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see the river below. And without a shred of wind, the blue water looked smooth as glass, with the bus’s yellow reflection sailing across.
    â€œIt’s not about the money. I guarantee it,” responded Uncle Ramon. “I used to be El Fuego’s catcher, before there was
any
money or fame. That was when we played for pride on fields littered with broken bottles, in shorts and T-shirts. We were both crazy for the game. Anyone here know what they call the catcher’s equipment—the mask, shin guards, chest protector?”
    â€œI know,” answered Manuel, our catcher. “Tools of ignorance.”
    â€œThat’s right—because you take an unholy beating back there. You have to be half-stupid to even want to play the position,” said Uncle Ramon, knocking a fist against his own skull, before displaying his two crooked pinkies. “You break fingers, block pitches in the dirt with your chest, and take foul tips off every part of your body. And don’t even think about going behind the plate without wearing a cup to protect your jewels.”
    â€œI got hit
there
once,” said Manuel, cringing a little bit. “Even with a cup it hurts.”
    â€œBut catchers know the game better than anybody, because we see the whole field in front of us,” said Uncle Ramon. “I used to start out to the mound in the middle of an inning, to tell
El Fuego
what I was thinking. He’d wave me off, saying, ‘The only thing you know about pitching is that you can’t hit it.’”
    â€œWhat did you say back?” asked Manuel.
    â€œNothing. He was my older brother,” answered Uncle Ramon. “But there was one league game when an umpire from Havana was squeezing the strike zone on him really bad, calling all of El Fuego’s pitches on the corner of the plate balls. I turned around to look at him and that umpire says, ‘I’ll tell you what a strike is and what’s not. Look at me again and you’re ejected.’”
    â€œWhat happened?” asked one of our players.
    â€œThe next pitch, I called for one high and outside, just above my right shoulder, where that umpire was squatting behind me. At first El Fuego shook me off. But I called for it a second time, until he finally nodded his head,” said Uncle Ramon. “He put that pitch exactly where I asked for it—his best fastball. Then I lowered my mitt a few inches.”
    Luis glanced back at me. We’d heard this story plenty of times growing up.
    â€œThe pitch hit that bastard in the middle of his mask—
ping
,” said Uncle Ramon. “Knocked him out cold.”
    â€œDid you get in trouble?” Manuel asked, excitedly.
    â€œThey called us both to appear in front of the local sports commissioner. Right after the game, before we could get our stories straight,” he continued. “El Fuego said it was
his
fault. That he crossed me up by reading my signals wrong. That I was expecting a curveball. The commissioner screamed at us for twenty minutes. Then he let us go with just a warning. My brother was pissed at me for a few hours, for causing all that trouble. But later on, he slapped my back and said, ‘Screw that umpire for trying to take away what’s mine. He got exactly what he deserved.’ We laughed the rest of the night over it.”
    Papi’s version of that story wasn’t exactly the same as Uncle Ramon remembered it. Some of the facts of who did what were a little different. Only the conclusion didn’t change: nobody would ever again take away what belonged to El Fuego.

4

    MORE THAN AN hour later, we reached Cárdenas. The bus rolled along the coastline, past rocky beaches, the bay, and empty docks where fishing boats had probably been out on the water since before sunrise.
    Then our driver, Paulo, turned the wheel inland, into the countryside. On his lap, he began unfolding a paper map until it looked like there was no