Molina Page 9

  I told Pai I was done.

  “You can’t give up,” he said. “You need to keep playing.”

  He still thought things would turn around. He thought I would be fine, like he was always telling me. I wasn’t fine. I couldn’t live up to his belief in me. I still wanted to play baseball as much as ever. But I couldn’t keep waiting and hoping and failing until Pai started feeling sorry for me. I couldn’t live with that. It had once seemed unthinkable that I would spend my life on an assembly line. Now it had the stink of inevitability.

  “Pai,” I said, modulating my quaking voice. “I’ll be okay. I’ll get more hours at the factory, and I’ll help Cheo and Yadier make it.”

  They could carry Pai’s dream forward.

  In bed that night, I wondered if this was what Pai felt when he finally had to face facts and give up. Did he really understand what he was letting go? That he was losing the best version of himself? I liked who I was on the field. There was no hesitation, no self-consciousness. Who was I going to be without that, and without the rules and framework of baseball to guide my way?

  The next morning, my wife and I were watching television and making plans for Yuma when the door rattled again with fierce pounding. “Coño!” I said, picking up the bat again. “What is this?”

  “Get away or I’ll smash your skull in!” I shouted.

  “Bengie, open up!”

  Cheo’s voice.

  I opened the door, and he threw his arms around me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “You scared us half to death.”

  “You have a tryout!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He explained that he had had a tryout that morning at Parcelas Carmen Field with two California Angels scouts, one Puerto Rican and one American. Mai had gone with him and had waved a fistful of newspaper clippings in the scouts’ faces. “You need to see my other son!” She had brought articles about me being the top player in the American Legion tournament, the MVP in college, the RBI leader in Double A. She had the front page of the sports section from that very morning with a big photo of me and a story about my 4-for-5 night with Maceteros.

  Cheo said Georgie, a longtime Puerto Rican scout, waved her off, but Mai wouldn’t let up

  “I can only imagine,” I said.

  Driven by politeness, exasperation, or fear, the American scout agreed to give me a look at three o’clock.

  If a scout had to be badgered into a tryout by somebody’s mom, he was not likely to be handing out a contract at the end of it.

  “You go have a great career,” I said. “It’s cool. I’m fine. My time is passed.”

  “Get your pants. Get your shirt. This could be your chance.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “It’s a waste of time.”

  “You tell Mai yourself.”

  I agreed to show up at Parcelas Carmen Field at three.

  “There’s one problem,” I said.

  I took Cheo down the street and pointed up at my spikes. Cheo said I could wear his, though they were a size too big.

  Cheo, Mai, and Pai went with me to Parcelas Carmen. My chest was tight. Not about the tryout. I knew I had no chance. But I hated disappointing Mai and Pai. They still thought, after my seventy-five or so tryouts, that someone was going to see something in me that everyone else had missed. Maybe this tryout would convince them baseball was over for me. They needed to witness the rejection for themselves, like having to see the body before accepting the truth of someone’s death.

  At the field, the American scout sat alone in the stands. Mai immediately plopped herself next to him. I shook his hand and thanked him in English for the opportunity. His name was Ray Poitevint. I nodded to Georgie, the Puerto Rican scout, who was on the field. I didn’t like Georgie. He had never given me a fair look. I jogged out to right and played catch with Pai to loosen my arm. He could see how nervous I was. He thought I was worried about not doing well.

  “Just take it easy,” Pai said. “It’s just another tryout. Do your thing and you’ll be fine.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I know.”

  Poitevint yelled out to me. “Hey, come over here! To the backstop!”

  I figured he wanted to time my speed from home to first. Okay, I thought, let’s get it over with. I knew I’d be too slow to fit their logarithm or whatever they used to weed out players.

  When I got to home plate, Poitevint was waiting. “You ready? Your arm loose?” Then he handed me a catcher’s mitt.

  “Throw to second,” Poitevint said, returning behind the backstop. He held a stopwatch. “Let’s see how you do.”

  I looked at Pai. This was crazy. The one position I didn’t play, and that was what they wanted to see?

  “Hey,” Pai said, “you have two brothers who catch. You’ve watched them. Come on.”

  I crouched behind the plate. Pai, on the mound, pitched a ball. I caught it and fired to Cheo at second.

  Poitevint whistled. “Wow,” he said, showing the stopwatch to Georgie. “One-eight.”

  “Again,” he said.

  I caught Pai’s pitch and threw to Cheo.

  “One-nine. You’ve never caught before?”

  “Pitcher, outfield, and infield,” I said.

  He watched me throw a dozen more.

  “Let’s see you hit.”

  I had brought a bat I had gotten from my father’s cousin, Carmelo Martinez, who had played for the Padres, Cubs, and Pirates. It was a 35-incher; I usually used a 33. But I wanted to see if it gave me more power. I had nothing to lose. Pai pitched, and I sprayed the ball into the outfield, one line drive after another. Poitevint, standing behind the backstop, called out commands:

  “Right field!”

  “Pull it!”

  “Center!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! I crushed each one.

  “Okay, hit then run to first.”

  Cheo’s big shoes made me even slower than usual. I crossed first and turned in time to see Poitevint look at his stopwatch and frown.

  “I don’t need to see any more,” he called out to me.

  No surprise there. That’s it.

  “My son, he’s good,” I heard Mai saying in Spanish when I joined Poitevint behind the backstop. Felix Caro, who had arranged for me to go to college, had shown up; Mai must have called him. He had the baseball yearbook from Arizona Western College. He opened it to a photo of me receiving the plaque for MVP. Poitevint pulled Felix aside, but I could hear the conversation.

  “Why isn’t this kid signed?” Poitevint asked.

  “I don’t know. He should be.”

  “Is he a bad kid? Is he on drugs? A loose cannon?”

  “This is one of the nicest guys you’re going to meet. He’s a hard worker. I don’t know why nobody’s given him a shot.”

  The two men rejoined the rest of us. Or most of us. Pai had walked behind the stands. Maybe he couldn’t watch me get shot down one last time.

  “Well,” Poitevint said to me in English. “I like what you did, man. I can see you come from a baseball family. But I can’t sign you to pitch or play third or outfield. You’ll never get out of Single A the way you run. But I like your arm and I like your bat.

  “So today’s Saturday,” he continued. “Georgie right here will come to your house on Monday and get you signed. Start packing. You’re going to Mesa, Arizona, for rookie ball Tuesday. You’re gonna learn how to catch.”

  Mai grabbed my arm. “What’s he saying? Tell me what he said.”

  “He wants me to play rookie ball,” I said in Spanish, barely believing it myself.

  “What?” Mai cried.

  Suddenly Georgie was arguing with Poitevint. “He’s not a catcher. You want a catcher, sign Cheo.”

  “Hey, shut up, man!” I said in Spanish. “This is my one chance, and you’re going to ruin it? What are you doing?” Mai’s face darkened in the way it did before she exploded. But Poi
tevint beat her to the punch.

  “If I tell you to sign this player, you sign him.” Then he turned to me. “Are you ready to play pro?”

  “I’ve been waiting my whole life.”

  Mai grabbed my arm again.

  “Is he going to sign you? How much?”

  I asked Poitevint straight up. “How much, sir?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  I translated for Mai, and she started crying. “Benjamín, did you hear?”

  Pai emerged from behind the stands. He had missed the whole conversation. “What?”

  “Bengie’s going to rookie ball! He’s going to the Angels!”

  “Oh man!” Pai said, lighting up like he had just won the lottery. He hugged me and hung on for a beat longer than usual. “You deserve this.”

  Poitevint told me to keep the catcher’s mitt, a Lance Parrish model. I was happy to have it, if only as evidence that what just happened had really happened.

  I burst through the door of the apartment waving my new glove.

  “We’re out of this dump!” I told my wife. “We leave Tuesday!”

  We celebrated that night at Mai and Pai’s. Mai had called all the aunts and uncles and cousins. Pai squeezed grapefruits from the tree and mixed up vodka cocktails. Mai cooked onion steak, rice, beans, and tostones, fried plantains. It seemed like a dream.

  On Monday, Georgie brought the contract to Mai and Pai’s house. We sat at the kitchen table: Mai, Pai, Cheo, Yadier, my wife, and me. The contract was in English and didn’t have my name or the amount of money. Only that day’s date.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Georgie said. “I’ll take care of it and fill out the rest.” I didn’t trust him, but I signed. He said I’d get my check at rookie camp.

  Poitevint called in the afternoon.

  “You ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. What should I bring with me?”

  “They’ll give you everything you need.”

  I thanked him again and told him I’d work hard to show him he made the right decision.

  My wife and I packed everything we owned into one suitcase and one carry-on. “Well, you’re a pro now,” Pai said, hugging me at the airline gate. “It’s official.”

  “Thank you for everything. I’m going because of you. I love you, Pai.”

  “Work hard. Play all out all the time. Leave everything out there. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Take advantage of it. Make it work.”

  On the plane, I said a prayer. I knew it was childish for a grown man to think God would grant wishes like some genie in a bottle. But I said it anyway.

  Please let me measure up. Please let me make Pai’s dream come true.

  PART

  3

  THE PLAYERS IN camp looked as if they had stepped out of a baseball magazine: square-jawed, broad-shouldered, long-limbed. They had such a shine of confidence in their eyes. They walked through the clubhouse as if all this minor-league business were just a formality, that their names were already being sewn onto the backs of Major League uniforms.

  I was in way over my head.

  I knew what Pai would say: Don’t worry. Everything will be proven on the field.

  My locker at the Angels’ minor-league complex in Mesa was alongside five other catchers. In camp was a range of young players. We were all part of what is called the farm system. This is where Major League organizations “grow” their next stars. Every team’s farm system has five levels of competition: rookie ball, Low A, Single A, Double A, and Triple A. However, Single A has three levels of its own: Short A, Low A, and High A. They play in different parts of the country against other minor-league teams. Most minor leaguers had already been dispatched to teams in Boise, Idaho, and Lake Elsinore, California, and Midland, Texas; their seasons began in April.

  The ones left in camp now, in May, fell into three categories: rookies like me, experienced players rehabbing from injuries, and players discarded by other teams. The rookies would stay in Mesa to play in a rookie league from mid-June to the end of August. The others would be sent to a minor-league team, put on the disabled list, or released.

  I unpacked the small baseball bag I brought from home—an infield glove, the catcher’s mitt from Poitevint, deodorant, comb, razor. In my locker hung two uniform jerseys with bright red “Angels” on the front.

  Then I unpacked the larger Angels bag from Eric, the clubbie who had picked me up at the Phoenix airport. Two pairs of uniform pants, sliding shorts, practice T-shirts with the Angels logo, sanitary socks, athletic socks, and full catcher’s gear—shin guards, mask, and chest protector. All brand-new.

  I felt around inside the bag.

  Empty. No spikes.

  I glanced at the lockers on either side of me. Shoot. They all had their own spikes. I also noticed their catchers’ gloves. They were magnificent, meaty things. The pockets were nearly black from repeated poundings, and the rest of the leather was velvety brown, the color of infield dirt, and impressively scuffed and scarred. The thick laces corkscrewed along the edges like ripped muscles. If I ever had to smother a grenade, these mitts were what I’d use.

  I noticed the catcher at the adjoining locker eying my mitt on the bench between us. He looked from the mitt to me then back again, as if trying to figure out if this was really what I was going to use. My glove, compared to his, was a plastic beach toy. I realized it wasn’t real leather. The stitching looked cheap. But I didn’t care. I was happy. Still, I swiped it from the bench and stashed it on the shelf in my locker.

  I headed off to find someone with an extra pair of spikes. I took a few steps before turning back. I grabbed my mitt. I was envisioning a crowd around my locker, gawking at it.

  I looked for the Latin players I had met in the hotel lobby that morning. Latin players were more comfortable leaning on each other than American players. Maybe it’s because most of us grew up poor. We shared each other’s toys. We invented games together. We were never really alone. When I was home in Dorado, neighbors spilled into each other’s kitchens and yards to celebrate births, grieve deaths, fix leaks, ride herd on wayward sons and daughters. When one person struggled, everyone carried a piece of the burden. We played baseball the same way.

  But none of the Latin players had extra spikes, of course. They had no more money than I did.

  I found Eric, the clubbie, in the laundry room folding towels.

  “You didn’t bring spikes?” he said.

  I told him I forgot, which sounded less stupid than saying I tossed them over a power wire.

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll see what we have.”

  I returned to my locker and realized I didn’t have batting gloves, either.

  Back to the laundry room.

  Eric told me to wait and disappeared down the hall. He returned with spikes left behind by another player and two pairs of used batting gloves.

  Borrowed shoes, borrowed gloves, borrowed mitt. Almost nothing was mine, not even the position I was supposed to play.

  THE ANGELS’ ROOKIE ball manager was a white-haired, leather-faced former catcher named Bill Lachemann. He was built a little like me: kind of short, with a thick waist and strong legs. The clubhouse fell silent when he emerged from his office and stood at the front of the room. He smiled and rubbed his hands together as his eyes swept over us.

  “Welcome to the California Angels,” he said. I sucked in a breath. Four days earlier I was making plans to pick lettuce in Yuma.

  Lachemann introduced his coaches. I recognized the catching coach, Orlando Mercado, who was well-known in Puerto Rico. He was from Arecibo and had played for eight Major League teams. Lachemann explained that we’d be split into groups and dispersed among the complex’s four fields, two batting cages and about twenty pitchers’ mounds. Each group had its own daily schedule of drills, which would be posted every morning. A horn would sound to prompt us to move on to the next drill and location.

  All six catchers were in a single group. When i
t was my turn behind the plate that first day, I caught one pitch and Mercado stopped me.

  “B-mo! Turn your hand the other way! Thumb up!”

  If you picture the mitt as a clock, my thumb was supposed to be at two or three o’clock. But I’d raise my elbow when the pitch came in, which turned my thumb down to six o’clock. It dangled there just waiting to be broken. Plus, trying to catch an inside pitch that way, you’re twisting your arm and hand inside out. You need to stay centered, elbow down, thumb up, allowing yourself a wider reach and greater flexibility to react to the pitches.

  I did it right for several pitches, but then my thumb started turning down again. Mercado corrected me. Up, up, up, I told myself. I was by far the worst catcher in camp.

  “B-mo, knee down and turn this way!” Mercado said, showing me how to turn my left knee in and down so it didn’t interfere when I went to catch pitches to my left. Mercado, Lachemann, and another catching coach, John McNamara, worked really hard with me. McNamara taught me more about the mental part of the game—how to control the tempo, how to stay focused, how to stay tough. Mercado was the technician. He taught me literally how to catch pitches.

  Soon, my hand throbbed from the impact of the pitches. My cheap mitt had started to split across the palm. The padding inside, what little there was, had also torn and was shriveling up. I knew better than to blame my bungling on the glove. No excuses. It was one of Pai’s rules. I learned it the day we checked the baseball field a few days after the flood that washed away most of Pai’s trophies.

  We had loaded rakes and shovels into the trunk of Pai’s car. The field didn’t look too bad. We filled ruts and swept puddles. Kids from the neighborhood showed up with plastic cups and bowls and got to work scooping up drier dirt along the baselines and sprinkling it over the mud at first and third.

  There was a little daylight left when Pai pulled his bag of balls and bats from the car. The other kids raced home to get their gloves. Pai hit grounders to me at shortstop while Cheo took my throws at home. Pai directed the neighborhood boys to various positions and hit all of us fly balls and line drives and grounders. I could barely stop a dribbler. One after another the balls slipped beneath my glove or bounced past me. I was only six, but still expected more of myself.