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way on earth it could ever become a neat rectangle again. Eventually, we pulled up to a baseball field behind an old boarding school with a one-story, flat-roofed dormitory.
    The Nacional coaches, including Moyano, who was still chomping on that unlit cigar, were already there, waiting beside their car.
    â€œThis is it—the place where you’re going to make your mark,” Luis said to me. “Outplay those other shortstops for a spot on the junior team.”
    â€œHow about you?” I asked, as Paulo brought us to a stop and the bus’s doors opened with a belch of air. “What are you going to do here?”
    â€œMaybe play a few innings. Catch some rays in the outfield,” he answered with a widening grin. “Then hit the beach in my uniform top. Impress the local senoritas. That’s my plan—like a little vacation.”
    Uncle Ramon was the first one off the bus. He was talking with those big shots while the rest of us unloaded the gear and gathered outside. A few dark clouds were hanging low in the sky over our heads, covering up the sun.
    A moment later, Moyano, with his hand on Uncle Ramon’s shoulder, spoke to us. “When this tournament is over tomorrow, some of you will be playing for me as Nacionales,” said Moyano, through the chewed-up cigar in the corner of his mouth. “Other teams are here from Cárdenas, Santa Clara, and Puerto Padre. They’re your competition. We only want the best of the best. Cuba’s best. Our proudest. I won’t accept anything less. You know who you are. How you have to perform. You only let yourselves down when you fail, because we’ll find someone hungrier to take your place. Remember that. Now your coach will give you instructions.”
    As a sprinkle of rain began to fall, Uncle Ramon cleared his throat and stepped forward from Moyano’s grasp.
    â€œDormitory number four, that’s ours. It’s two players to a room. Breakfast is in the cafeteria, and then we’re on the field for practice at eleven o’clock. We play Puerto Padre at twelve thirty. I’ll post the lineup inside our dugout soon.”
    He seemed to be done talking, so most of us started toward the dorms, including me. Then Uncle Ramon spoke again and my feet came to a halt, gripping the gravel below them.
    â€œFor lots of you, this is a dream. But it’s a dream that can slip away with age faster than you think. I know all about that,” he said, touching a few gray hairs around his temple. “Don’t let this chance pass you by without a fight. Approach it with passion. At least then you’ll always be able to live with yourself, no matter what the outcome. Now, go prepare yourselves.”
    Walking to the dorms, I felt a kind of electricity revving up and pulsing through me from Uncle Ramon’s words. And I could feel that same energy jumping off most of my teammates.
    As another raindrop tapped my forehead, I separated myself from the others by falling back a little bit. Then, instead of entering the dorm, I walked behind a large wooden shed filled with gardening tools. I looked around in every direction. When I was sure no one could see me, I took the transistor radio out from my pocket.
    I wanted to know about the weather for the World Series.
    The reception from the US stations during the day isn’t nearly as good as at night. It’s constantly cutting in and out. So I pressed the blue plastic radio with the black dials up against my ear, struggling to hear.
    Nightly forecast . . . intermittent showers . . . Yankee Stadium . . . Game Three of the Series . . . tied at one . . . the visiting Miami Marlins . . . under way at eight . . . clearing later tonight . . . now a word from . . . all your lumber and hardware needs. . . .
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    Luis and I shared a tiny room with two single beds in it. They