“Naw, they’re too far. There’s no way,” Amir said.
Then Javier waved back because Javier was like that and Carl and Amir laughed at him and called him a pussy. “With my arm, I could hit that boat, no doubt,” Carl bragged, and Rafael smiled, though he didn’t believe him. Beneath them, the body came and went against the shore. They glared at the Circle Line and none of them knew why they hated that boat so much.
Mario and Rafael didn’t stop at the pier. Instead, they found a place to sit at the fields, letting their eyes wander as the games unfolded before them. The day was bright and clear, the park brimming. A man carried a wooden board pegged with colorful balloons. A Chinese couple laid out bootleg videos on a blanket spread on the grass. So many bikes whizzed by that the ground itself seemed to move — a giant conveyer belt this island — and the only ones still were Mario and Rafael. They sat in the sun between fields, where they could watch two games at once. Mario had bought them both sodas, and the games slid by as they sipped from straws, their plastic bottles pimpled with condensation. Rafael was glad to be outdoors.
He could tell how tired his cousin was. His slacks and dress shoes looked out of place, he had unbuttoned and untucked his shirt. Mario’s hair was black and unruly and should have been cut weeks ago. Everyone was always saying that he put in too many hours — he’d come from work that very day. But to Rafael it seemed exciting to have tasks to complete and people who depended on you. Mario had gone to college and worked in a bank now, something with computers. He called them systems. He was ten years older than Rafael.
For a long while they said nothing and were comfortable, the bright day being so far and so different from where they had come. Then, slowly, they were talking, Rafael surprised that they could speak of something else. They wagered as to who would get on base. Mario had the science. “You size up the hitter,” he said, “by taking in the complete picture. Don’t be fooled by his physique.”
“The whole package?”
“Fat don’t mean he can’t run and skinny don’t mean he can’t hit. Look for confidence. The way he carries himself, even between pitches.”
They eyed a hitter as he came to the plate. His uniform hung off him, a little too big, enough to highlight the thin arms and puny legs that carried him. He was fidgety, adjusting and readjusting his cap. The pitcher waited. “He’s gonna strike out,” Rafael said. “He’s nervous.”
The batter kicked his left cleat up against the barrel of the bat; a tiny cloud of dust materialized and then vanished. Mario nodded.
The first pitch came in high, but he chased it, nearly falling over in the process. There were some snickers from the opposing team. The hitter took his time, a few mock swings, before getting back to the plate. He looked lost already. The next pitch sailed by him, a called strike. 0–2. Mario nudged his cousin. “Good call. He’s done.” Rafael smiled. The hitter called time and, taking off his cap, looked sheepishly toward the dugout. Half his guys were already getting their gloves on. None of them would meet his gaze. The pitcher smelled blood. The hitter stepped back in, got in his stance. The pitch was a good one, but the swing was all wrong, defensive, tenuous. He popped the ball high toward first. He didn’t even run.
“Damn. Good call,” Mario repeated.
They watched a few more, and some surprised them. A little rail of a man slapped a double, driving in a run. An overmatched pitcher got a slugger to ground out. Before long, Rafael found himself rooting for the batter, even though he had been a pitcher in Little League. He saw no contradiction in switching allegiances when the teams switched sides. Rafael loved the way a pitcher’s face dropped at the crack of the bat or the way he followed the ball’s long flight into left field with a look of resignation. “Do it!” Rafael shouted. “Run, run!” he yelled. “Beat the throw! Slide!”
After a while the sun got too strong, and they walked past the soccer game to the next set of diamonds where there was shade. It seemed like the whole world was in the park, everyone pitting themselves and their skills against each other. Rafael was not an athlete, hadn’t thrived in competition. His Little League glove now collected dust in a corner of the room he shared with his sister. It came back to him, though, the smell of it, the slant of the shadows on the field, the simple rules he had once played by. He never hated his opponents, could never convince himself he did, and had wondered on the mound, holding the ball in his sweaty palm, if the batters hated him. Rafael rattled easily, took each hit personally. A fielding error turned his stomach to knots — are they sabotaging me? my own teammates? — and by the eighth grade he had lost interest in playing. He threw weakly, or thought he did, but missed that feeling of pure joy when, after throwing hard and fast for hours and hours, his arm became jelly, throbbing and nearly glowing. There was something wonderful there: every tendon stretched, a vague tingling. Is that what it feels like, Rafael thought, what my father felt? After the first stroke in March, Rafael had sat with him, watched his father and the confused way in which he observed his own limbs. “I’ll be okay,” his father had said, but he had no movement in his left side. His eyes darted from his son to his own useless arm and back again. “What’s going to happen?” Rafael had asked.
“I’m getting better. This is just a small thing,” his father said. He forced a smile, and Rafael believed him.
Mario and Rafael hung on the fence by the northernmost field and watched a pitcher bully his way through a couple of innings. He threw like a monster, strictly heat. Fastballs from an abbreviated windup, tight with scarcely a kick of the leg. Boom against the catcher’s leather. Hitter after hitter watched pitches go by, the ball slapped solidly against the mitt. His teammates cheered him on. Nobody could get around on his fastball, and the smugness of him was too much. He was killing them. He wore a little mustache that he stroked between pitches, and smiled cruelly when a ball went foul, as if he was surprised the batter had even made contact. Rafael bristled at his arrogance. He wanted to see him hit, could imagine it: a drive up the middle, driven hard to the thighs, to the stomach, to the chest. Why not?
Mario liked him. “This kid can throw,” he said.
“He’s a dick.”
“He’s good, Rafael. That’s it.”
Rafael was aware that they had been at the park and out of the house for over an hour now and had not shared a single word about why they were there. It was better this way. He felt no particular need to speak of it, to speak of his father. It was happening. He was at the hospital, or perhaps they had brought him home by now. Or perhaps he would never leave the hospital alive. He thought of his mother, asleep, calm for the first time in weeks.
She had no interest in ever waking up.
“I could tell you a story, Rafa, but I’m not sure you’d even believe me,” Mario said, breaking the silence. He took off his dress shirt, draping it over his head. “It’s too bizarre, almost unbelievable.” Rafael didn’t answer him, but only looked on. Mario sighed.
“Whatever…I was ten. We lived on 181st. I liked to ride my bike all over the place, I mean all over. Down to 116th, to Riverside, all around Dykman. Me and some kids rode all the way to Yankee Stadium a couple of times. I mean, we just loved to go places, see things. My moms couldn’t really keep an eye on me, she was working and all, so I was sort of left to mind myself. I did all right, not great but all right. We were good kids. Then one day, I’m out and I’m alone and I’m riding by myself, and I swear to God, I’m there just cruising down the sidewalk, and there’s a shot, and before I have time to look up — you won’t believe this — this body has landed on me. Fell from the second floor, third floor — what do I know? A man. Straight knocked me off my bike. I swear to God! A fucking body. Straight knocked me over. I didn’t even look at him. I didn’t even breathe. I got back on my bike and rode and rode and rode, don’t know how I got home, but I did. Then I put that bike away and started playing video games, kid. Full-time. I mean, I got fat. You couldn’t get me out of the house, I was so fucking scared. I mean months. I watched TV and played video games and never got on that bike again.”