I check my watch. I got to be on the train by four if I want to meet up with Isa. She’s been practicing nonstop since she was named understudy for one of the leads. She’s probably backstage right now, sewing ribbons on her shoes for her tech rehearsal. It’s crazy that dancers do that. They’ve got these rituals to prepare their shoes, kind of like what we do to our mitts. Isa’s eyes got this crazy glint when she told me about it. Like she’d just had a double espresso. And an energy drink. They get like that whenever she talks about dance. Or her brother. I wonder if that’s what they look like when she talks about me.
“¡Ále!” Papi’s shout jabs me in the back. The players are fanning out to the field. “What you waiting for? Let’s go. Yefri will play right field.”
I turn toward the pitcher’s mound.
Papi’s yelling at Bryan about his mask. Robi is flying back from first, kicking up dust. He calls, “Papi! Papi! Papi! When Bryan hits, can I catch?”
Papi says something I don’t hear. Robi scuffs to the bench.
I raise my glove. I watch Papi’s hands, changing my grip to what he wants.
A white and blue car rolls by. It stops as I wind up to pitch. They can’t rattle me. Not when I’ve got my mitt and a ball in my hand. One of the cops nods as I strike the first batter out. They’re cruising for Saturday trouble. They won’t find any here. We just playing ball.
Out of seven hitters, only one makes contact. It’s a foul. Bryan straightens. He takes off his pads. He’s the last in the lineup. Papi takes Bryan’s mask and props it on his head. Robi barrels out from the bench. He jumps up and down. His hands pray against his chest. I jog to home.
“Come on, let him catch. It’s only gonna be three throws.” I give Bryan my wicked smile, but he’s looking at First Ave again, waiting for someone who’s not coming.
“Please! Please! Please!” Robi hops like a toy with too much battery.
Papi ignores him.
“Pedro! ¡Déjalo!” Yefri shouts from right field.
“Yeah. Let’s see your other boy play.” Papi’s friend, his players call him Mr. Jhonny, rattles the metal fence.
Papi hands the mask to Robi. He doesn’t look at him. I grab the pads. I get on my knees to strap Robi in. I make sure the mask fits good and tight.
“Remember what I told you?”
“Yup.” His braces shine in the sun. “Toes out. Chest up. And don’t forget to widen your feet.”
I tap the side of his head with my glove.
Papi comes up as I back away. “Just ’cause it’s your brother, I don’t want you easing off your pitches.”
“What about Bryan? He is my teammate. Hitting a homer would be good for his confidence, no?”
Papi sniffs. He doesn’t like humor. He takes his place behind Robi and I go back to mine. He wants me to throw a fastball. For the first time, I don’t do what he asks. I throw a changeup, and not just because it’ll be easier for Robi to catch. Bryan can’t hit them.
The ball cuts through the air. It drops into Robi’s glove. Robi jumps up and hurls it to me. Light flashes off his smile. He did it just fine. But Papi’s on him, telling him his chest was too low, his feet were too close.
A couple of moms with babies pass by. They’re frowning at Papi. The strollers pick up speed as they power walk away.
Why is Papi always so hard on Robi? He’s hard on Bryan, on Danny, on me. But never as hard as he is with Robi. I like that Papi saves time for me. He didn’t when I was little. It wasn’t until I hit my first ball past that dented orange garbage can beyond the outfield that things changed. I was nine. A full year younger than Robi is now. I keep wondering when Robi’s gonna hit his ball out of the park.
Papi strides toward me.
“What did I ask for?” His jaw is clenched.
“It was the wrong call,” I mutter.
“What you say?”
I drop the ball into my mitt. I palm it then drop it again. “Bryan didn’t hit it, did he?” It’s not like this is even a real game. We’re all trying out to be on the same team.
“When you here, I’m coach. You do what I tell you.” Papi storms back to Robi. Robi’s grinning, already in position.
Bryan taps the bat to the base. He swings it into position.
Papi’s fingers dance. He wants me to do the four-seam. Fine.
I draw my knee to my chest. I hinge forward. The ball shoots from my shoulder, from my arm, from my fingers. It cracks against the bat. The ball rockets upward. It’s in front of home plate.
“Go! Go!” Papi yells.
Bryan streaks for first.
Robi staggers off his knees. His mitt is out. He’s peering up. Sunlight and metal flicker from his teeth.
The ball plummets. It bounces off the pad at Robi’s shoulder.
Papi curses. He’s so loud, Bryan turns around.
Papi pushes Robi. It’s like a truck pushing over a paper stop sign. Robi hits the dirt with an oomph!
“¡Levántate!”
Robi gets up as Papi asks.
Papi’s hand is on Robi’s chest. He’s driving my brother backward. They crash against the fence.
I drop my glove. I run for home. I get there just as a man with a badge rounds the corner.
Papi’s yelling. His fists are out. He’s not going to hit Robi. He’s just angry. The police don’t know that. All they see is a brown man losing control.
“Papi! ¡Tranquilo!” I put myself in front of him. I take his shoulders with my hands. Bryan gets to Robi. He brings him to the other side of the fence.
“You know how to catch the ball! I teach you that! I no teach you to drop it!”
“He’s just learning.” My voice is low.
“You never did anything so stupid.” Papi spits into the dust. “Even when you were five.”
“Is there a problem here?” One cop is at my side. The other, a lady, is talking to Robi.
Papi’s chest is like a train engine without a brake. I shake my head. Papi better keep quiet.
“Good afternoon, officers.” Yefri arrives from right field. His chest is going pretty quick too. “How can we help?” He has no accent when he speaks. Unlike Papi.
The officers say other parents in the park have issued complaints. They want to take Papi to the precinct to ask him some questions.
Papi can’t go there. He’s not good in those situations. He’s not good with authority unless the authority is him.
“You baseball fans?” Yefri asks them.
Of course they are.
Yefri puts his hand on the back of Papi’s neck. Papi’s looking at the water. He squints against the glare. His mouth is like a line between bases.
“Well this here’s a former Yankee. He and Jeter were rookies together.”
I see it happen. The change Papi always talks about. When folks learn to know you as someone more than what their eyes tell them.
The creases on the officer’s brow relax. He smiles an openmouthed smile. “No way, man. What’s your name?”
Papi’s still gazing out at the harbor. “I only played one year.”
“Eighteen months and twenty-six days,” Yefri corrects. He doesn’t tell them how many games Papi played. He’s trying to inflate what Papi did. Yefri whips out his wallet. Papi’s rookie card is tucked behind his driver’s license. Papi’s got a few in his desk. I’ve never seen anyone else with one.