Game Seven by Paul Volponi Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œSomeone 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.
    â€œJunior, please enter,” he said, drenched in shadows. “We need to have some conversation.”
    â€œMy name’s
Julio
,” I replied, adding more bass to my voice so it would carry in that near-empty room.
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œIt’s hurt him, too, you know—your uncle,” said Moyano.
    â€œWhat has?”
    â€œYour papi’s actions,” he