Game Seven by Paul Volponi Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œSo, 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.
    â€œNo 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.”
    â€œThat’s it? Nothing more?”
    â€œI’m a baseball player, not a public speaker.”
    â€œNo, you’re a busboy,” said Moyano, the smoke billowing from his lips. “You’re only a baseball player if I say you are.”
    â€œJust let me go.”
    â€œ
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?”
    â€œWhat 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?”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI’ll tell you something. I’m going to sit here and finish this fine cigar. Take my time with it.