Game Seven Read Online Free PDF Page B

were perfectly made up, covered in worn-out comforters and pillowcases. A see-through plastic tub, to store belongings, peeked out from the floor beneath each one. There was a nightstand with a lamp on it between the beds. And the one bathroom was down the hall for the entire team to use.
    I thought of the fancy hotel suite that Papi was probably staying in, after arriving in New York on the Marlins’ private jet. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of wanting to trade places.
    My cousin grabbed the bed closest to the door.
    â€œSometimes I need to
go
in the middle of the night,” he said. “This’ll make it easier. I won’t wake you.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” I said, pulling the tub out from under my bed. “This is better than sleeping on a foldout couch. That’s all I care about.”
    Before Luis unpacked, he put a small framed photo of his mother, Blanca, on the nightstand. He crossed himself. Then, with a click of the lamp, the warm, bright light shone on her face.
    Nobody expected my aunt to die. She was completely healthy before getting pneumonia. The doctors said my aunt was so strong that she’d walked around with it for two weeks doing her normal chores—laundry, cooking, a weekend shift in the sugarcane refinery. So when the phone call came from the hospital that Aunt Blanca had died, none of us believed it. We thought there had to be some mistake. But there wasn’t.
    I swear, Luis cried for a week straight. His eyes would water everywhere—home, church, the funeral, and school. And it didn’t look like he had one bit of shame over it either. When Papi left, I cried a lot, too. Only I wouldn’t do it in front of anyone. I didn’t even want people to see that my eyes were red.
    Since then, we’ve had plenty of sleepovers together, both at my house and his. Luis would always say his prayers before bed. Like a little kid, he’d get on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him and close his eyes. Then his mouth would move with no sound coming out, until he was finished. I never poked fun at him over it. I’d just stay quiet and try to be respectful.
    â€œMy son has faith in his prayers,” Uncle Ramon once told me. “I quit praying a long time ago. I believe God already knows what we want. Why should I bother
Him
? I’ll work on those things myself.”
    I stopped believing in a lot of things when Papi turned his back on us. And if I ever have any praying to do, I save it for when I’m rounding third base, hoping to be safe at home plate.
    â€“ – –
    The cafeteria was packed with more than a hundred players and coaches. We were stuck in a long line of people holding red plastic trays and moving slowly between two silver rails along a glass counter. Older women wearing paper hats that looked like sailboats were serving breakfast. There were scrambled eggs and bacon, waffles, cold cereal, fruit, and tostada—toasted bread—to dunk in milk or
café con leche
.
    I’d been drinking coffee for a few years, and liked it most in the morning.
    â€œThat stuff’s nasty,” said Luis as I poured myself a cup. “Too bitter.”
    â€œStick to chocolate milk, little boy,” I needled him. “When you’re ready to put some hair on your chest, I’ll let you try some of this.”
    â€œI’ve had it before. Makes me jumpy. I’m hyper enough,” he said, biting into a strip of bacon as we moved forward. “But I like coffee ice cream.”
    As we came off the line, the cafeteria looked like it was divided into four separate camps. That’s because the all-star teams were sitting at their own tables, dressed in different colored uniforms. But there were only three players who weren’t from Matanzas who had my attention. Those were the other shortstops I was in competition with. The most important one was Chico López from Puerto Padre, our