about someone else making your bed. So I got up and pulled the blankets down to the hardwood floor. And that’s where I slept.

24

WHEN I OPENED my eyes it was a few minutes before noon. I picked myself up off the floor and walked straight into the shower. I turned the water on full force, paying no attention to the HOT or COLD. I dealt with whatever came—the freezing and scalding ribbons of water.

It was the strongest shower I’d ever felt in my life. Without moving a muscle, I let the powerful stream pour over my head. It ran across my eyelids and down the corners of my mouth. I stood there for a long time, letting it soak into every part of me. All at once, I felt clean enough to move on, to face anything.

I found a shirt and pants that fit from the boxes of clothing Papi had sent. I wouldn’t even waste my time at a mirror. Then I went out into the living room. Neither Gabriel nor Luis was anywhere to be seen. Uncle Ramon was seated in the kitchen. He was on the cell phone that Papi’s lawyer had left him. At first, I figured that’s who he was talking to. But just before he ended the call, Uncle Ramon said, “I can’t wait to see you again either.”

My uncle put the cell down on a granite countertop as his eyes met mine.

“Was that Papi?” I asked.

Uncle Ramon nodded in response. Then there was a long silence, and I could sense the weight he was suddenly carrying—much heavier than not putting me on the phone with my father. And there was a look in his eyes, one that seemed to say, I was wrong about a lot of things.

That’s when I understood that Uncle Ramon knew.

“What’s his son’s name?” I asked, in a tone that probably sounded like an accusation. “And don’t tell me it’s Julio.”

My uncle appeared absolutely stunned.

“You knew?” he asked, from the opposite side of the counter. “How?”

“The transistor.”

After a moment, Uncle Ramon said, “Milo. He’s named for your grandfather.”

“And that’s the reason we’re here in this apartment? So we don’t intrude on his new life?” I said.

“I can’t say that for sure,” said Uncle Ramon. “It sounds too harsh.”

“Does it? Why didn’t he talk to me? Were you supposed to break the news about this instead of him?”

“No. My brother said he wanted to tell you himself, in person.”

“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

“Your papi says he’ll be here as soon as the Series is finished.”

“And maybe I won’t be,” I said, before walking out the apartment door.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have money, food, or a phone. I decided to stay clear of that guard in the little booth out front. So I started wandering between the buildings of the complex for a while. I walked off a lot of frustration in the midday heat, before finally settling in the shade of a palm tree behind some shrubs. I was about forty yards from the pool, where it looked like Gabriel was giving Luis a swimming lesson.

At my feet, I saw a small green lizard with a long tail. As it moved from the leaves of the shrub to the trunk of the palm, its bright color began to fade. Given enough time, I suppose the lizard’s scaly skin might have turned brown to match. But before it ever did, I kicked at the surrounding dirt, sending that lizard scurrying in another direction.

I didn’t remember much about my grandfather. I was only five or six when he died. If Uncle Ramon hadn’t told me his first name, I probably would have been hard-pressed to recall it. I knew that he loved baseball, too, yelling words at umpires that Mama would never let me repeat. And he was always trying to feed me hot peppers, to see how much I could take before I screamed for a glass of water.

Off to the side of me, there was a big patch of grass. A mother walked past with her two little boys. She was headed toward the pool in a terry cloth robe. But her kids had on baseball caps and were carrying a yellow plastic bat and a white Wiffle ball. The two of them started running around that open space, chasing each other in circles. Then the one with the ball began pitching. The other kid knew how to swing all right. Only his hands were too far apart on the bat, and he was nearly corkscrewing himself into the ground. So I walked over to where they were playing. They saw me coming and froze up a little bit.

In English, I asked them, “Brothers?”

They smiled wide and said, “Yes.”

I reached out for the yellow bat and the kid gave it to me.

Pushing my hands close together on its narrow neck, I said, “This way.”

I took a swing. The bat sliced through the air with a whoosh, and both kids seemed really impressed. Then I handed the bat back. On the next pitch, the kid swung with his hands in the right position. He blasted one over his brother’s head and started running a diamond shape around imaginary bases.

Their mother noticed me. It looked like she was about to walk over, probably to find out who I was. Only Gabriel, who was out of the pool now, said something to her first. After that, she sent a little wave in my direction instead. Then she settled back into her lounge chair.

Those kids seemed to be having the time of their lives. It wasn’t even real baseball. But that didn’t matter. They were laughing and smiling at everything they did. That’s how I used to feel about baseball—before Papi defected, before Moyano tried to run my life, and before the World Series became more important to Papi than me. And suddenly, I was jealous of those two kids just learning to play.

I looked up and Luis and Gabriel were almost right on top of me.

“One more lesson and I should be swimming like a fish,” said Luis, standing barefoot on the grass in his trunks, drying himself with a towel. “I want to look good on the beach. No more being bait, with a rope tied around my waist.”

“I didn’t know you were a teacher, too,” I told Gabriel.

“Not me,” he said, leading us back toward the apartment. “I’m a student, always learning.”

“I’d like to be a teacher one day,” said Luis, already grinning at some joke that was coming.

“Why’s that?” I asked, as if I was grooving him a pitch at batting practice.

“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 inside 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?”

She wasn’t holding a tape recorder. But I didn’t really want to answer any questions. So I shrugged and said, “I’m just waiting. That’s all.”

She must have been able to see through me, because there was suddenly sadness in her eyes.

“Wear this,” she said, taking off one of her TV credentials and then placing it around my neck. “Stay behind me. I’ll talk for you.”

A moment later, we were walking through the press entrance together. She said something to security about me working with her. The next thing I knew, we were inside the stadium’s offices. She guided me down a series of halls, first left and then right.

I tried hard not to make eye contact with anyone, and mostly stared down at the blue carpeted floor. When we came to a stop, we were standing in front of a door with a sign on it that read, MARLINS CLUBHOUSE: PLAYERS ONLY (PRESS AT DESIGNATED TIMES).

Cadence showed our tags to a guard at the door. Then she walked me inside. My entire body was on pins and needles as my eyes darted from player to player. The instant I saw him, it was like ice water had suddenly filled my veins. Chills shot up my spine. He was sitting on a chair, alone in front of his locker, tightening the laces on his cleats.

I took a hesitant step forward. Maybe he sensed me coming, because he suddenly looked up and his dark eyes zeroed onto mine.

27

PAPI RUSHED ACROSS the room. With my legs suddenly weak, I managed just another half step forward.

“Junior,” he said, as his chest thumped against mine.

He was holding me so close I could feel his breath and smell the soap he must have used to shave.

Then he took a step back, with his arms extended, holding me by the shoulder blades. In Spanish, he asked, “How did you get inside here?”

His voice was like a weight bearing down on me. My mouth had gone bone dry. And even if I’d had an answer on my tongue, I wasn’t sure I could have gotten the words out. I couldn’t believe I was actually seeing Papi in the flesh, not on TV or hearing him described on the radio. I’d never been this tall before, standing beside him. The pores on his face looked huge, and there was a blemish beneath his right eyebrow. Then Papi noticed the press credential around my neck, and shot a fiery look at Cadence.

“Did she bring you?” he asked, nearly seething. “To do a story about my family?”

I shook my head and said, “I came on my own. I was stuck outside. She brought me in. To help.”

“Gracias,” Papi told her, an instant before he pulled me away toward his locker.

A pair of Papi’s Hispanic teammates came over, trying to find out what was happening.

“This is my son,” Papi introduced me.

“His oldest,” I added, hoping he would feel the sting.

I could tell he was embarrassed by how this was playing out. Both his teammates gave me huge hugs, congratulating me on escaping from Cuba. They’d seen the TV footage and had all kinds of questions about the trip and the Buick. But Papi cut them off. Then he told one of the clubhouse workers to get me a Marlins jacket.

“You’re going to need one to stay with me,” he said.

I didn’t know what to make of that.

Cadence waved good-bye to me, without trying to disturb us. But as I put my arms into the jacket’s sleeves, other reporters gathered around us. They were mostly older men with long yellow notepads and chalky faces. Papi blew off their questions, ushering me past them without a word. I thought I was going to bawl. I could feel my eyes welling up and the dam about to break. But just as the first tear started to escape, I sucked it all back inside.

Papi led me down a short tunnel, through the dugout, and then onto the field.

For a few seconds, my senses were overwhelmed. It was like stepping into some kind of baseball video game. There were thousands of people in the stands already. Most of them were dressed in either bright orange or black Marlins T-shirts. I could see the aquarium built into the backstop behind home plate and that giant home run sculpture beyond the outfield fence. The stadium’s roof was rolled open, and the clouds in the sky looked like cotton candy.

“Junior, come,” said Papi, bringing me back to reality.

He started jogging around the perimeter of the field, next to the stands.

I was still a half stride behind when I said, “I don’t go by that name anymore. Call me Julio.”

“So, my oldest. Then you know about your half brother? Did Ramon tell you?”

“No, I found out on my own. Does Mama know?”

“Not from my mouth,” he answered, as we made the turn along the outfield fence.

Some of Papi’s teammates who were loosening up in the outfield started over toward us. But Papi went from a jog to a sprint, leaving them behind. Only I stayed right with him.

“I’m much faster now,” I said. “The days of you running away from me are over.”

As we slowed back down to a jog, passing the Marlins’ bullpen beneath the right-field stands, Papi caught his breath and said, “I can’t explain my feelings right now, especially what it’s been like not seeing you all these years. I need to stay focused. People are depending on me—my teammates, the fans—”

“Your new family?” I said, interrupting. “So you can get another million-dollar contract? Keep them living in a mansion while Mama and Lola scrape to get by?”

Papi came to a stop and looked me square in the eye.

“I already told you, I can’t explain my feelings now. I have to be ready to pitch. You’re a baseball player. You should understand that,” he said, with the muscles in his face pulling tight like a stone statue’s.

Staring down at Papi’s bare left hand, I said, “You know, Mama still wears her ring.”

“It’s out of respect for her that I don’t wear mine,” he snapped, before he started jogging back toward the dugout.

I wasn’t convinced that I wanted to follow him. But I didn’t know where else to go. When he entered the dugout, somebody handed Papi a towel and he wiped the perspiration from his face. When he was finished, Papi grabbed me and put me down on a seat near the end of the dugout, by a door leading back to the clubhouse. I was almost out of sight from everyone else, and a few feet behind the TV camera in the corner.

“Julio, you stay here,” he said. “Don’t move without me.”

Then he disappeared through the door. I guess word spread fast, because I didn’t have to explain who I was to any of the players, coaches, or trainers. The Marlins’ manager even walked past and gave me a big thumbs-up.

A few minutes later, Papi came back. He was holding his glove and had his game face screwed on supertight.

“Ramon says you’re a shortstop. Still using the glove I gave you for your birthday?”

“It’s back in Cuba,” I answered. “Along with my old bike.”

“Easy to replace them both,” he said, opening a package of sunflower seeds.

“Yeah, I guess everything’s easy to replace,” I sniped.

A voice on the PA system announced the lineups to the crowd. The umpires and managers met at home plate. They talked for a while there, going over the ground rules of Marlins Park. Then someone led a blind man with a guitar to a stool and microphone near the backstop. Everyone stood as he began to play the American National Anthem. Papi took his cap off and we were almost shoulder to shoulder.

For that moment, whatever private war we were having didn’t matter to me. And I don’t think it mattered to him either. We were two Cubans who’d risked everything to be free. Him in a car outside a Baltimore hotel and me in a ’59 Buick on the Atlantic Ocean.

The blind man sang in English, with a thick Spanish accent. I swore he started out the song with the words, “José can you see.” At his final note, the crowd went wild with applause. And I clapped my hands together so hard that they hurt.

Three fighter jets roared over the stadium in a tight formation, leaving a trail of white smoke across the sky.

“Those are US navy jets,” Papi told me. “They’re called the Blue Angels.”

They reminded me of Gabriel. I was thinking how he would have loved to see them, and maybe even learn to fly one.

The Marlins’ starting pitcher finished his warm-up tosses, before an umpire wiped the dirt away from the corners of the plate with a small brush. Then the first Yankee stepped into the batter’s box. Papi already had a mouthful of sunflower seeds. He was chewing on them and spitting the empty shells onto the dugout floor.

“Here,” said Papi, holding out the open package and pouring some into my hand.

The Yankees’ leadoff hitter took a fastball down the middle for strike one. That’s when I realized that Uncle Ramon and Luis must be back at the apartment in front of the flat-screen. I knew that Uncle Ramon wouldn’t be too worried about me, because he probably had a good idea where I was.

I popped some of those seeds into my mouth, and the salt from them sat on my tongue until it started to burn at the cracks of my closed lips.

28

I HEARD THE crack of the ball off the bat. Papi jumped to his feet at the sound and so did I. It was a long fly smacked to deep center field. Papi was bending his body with the flight of the ball, like maybe that could influence it. Only it couldn’t. The baseball vanished over the 418-foot mark on the fence. The Marlins’ home run statue stayed silent, though. Most of the crowd did, too. That’s because it was a Yankee who’d homered. They’d had a runner on first base at the time. And after the top half of the first inning, New York was ahead, 2–0.

Papi gave the Marlins’ starting pitcher some words of encouragement as he came back to the dugout. Then he turned to me and said, “Those Yankees think Game Seven belongs to them, because of all their tradition. They think this moment’s too big for us. It’s not. We’re not afraid of their uniforms or anybody wearing them.”

We’d gone more than six years without speaking. Not a single word. I couldn’t believe that Papi was actually talking to me about the Yankees’ stuck-up attitude.

The Marlins went down in order in the bottom half of the first inning. When they took the field again, their shortstop made a slick play on the first Yankee hitter, robbing him of a base hit.

“Ramon tells me you were the best young shortstop in Cuba this season,” said Papi. “Is that true?”

“If they’d let me play.”

“Explain that.”

“You defected,” I said, spitting out the last of my seeds. “They wanted to punish me for that, afraid that I’d do the same.”

“Those bastards were right,” said Papi, as if he were teaching me something.

“You explain that,” I said, annoyed.

“Well, would you rather I’d stayed? Or that I left, so one day we could both be free?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Part of me wanted to curse him out for leaving us behind. Another part wanted to say thank you, for making me walk that long, hard road to right here. And when the grateful part started to win that tug-of-war in my heart, I became angry with myself.

After a few more pitches, Papi said, “I don’t blame you for not having an answer. Sometimes I don’t have one either.”

Both teams put up goose eggs on the scoreboard in the second inning. Then Papi left the bench and walked back to the clubhouse. This time I refused to sit still.

He was on the floor in the middle of a hurdler’s stretch, with the fingers of his left hand reaching for the toe of his right cleat, when I walked in. The game outside was being shown on a pair of huge flat-screens at either end of the room. That’s when it came to me that Luis was watching the game on TV with his father, and now I was watching it the same way with mine.

“How’s the apartment you’re living in? Nice enough?” asked Papi, as he popped off the floor and started to do a set of jumping jacks. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Uncle and Cousin really love it,” I answered, measuring my tone. “What’s your place look like? Full of tricycles and kiddie toys?”

“No, I live alone,” answered Papi, beginning to run in place with his knees coming all the way up to his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Julio, I’m not with Milo’s mother. We were never a real couple or going to get married. This baby was a surprise. But Milo’s my son and I love him. So I provide for him and his mother.”

Suddenly, I was less jealous of the kid. But I still had plenty to challenge Papi on.

“So how come you never—”

“No more!” demanded Papi, who stalked over to a huge trunk full of equipment. Searching through it, he pulled out a right-handed glove. “Here, take this. You’re going to need it.”

I remembered the last time Papi gave me a baseball glove. It was for my tenth birthday. He’d promised to play catch with me every day until it got broken in. That was a promise Papi never kept.

I took the glove from him. But I didn’t even want to put it on my hand. So I tucked it beneath my armpit.

“Come on. I have to get back out there and support my teammates,” said Papi.

All I could think was that he’d spent a lot of effort supporting everyone except Mama, Lola, and me.

The hallway between the clubhouse and the dugout was covered in a collage of hundreds of photos, reading like a history of the Marlins’ franchise. But there was a blank space in the corner, where there was just blue wall.

Papi stopped right in front of it and said, “There used to be a picture here of me and my former manager. He told some sportswriters how he admired Fidel Castro for being so tough.”

“Uncle Ramon told me about him on the trip over.”

“From the moment I read that quote, he lost my respect—even after he apologized,” said Papi. “Because my children were stuck in Cuba, without the freedom to follow me here.”

“What happened to the photo?” I asked, as the crowd outside let out a roar.

“The day he was fired, I told the general manager to get rid of that picture. He gave me some excuse about how they’d have to redo the whole wall. So I came here with a putty knife and I cut it out myself. That way I never had to ask about it again.”

When we got back to the dugout, Miami had a runner on second base with just one out. That’s when the Marlins’ shortstop came to bat. He hit a high chopper to the left side of the infield, with the runner holding at second. The Yankees’ third baseman had to wait for the ball to come down, and then gunned his throw across the diamond. I could hear the sound of the runner’s foot striking the bag an instant before the ball hit the first baseman’s mitt. It was like the rhythm of a song—swish-pop.

Only the umpire called, “Out!”

The Marlins’ manager charged onto the field. He got between the umpire and his player, who was already arguing the call. That way his shortstop wouldn’t get tossed. The umpire was acting smug as anything, like he could never blow a call. The Miami manager completely lost it. He spun his cap around. And without the brim in front, he could get his face about a quarter of an inch from that umpire’s. Before he got ejected from the game, he really had his say. I didn’t know all of those words in English. But I could guess.

The manager was supposed to leave the dugout. Instead, he hid in the doorway right behind me and Papi at the end of the bench. That way he could manage the team from there.

“He was safe,” said Papi, with his eyes glued to the slow-motion replay on a TV monitor. “I hate when umpires become more important to the game than players.”

I didn’t need the cameras to slow it down. I’d heard the music of that bang-bang play and knew he was safe.

The shortstop was standing right in front of me, looking at the monitor. I was watching him watch himself, being present in his past. It reminded me of those two sets of footprints I’d left on the beach in Cuba—one coming and one going—before I decided to defect.

All that emotion the manager showed on the field had an effect on the crowd and the players in the Marlins’ dugout. Even I was up on my feet. I had my thumb and pointer finger jammed into the corners of my mouth, emptying my lungs into one long whistle. Papi was blowing just as hard with a sharp tsssspp! But the next Marlins batter struck out to end the third inning. And that surge of emotion was suddenly gone, like the air escaping from a punctured balloon.

Neither team scored over the next two innings. After the Marlins made the final out in the bottom of the fifth, I could see them starting to get really tight. The Yankees’ starting pitcher was sailing along. The Marlins had just four innings left—twelve outs—to put a crooked number on the scoreboard. It was either be winners—World Series Champions—or losers. As a baseball player, that I understood.

“Let’s go. Come with me,” said Papi, walking out of the dugout and beginning his jog to the bullpen in the right-field stands.

I was on his heels in front of that huge crowd, with the glove he’d given me still stuffed under my arm.

That’s when I heard a high-pitched voice from the first row calling, “Papi! Mi papi!”

29

I TURNED TO put a face with that voice. When I spotted who it was, I knew it had to be Milo, Papi’s son. He was the right age, standing on a seat next to a woman who was probably his mother. There was a cascade of dark curls flowing from beneath his baseball cap. He wore a Marlins jacket like mine and smiled from ear to ear, waving a huge foam finger that read, #1. The woman was much younger than Mama, maybe thirty years old, with bleached blond hair. She was clapping her hands over her head, with lots of silver and gold bracelets on both wrists. And from where I stood, her fingernails looked perfect and polished, just like Mama said they would be.

Papi never looked in the boy’s direction. I guess he was too focused and didn’t hear. I wasn’t about to bring his attention to it.

Seeing them was like a swift kick in the ass. I knew they existed. I just didn’t know that they were standing practically right behind me.

But I felt sorry for the boy, too. Because I’d called Papi’s name plenty of times myself without getting an answer.

A security guard opened the bullpen gates for us, and we walked inside. The Marlins’ bullpen is beneath the right-field stands. It has a long bench, a telephone connected to the dugout for the manager to call, and a pair of pitching mounds for the relievers to warm up. There were several other relief pitchers there, two bullpen catchers, and a coach.

The view of the game wasn’t nearly as good, because you had to watch through a chain-link fence. It felt a little bit like some kind of baseball jail—one Moyano probably would have loved to run. And with that security guard on the gate, it reminded me of being locked inside Cuba.

Before we ever sat down, Papi said, “Help me get my arm loose.”

So I finally put the glove on my hand. It was almost new, and the leather was still stiff. It fit me. But I wasn’t happy with the feel. I started pounding its pocket with my right fist, like I was beating up on it.

Papi stood about fifty feet from me. He came overhand with an easy, relaxed throw. Even getting loose, he had enough steam on his ball to sting my palm through the leather. It was the first time I’d played catch with him in six years—since the days when he was my hero, and his only other child was Lola.

While that ball was going back and forth between us, my mind was everywhere. For the moments when it was safe inside my glove, I’d close my eyes and see images—Mama’s face, Lola studying, our old house, and my bike in that parking lot by the field.

I glanced up and the image of Papi and me playing catch was up on the stadium’s video screen. It must have looked to the whole world like some picture-postcard moment of a father and son being reunited.

Other than that baseball, I had no idea what Papi was seeing, or exactly how clearly he saw me.

Papi ended our catch when the Yankees made the last out in their half of the sixth inning. I took a seat at the end of the bullpen bench, with Papi standing behind me, continuing to stretch his muscles.

“We just need one spark to start a fire,” said Papi, as Miami still trailed, 2–0. “A relief pitcher like me—my whole job depends on us scoring runs. We don’t get a lead or tie the game, nothing I do can make a difference. If I could do it over again, I’d become a shortstop like you, control my own destiny.”

“That’s what I want more than anything,” I said, making sure that he heard me. “To control my own life and not have it dictated by what other people do.”

Papi nodded his head to that, as if my thinking was just like his.

The Marlins had a runner reach first base in the bottom of the sixth. But that wasn’t enough of a spark, as they failed to put a run on the board. Now they were just nine outs away from getting blanked in the biggest game of their lives.

Miami’s starting pitcher was due to bat in the bottom of the seventh. Two Marlins relievers began warming up on the mounds behind us, ready to go into the game in case their manager decided to pinch-hit for his pitcher.

Papi watched them throwing for a moment. Then he told me, “These guys are important. They’re the bridge to me. But if they go in and get pounded for five runs, I might as well take an early shower.”

If I had a bucket of cold water, I would have poured it over Papi’s head. I wanted to hear how important I was to him, not his setup men.

“I know all about teammates,” I said. “I’ve had plenty pass through my life already. Coaches, too. My cousin Luis and Uncle Ramon, they’re the only ones who’ve stuck with me—mi familia.”

“I was sorry to hear about Blanca,” said Papi, showing a small crack in his game face. “Ramon says that Luis took it very hard. That you were a huge help to him.”

I wondered what Papi would have done if Mama or Lola had died after he defected. Would he have sent a card? Money for their funeral?

The Yankees left a pair of men on base in the seventh. Only I couldn’t say that I was jumping for joy when they didn’t score.

Miami’s leadoff batter drew a walk. That got a pair of pitchers up in the Yankees’ bullpen, opposite us, beneath the left-field stands. The Marlins’ manager pinch-hit for his pitcher, who was due up next. Then he decided to really make something happen. He played hit-and-run on the first pitch, sending his runner toward second base and committing his hitter to swing.

“Our manager’s got guts, faith in these guys,” said Papi, deciphering the signs the third-base coach was giving to the batter. “More than I would have.”

Protecting the runner, the hitter swung at a low pitch, golfing it into center field for a single. Now there were runners at first and third with nobody out.

Suddenly, the stands above our heads were rocking. Everyone must have been stamping their feet. It felt like we were in the middle of an earthquake. Then that stamping fell into a rhythm, punctuated by a clap of hands: Bum, bum, bum—clap. Bum, bum, bum—clap. And my heart seemed to be beating the same way.

The next batter was the Marlins’ shortstop.

“He’s going to deliver for us,” said Papi. “He’s going to get me into this game.”

Earlier, he’d been cheated by the umpire on that close call at first base. So I wanted him to do something good. As he set himself in the batter’s box, I could almost feel the bat in that shortstop’s hands. And when he started it forward on the first pitch, the muscles in my forearms twitched.

He hit a lined shot over the right fielder’s head, almost directly at us. The ball hit the bullpen gate on one bounce. I didn’t hear the noise it made, because the crowd was roaring like thunder. Both base runners scored. Game Seven was tied at 2–2, and the shortstop steamed into second base with a double.

For a brief moment, Papi and I were in each other’s arms. Then he left me to grab a bullpen catcher and begin to warm up his left arm for real.

The Yankees’ manager changed his pitcher.

Papi was up on the bullpen mound, just starting to make the catcher’s glove pop.

The next Marlins batter fouled off five pitches in a row. The crowd started and restarted its rhythmic clapping with every pitch. My pulse was rising and falling with them, while my feet were dancing off second base with that shortstop.

I saw a curveball hang over the middle of the plate. An instant later, I swore that baseball had wings. It soared so high into the left-field stands that I didn’t think it was ever going to come down. The home run statue was spinning like a giant merry-go-round, and somewhere in my mind I could see Luis hitting the button to start it.

The Marlins had the lead, 4–2. Now the Yankees were six outs from elimination. I glanced over at Papi in the midst of all that noise and emotion. There was a glint in his eyes as he stood even taller on the mound. He seemed completely focused on the catcher’s target. And he looked like there was nothing in the world more important to him than being El Fuego.

30

A MARLINS RELIEF pitcher left the bullpen to start the eighth inning, but it wasn’t Papi. It was Papi’s regular setup man. The team’s bridge to him to close out the game.

Papi was throwing even harder now. He’d fire four or five pitches in a row, building a rhythm, and then take a short blow. When Papi wasn’t throwing, he snorted around the edges of that mound like a bull waiting for something to charge. And if my jacket was red instead of blue, I probably would have run for cover.

That sequence kept up until the Yankees went down quietly in their half of the eighth inning. Then Papi put a jacket on to keep his arm warm and a good sweat going.

The bullpen phone rang. A coach answered it, listening for a few seconds.

“El Fuego!” he hollered, hanging up the phone in the same motion.

That was no surprise to anyone. I would have believed the moon over Marlins Park was green and made of cheese before I thought Papi wasn’t going to pitch the ninth.

I was standing by the bullpen door when Papi walked over and said, “I know you have plenty of reasons to hate me.”

I was shocked to hear those words come out of his mouth. Maybe he was so stoked right now, over the chance to save Game Seven, that there was nothing he could hold back.

“I don’t hate you,” I said. “I just don’t know if I should ever trust you again.”

He took those words like a batted ball ripped back at his head, barely flinching. Then he stalked off to pace the bullpen.

For a moment, I felt good over what I’d said to him. But once those words disappeared into the atmosphere, so did my satisfaction. After that, I just felt empty.

The Marlins didn’t add to their lead in the bottom of the eighth.

Just before their final out was made, Papi came back to me.

“I deserved that,” he said, with his voice wavering in a way I’d never heard. “I know how selfish I can be. That’s who I am. Baseball’s in my blood. So is being the best at it. You, your mama, your sister—you’re all in my heart, too.”

“Yeah, but how far behind?”

“You love this game, too. That’s why you left Cuba,” he said, a tear welling in the corner of one eye.

“That’s all good for me. But what if your new son never plays baseball? How will you ever explain it to him?”

That’s when the last Marlins hitter was retired. The bullpen gate swung open, salsa music started playing loudly over the PA system, and the crowd began chanting, “El Fuego!”

Papi made a fist, holding it out in front of himself. Then I did the same and touched mine to his, completing the connection.

“I’m going to win the World Series for me and my family—all of them,” said Papi, his voice becoming rock solid again.

Then Papi pulled his fist away and pounded it to the center of his chest.

“I promise. You won’t be far behind in my thoughts,” he said, striding onto the field to a huge ovation.

When the gate closed, I stood with my face pressed against the chain-link, my fingers locked tight around it. If I had my way, I would have broken that fence down. Not to be free—I already had that gift. But to be on that field, playing and backing up Papi.

The Yankees sent up their switch-hitting center fielder, who dug his heels into the right-side batter’s box against Papi.

From a full windup, Papi blazed a fastball past him for a called strike. The scoreboard flashed the speed of that pitch—ninety-eight miles per hour. The noise was near deafening as Papi went into his next delivery.

I didn’t hear the ball explode off the bat. But I saw it.

Crushed over the left-center-field fence, it hit the Marlins’ home run sculpture with a clang, as the crowd went silent. Now the Yankees were within a run at 4–3.

Papi never turned around to watch that ball sail out of the park. He just put his glove up for the umpire to throw him a new one. Then Papi rubbed the ball inside of his bare hands until I thought the cover might come off.

The noise was beginning to build again when the next Yankee batter tattooed Papi’s pitch off the face of the left-field fence for a stand-up double.

For an instant, Papi hung his head on the mound. It was something I’d never seen him do before. He didn’t seem like the same pitcher who’d been breathing fire in the bullpen. Maybe he just didn’t have it tonight—his arm was tired or his age was catching up to him at the end of a long season. Or maybe I was the cause, making him lose focus. And I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.

The Marlins’ pitching coach walked out to the mound. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Papi had waved him off. But he didn’t. The infielders gathered around them, too, probably discussing what to do if the next Yankee tried to bunt the runner over to third. When that meeting was over, and the pitching coach was on his way back to the dugout, the Marlins shortstop lingered there for some extra words with Papi. Then he tapped Papi once on the backside with his glove for encouragement before going back to his position. Only I wished for the world that could have been me.

Papi was pitching from the stretch now, straddling the rubber beneath him. That was meant to keep the runner closer to second. So it would be harder for him to score on a hard single.

The shortstop was up on his toes, shifting his weight from side to side. And so was I, almost feeling his rhythm.

The next Yankee batter laid down a beautiful bunt, sacrificing himself to get the runner over to third base with just one out. Now the tying run was just ninety feet away from home plate. That meant the runner could score on an out—a ground ball to an infielder or a sacrifice fly.

Papi needed a strikeout in the worst way. He picked up the rosin bag from behind the mound, running it through his fingers for a better grip on the ball. Then I swear he tried to throw that rosin bag through the ground.

The Marlins decided to play their infield in, to try to keep the runner on third from scoring. That put the shortstop maybe twenty-five feet closer to the batter than normal, limiting his range to the right and left. That was a call that had to come from their ejected manager, who was probably still hiding himself in that dugout doorway.

I picked my glove up off the ground and put it on my hand.

Back in the windup, Papi nicked the outside corner of the plate with a ninety-nine-mile-an-hour fastball.

“Steeee-rike!” rang the umpire’s voice.

Papi got the ball back, took a deep breath, and was ready to go again. But the batter stepped out of the box, asking the ump for time.

The instant he was back inside, Papi started his windup. His entire body was behind his delivery, driving low and forward with his legs.

The hitter swung. Only he was a half mile behind a one-hundred-mile-an-hour fastball.

Papi seemed to have his delivery back in sync and his focus again.

The catcher put down his signs for the pitch he wanted. Papi shook him off. But that had to be all for show, because everybody in the park knew that El Fuego wasn’t going to throw anything except more heat. With a runner on third, Papi probably wasn’t going to bounce one in the dirt—to make the batter go fishing—risking a wild pitch that could roll all the way to the aquarium in the backstop.

My heart was starting to beat hard as I bent slightly at the knees, just like the Marlins shortstop, who was practically staring down the barrel of that hitter’s bat.

Now Papi was taking his time, glaring at the batter. That Yankee was waving his bat, just off his shoulder, looking for a rhythm of his own.

The second his bat went still, Papi started his delivery.

I didn’t see a baseball leave Papi’s hand, just a blur. But I heard the crackle of the catcher’s mitt and felt the explosion in the stands as the batter swung and missed. Then I needed to look twice at the scoreboard when it posted that pitch at 103 miles per hour.

Papi gazed into the stands, from the seat where Milo was sitting all the way to me behind the bullpen gate. He took his fist and pounded his chest, before he let it hover for a moment over his heart. Despite the distance between us, when his eyes met mine I felt a spark of electricity, and nothing but pride and love for Papi.

I could only imagine what my half brother was feeling. I’m sure he thought that look from Papi was his alone. Maybe one day, I would explain to him exactly what we’d shared.

Turning toward home plate, Papi windmilled his left arm as if he could throw a pitch even faster than he just did. With two outs, the shortstop and the rest of the infielders moved back to their regular depths.

The Yankees were down to their final out. Papi was one batter away from fulfilling his dreams.

He was snorting on the mound, kicking at the dirt beneath his cleats. My fingers and palm inside the leather glove were sweating.

The hitter crossed himself and kissed the gold medallion hanging from his neck before he stepped into the batter’s box.

Papi went into his windup, coiling his body like a snake. Then he sprang forward with the same motion he’d used for all of his fastballs. That’s when time seemed to slow down for a second. Things were suddenly clearer to me and everything was in better focus. Somewhere inside that brief instant, my brain recognized that Papi hadn’t thrown his fastball. Instead, it was a changeup—probably eight miles an hour slower than that Yankee batter or anyone else ever expected. And I held my breath.

I don’t know what motivated Papi to put his trust in that particular pitch, to make that kind of change with so much hanging in the balance. But he did.

The hitter’s front foot was way out in front. Totally off-balance, he swung and popped the ball high into the air above the infield.

My lungs filled themselves with air.

Now, it was only a matter of gravity for Papi to realize his dream, and for the Marlins to win.

Papi pointed straight up into the night sky, past the halo of lights that encircled the stadium and all the way to the stars.

The shortstop settled himself beneath the ball, waiting. When it nestled into his glove, he squeezed both hands around it tight and the crowd went crazy.

As the shortstop leaped into Papi’s arms, the bullpen gate opened and I was the first one to charge out onto the field. By the time I reached Papi, he was being swarmed by his teammates from the diamond and the dugout. I pushed past them all and found my place in his arms.

I could feel the tears of joy running down Papi’s face. I wanted to say something to him. Only I couldn’t speak. I just held on tight as bursts of fireworks filled the sky. Then my own tears started to flow.

I wasn’t sure what the future was going to bring. All of my resentment over Papi leaving us behind wasn’t going to disappear because of a baseball game. But deep inside, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing one thing: a pitcher who once walked the streets of Matanzas like a Cuban god, with me trailing behind, had just saved Game Seven of the World Series.

He was a World Champion. And he was my father.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to April, Sabrina, Carlos, Marc, and Eva.

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