Game Seven by Paul Volponi Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œThanks, Primo,” he said. “Tastes even better knowing who you robbed for