How Tía Lola Saved the Summer (15 page)

Miguel wishes he were good at expressing his feelings like Mami. But his mother seems to know how he feels just by looking in his eyes: I love you. I love Papi. I want you both to be happy.

Something about the way she leans in and kisses his forehead tells him she is happy. Something about the way she goes quietly out of the room, down the stairs, and wishes all the girls good night, blowing kisses to them that rise up through the heating vents and caress Miguel’s sleepy face says that she is in love. Her mistake monster has been laid to rest. On her magic sword, she has painted not just blood and gore, but a big red heart, followed by the name Víctor.

Nine
saturday

Miguel’s Big Game

Miguel wakes up this morning not knowing if he has truly woken up or if he is just getting out of bed after being awake all night. Seems like he didn’t sleep a wink, playing baseball in his head instead. Not a good thing. Especially when he has to play a real game against the Panton Panthers today.

What he’s hoping is that the excitement will carry him past the tiredness and he won’t bottom out until after the bottom of the sixth. He dresses and heads down for breakfast, the house silent and steeped in sleep all around him.

Down in the kitchen, two people are already awake. Tía Lola and Víctor are both eager to know if Miguel’s ready for the big game today.

Before they even ask, they can tell from the look on his face. Miguel has had a tough night, striking out, loading bases, dropping balls. It’s like someone was making a video of all the baseball errors possible and hired Miguel to demonstrate.

“Come sit down, Captain.” Víctor nods to the space beside him in the little alcove dining area in the kitchen. He seems to understand and doesn’t push Miguel with a whole bunch of questions.

The sudden ring makes them all jump. Tía Lola races to grab the phone before a third ring wakes up the house.
“Buenos días, Owensito, ¿qué hay?”
In spite of himself, Miguel has to smile at the thought of Tía Lola wishing the tall teenager, “little Owen,” a good morning and asking him what’s up.

“Ay,”
Tía Lola sighs, and from the look on her face and the wail in her
“ay,”
Miguel knows this can’t be good news. Sure enough, when he gets on the phone, Owen explains that Dean has been sick all night, some bug he caught, maybe from the colonel. Dean’s definitely in no shape to play ball.

“I already talked to Rudy,” Owen goes on. “He asked me to get in touch with you while he calls around to see who he can line up.” Miguel knows what Coach Rudy is worried about. Patrick, their only sub for today’s game, is their worst player, small for his age, intensely eager, but the muscle coordination just isn’t there yet. Meanwhile, the team’s losing its best player: Dean is a hard hitter and a great catcher with a strong arm—the kind of player who raises the bar for everyone on the team. It doesn’t hurt that Dean
is constantly practicing with his older brother. Owen, after all, is good enough to be helping Rudy coach. Miguel finds himself wishing that someone else will drop out and the game will have to be canceled. But he squelches the thought. What kind of an attitude is that for going into a game? He’s defeated before he even starts.

Miguel is so distracted by the bad news, it’s a quarter to eight by the time he glances up at the clock. The pregame warm-up starts in fifteen minutes! And where’s Papi? Last night he said he wanted to drive Miguel to the town’s baseball field, where the game is being held.

Miguel hurries into the den and shakes his father awake. “What? What?” Papi groans. Then he rolls over, muttering, “Five more minutes,
mi’jo
.”

“Papi, I’ve got to go now!” Miguel knows five minutes, give or take, is no big deal. But with everything unraveling, he desperately wants to feel in control, even if it’s over a minor detail. And his father has never been what Mami calls a morning person. Papi’s five minutes could easily turn into fifteen or twenty before they’re out the door. Another thought Miguel finds himself squelching: why can’t his
papi
be more like Víctor?

Víctor comes up behind Miguel, keys in his hand. “Hey, Captain. I’ll drop you off. Your father can catch up with you later.”

Miguel hesitates. This will not go over well once Papi wakes up. But Miguel can’t stop to worry about what could be. Everything’s falling apart right now! “Okay,” he finally says, collecting his gear.

Víctor’s already down the front steps when who should
come bounding down the stairs but Essie, fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. “You’re already going?” she asks.

Miguel nods, hoping to make a quick getaway. But he’s forgetting what a piece of gum Essie can be. Of course she trots out after him and, when she sees her father in the van, asks if she can ride along.

Now it’s Víctor hesitating. But the truth is that arguing with Essie can take time, and Miguel has to get going. “Fine with me,” Miguel says, shrugging, since Víctor is looking at him to decide.

Most of his teammates have already arrived by the time they pull into the parking lot. The mood is grim. No team likes to lose its best player before an important game. Even Rudy looks uncharacteristically flustered.

Ironically, the one calm person is the messenger who delivered the bad news. Owen calls out the batting order, adding his two bits about the heroics of each player. When he gets to out-of-the-park Patrick (yeah, right!), Owen glances over at Rudy. Where to put Patrick so that he might do the least harm? One thing is sure, they can’t risk making Patrick the catcher—it’s too critical a position if they want to win this game.

Maybe it’s the sight of Dean’s folded uniform, which Owen brought along in case an unexpected sub should need it, or of Essie getting out of the van to say hi to her new pals, but Rudy’s face takes on a studied look. “We’re a summer-league team,” he observes out of the blue. “And this young lady has practiced with us. Tell you what …” He points at Essie. “Are you ready to play ball?”

Miguel is about to scream “NO!” But Essie beats him
to it with her shout of “YES!” Miguel can’t believe this is happening! This is worse than his bad dreams last night. But he reasons with himself. He wants to beat the Panton Panthers, doesn’t he? This might be the only way. He has watched Essie at practice, and though she can be a pessimist and a pest, one thing you can’t take away from her is the girl can play baseball.

Dean’s uniform is, of course, too big on Essie. Before you know it, Víctor has made an emergency run to the house and come back with Tía Lola and her sewing kit. While the team warms up, Tía Lola gets to work hemming the legs and sleeves. A half hour later when Essie emerges from the dugout, she looks like a smaller version of Dean. As she and Miguel warm up, getting into a rhythm, pitching, catching, working out their signals, Miguel can’t help feeling that the team got lucky finding Essie to replace Dean.

When they break after warming up, the tension also seems to have broken. The team’s fighting spirit is finally kicking in. “You’re looking good, nice catches, excellent throwing, scorcher hits.” Rudy has something good to say to each player. They all perk up with the praise.

Except for Patrick, who sits at the end of the bench, his gaze cast down as if he’s ashamed of himself. The team tries to make it up to him, including him in jokes, praising his improved catching and batting. But the only way to reverse the sad look on the boy’s face is to let him play in the game today.

The Panton team arrives. Twelve hefty teens emerge from a van with a crouching panther painted on its side. A team with its own van! These guys are serious ballplayers,
not just boys in search of summer fun. Furthermore, they don’t look like eleven- and twelve-year-olds. Some of these guys must already be shaving! The rules for these summer-league games are a little loose, since towns and teams don’t have to follow the official Little League handbook. Look at Essie, she’d never be able to play if this were a regular game. But the age-limit rule is usually observed.

“All that glitters is not gold.” Tía Lola has sat down beside Miguel where he’s sizing up the opposition. “Good things come in small packages,” she adds, using another of the sayings she has learned and nodding toward Essie. “You have a chance to win this game, Miguel. But you have to convince yourself or you have already lost.” Then Tía Lola adds a saying that Miguel hasn’t heard before. “Don’t dig your grave with your own knife and fork.”

Miguel has to smile. Tía Lola has a way of saying just the right thing at the right moment. “I know,” he agrees with his aunt. “I just didn’t sleep a whole lot last night. Worrying, I guess, about everything.”

Tía Lola nods as if she already knows Miguel’s laundry list of worries: his concern about betraying his father if he likes Víctor, disappointing his mother if he doesn’t; hurting his father if he doesn’t like Carmen, or his mother if he does. It’s as if, overnight, Miguel’s whole life has turned into some crazy game, and he doesn’t even understand the rules, so how’s he supposed to know how to behave? Furthermore, how can he concentrate on baseball when he has gotten all tangled up in this other game?

“Nobody is keeping score in the game that really
counts,” Tía Lola says, as if she can read his mind. Miguel must look confused as to what game his aunt is talking about, because she goes on to explain,
“El juego de la vida.”

The game of life? Miguel sighs. He’s no philosopher. And this is no time to get in over his head in deep thoughts.

“This game of life is really very simple,” Tía Lola goes on. “There is only one very important rule to follow.” Tía Lola whips out her sword and gives it to Miguel to hold. It’s only now that Miguel realizes that in his daze this morning, he forgot to pick up his own sword as he left his room. Another strike against him on this tricky day.

Miguel wonders what kind of a rule requires that you hold a sword in order to hear it. “So what’s the rule, Tía Lola?”

“Okay, ready, set, go!” Tía Lola jokes. Miguel hates to tell his aunt, but she is in a whole other sport. “This very hard rule is: no matter what you do, you have to try to be happy doing it. First, if you’re happy, you take yourself off the list of people Tía Lola has to help. Second, if you’re happy doing something, you’ll have fun no matter the result. Let’s see. What number are we at?” Tía Lola looks down at her fingers, scowling.

Miguel shakes his head, smiling fondly at his crazy aunt. “You’re at strike two, Tía Lola,” he jokes.

“Okay, here’s the home run,” Tía Lola says. She’s mixing up baseball plays, but at least she is back in the game. “If you are happy, the people who love you will be happy, too.”

Miguel doesn’t get it. How can being happy be a hard
rule? But Tía Lola has a point. Seems like everyone in the world wants to be happy, but the world is not a happy place. “So what’s the sword for?”

“To remind you!” Tía Lola grins.

Almost as if to test Miguel’s ability to follow this hard rule of being happy in real time, his family arrives. Miguel has been dreading meeting up with Papi. His father is bound to be upset about Víctor driving Miguel to the ballpark this morning. For a brief moment, Miguel considers hurrying into the dugout so he doesn’t have to face Papi right before the big game. But call it magic, call it the rule of gold, before Miguel knows it, he’s waving hello with Tía Lola’s sword.

His father trots over, a rolled-up bundle under his arm. “Thank you,
mi’jo
, for not being upset with your old man. I’m really sorry about this morning. I guess with all this country quiet, I just slept through my alarm.” Papi unfolds the banner he painted on a long canvas sheet. “My peace offering,” he calls it. It’s a beautiful green field of dreams, so eye-catching that even a couple of players from the Panton team come over to check it out.

His
papi
is an artist, not an athlete; Miguel has always known that. But it’s only at this moment that Miguel realizes that Papi has his own way of celebrating his son with the talent that he does have.

And right now, Miguel has a talent he wants to use—playing ball. If he loses, he loses. He can always try again. Tomorrow will be another day, and it ain’t over till it’s over, as Yogi Berra used to say. It’s funny how Tía Lola often reminds Miguel of this old-time baseball great.