Game Seven (7 page)

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?”