Rafael, Many Years Ago

Rafael Rosales saw his first baseball game when he was five. He sprinted up the bleacher steps of Tetelo Vargas Stadium, flapped his arms, and pretended to fly. For a few glorious moments, he ran along the bench at the very top, his footsteps clanging, but when Papa got to the top, he tugged on Rafael's arm.

"Sit down or we'll leave now!" he threatened. Rafael plopped down on the bleacher. He could imagine Papa making them march out of the stadium before the game even started. His father wasn't a baseball fan and almost never spent money on fun things. He must have gotten the tickets for free.

Mama reached their seats carrying Iván, who was still a toddler. She handed Rafael a piece of candy to chew on. He leaned back and kicked up his feet and laughed. Papa settled him down with a firm hand. The stadium gradually filled up with people, most of them wearing the bright green of Las Estrellas Orientales. Rafael wished he had a cap with a shooting star like many of the fans wore. He wanted to feel like one of the crowd. He had never been a part of something so grand.

The fans roared and shook noisemakers as the Estrellas took to the field. The sound was deafening and wonderful. Children ran down to the front row and hung over the infield fence. Beautiful women in green skirts danced on top of the dugouts. Everybody stood still for the national anthem: "Valiant Quisqueyanos, let's raise our song!" At the end of the song, a merengue band started up. A man with the head of an elephant capered down on the field. Rafael started to dance, like many other fans, but Papa nudged him back into his seat.

At last, the game began, and Rafael stopped fidgeting and watched. He was fascinated at the ball whizzing by, fast as light, and the batter taking a swing. He was so excited to see the batter hit the ball that he hollered "Ayiiiiii!" as the ball sailed over the fence. A few fans gave him stern looks, but others laughed.

"The wrong team scored," Papa whispered sharply.

After that, Rafael watched the crowd. He cheered when they cheered and groaned when they groaned. Mostly he watched the field, entranced. He finally understood why older boys in the barrio pretended to rear up and pitch oranges before peeling them, why they took practice swings with sticks they found in the street. They were imitating these men. He also wanted to run across green grass and hook a gleaming white ball out of the air while people whistled and clapped. He wanted to hit the ball and run in a circle and clap hands with the other players as he crossed the plate. He wanted to wave his cap at thousands of cheering people. He knew the word béisbol, but for the first time he understood all the wonder and magic that word held.

He knew then and lived by it every day after: this is what I want to do.

* * *

When he was seven years old and able to get away from the house and Mama's watchful eyes, Rafael inched closer and closer to the games that were always being played at the dead end of the street where there was no traffic.

He asked for a chance to swing the stick and was shoved aside by a slightly older boy in a New York Yankees cap. Rafael had to hang back and simply watch with the other niñitos.

Even so, he started to watch the games every chance he got. He found out the older boy's name was Juan Santos Garcia. He overheard that Juan's cap had been sent by his uncle, who used to play professional baseball in the United States. More than once, Rafael saw Juan point out the shiny sticker on the cap. "That means it's authentic," Juan would say. He used the English word authentic, his tongue hissing against his teeth in the middle of the word.

Rafael got a chance to play a few weeks later. It was early in the morning after a heavy rain, and only a few boys were out to play.

"Rafael, you can join my team!" Juan called to him.

"I can play?" Rafael asked, unsure he'd heard him right. He didn't know that Juan even knew his name.

"Yes. You be defender." In street baseball, there was only one all-purpose fielder other than the pitcher and catcher. Rafael saw that the boy at the plate was right-handed, so he stood where a shortstop would be. He remembered this boy was a weak hitter and moved up a few steps. Juan saw that Rafael knew what to do and gave him a thumbs-up sign. "You're OK!" he said, using another expression from the United States.

Rafael did not have a glove, but he didn't need one. The ball was made of white socks pulled tight over a stone. He caught the ball the first time it was hit his way. He dropped it the second time but still got it to Juan for an out. The last boy struck out.

Juan gave him the stick.

"Abres," he said. Rafael knew the word to mean open, like a door. He hadn't heard it used in baseball.

"You mean I'm up first?"

"Yes. Try to get on base, and I will bring you home."

Rafael couldn't believe it. He was finally getting a chance to bat! He imitated every tough boy he had ever seen — tapping the plate with the stick and scowling at the pitcher. It was not really a plate, but a house-shape drawn in chalk.

The ball came at him, faster and closer than he'd thought it would. He swung at it, the way he had in all of his dreams, and made contact. The ball arced back to the pitcher, who caught it barehanded before Rafael could take a step. All of the boys cheered — he thought because he was out until Juan patted him on the shoulder.

"You almost got a hit!" he said. "You hit it hard! You're going to be a real pelotero."

After that game, Rafael never had to wait long to play. And once he was in a game, he wouldn't quit until all the other boys had gone home or his mother dragged him home by his shirt collar. By his eighth birthday, he figured he was second best, after Juan. But he wasn't even a close second. Juan could leap up and nab a ball out of the air. Juan seemed to get a hit every time he batted.

One afternoon, a boy named Tomás hit a pop fly higher than any of them had ever seen. The boys stood and watched in awe as the ball hung in the air for a full countable second, spinning, before dropping back down.

"I bet I can hit it higher!" a boy named Diego shouted.

"No way, but I can!" The boys grappled for the makeshift bat. Rafael watched while they took turns popping the ball straight up in the air.

"Come on!" said Rafael. "We're playing a game." Nobody seemed to hear. Diego wrenched the bat free and took a turn. Tomás pitched while Diego flailed with the stick, trying to hit the ball straight in the air.

"It's my turn!" Another boy grabbed the bat away.

Juan edged over to Rafael and touched the brim of his beaten-up Yankees cap to say hello.

"Are you going to have a go?" he asked.

"A pop fly is usually an out. Why practice it?"

"Because it's fun."

"I don't care," said Rafael.

"Do you know the score right now?"

"Five to two. Your team is ahead."

Juan smirked, but not because he was winning. "Nobody else keeps score. You're so serious, Rafael. You have fiebre."

"No, I don't," said Rafael. His face flushed. Is this what the other boys thought of him? That he took himself too seriously?

"Yes, you do. It's all right."

"Hey, Yankee Juan!" Tomás called. "Do you want to try?"

"Sure!" Juan called back. "I'll show you how to hit a...