Game Seven (8 page)

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.