A chapter from HABANA LIBRE, which was a semifinalist in the 2007 Quarterly West novella contest.

The Baltimore Orioles had left behind many of their major-league bats and balls as gifts after the first game, back in Havana. They did so as if they expected Team Cuba to put them in a trophy case. Pray to them as natives would to graven images. But the Cuban ballplayers had practiced for the last month with the regulation balls. They had swung the wooden bats instead of the aluminum ones they used for Olympic and international play. “We’ve taken their gifts,” Omar Silva thought as he gazed out of the third-base dugout at the capacity crowd in Baltimore, “and learned much from their foolish charity.”

Team Cuba had waited an hour for the drizzle to stop and the exhibition game to finally begin. No matter when the Orioles scored two runs in the first inning off Jose Contreras, Cuba’s starting pitcher. The rumor had it that he would sneak away when nobody was looking. The team hotel down by the Baltimore harbor was surrounded with Yanquis, waving the Cuban ballplayers to come ever closer. The agent that Pilar had told Omar to look for was here -- Rene Tovar. He had winked at Omar from across the street last night. Even from a distance, the gold bracelet and the chains around his neck sparkled from the glow of a streetlight. He watched the slugger’s every move. Ready if Omar was.

Some teams would have hung their heads after falling behind early. But Team Cuba wasn’t like most ballclubs. There was talk that Baltimore would put its best pitcher up against Team Cuba. After all, Contreras was the island’s best and the Orioles could have started Mike Mussina, their ace. Instead, Omar and company faced somebody called Scott Kamieniecki. The Cuban coaches had never heard of him. Later it was learned that this Kamieniecki was coming back from an injury and was only pitching against Team Cuba to get into shape.

Omar returned to the dugout after driving Andy Morales in with a double. Cuba had retaken the lead and nearly batted around in this, the second inning. How Omar wished they could have played a better major league team. Really shown the world how good they were. Out there, between the lines, on that shimmering emerald-green field, Omar had never felt better. In that way, the major leagues indeed were like heaven, and maybe his wife, Pilar, was right. To play every day in places like this, with the best equipment in the world, never having to worry about whom Fidel would pull off or put on the national team – well, that would be a relief. He saw now that’s why Pilar had insisted that he make this trip. Still, Omar wished his beautiful wife had seen what it was like coming to this Camden Yards this afternoon. If being out on that field was heaven, the rest of this country could be hell. Hours before game time a crowd of several hundred was present, eager to jeer Team Cuba.

If Pilar had seen that may be she would have understood what Omar couldn’t seem to ever really explain to her: That in the end perhaps everyone was better off in their own land, even if the country had fallen upon hard times. Omar could play in these major leagues. He was as sure of it as these Orioles were arrogant. But what would he do the rest of the time in this United States of America? How could he and Pilar exist amid the commotion and boasting of this land, this Camden Yards?

Omar tried to imagine what it would like to live here, in Baltimore, as he took up his position at third base. In the crowd, the large block of fans that had been chanting, “USA, USA” was silent now. In the upper deck along the first-base line, he noticed a smaller group yelling, “Viva Cuba.” A few of them were ringing cowbells and for the first time on this two-day trip his home didn’t seem so far away.

Sometimes baseball could be all business and no forgiveness. Fear that the ball will be hit to you and sure enough a bad chopper, with plenty of top spin, will come bouncing your way on the next swing or two. But take a few deep breaths, believe that things will eventually work out, and time and circumstance could become more generous than many imagined. Under these bright lights, focusing only on the pitcher and the batter, Omar began to feel that he could do this. Maybe Pilar was right. Maybe he could find the courage to defect and she would eventually follow him to this land. Maybe her Uncle Luis would help with this too, even though Omar didn’t see how.

Even in Cuba there were limits to what a man with connections like her Uncle Luis could do. At the last Olympics, the western reporters had teased Omar after he made the mistake of telling them about the new car the sports federation had given him – a ’59 Chevrolet.

“Omar, can you say Mercedes-Benz, Corvette, 280Z?” they said.

While he knew that these are newer, much fancier cars in the world than his, he wondered if that was reason enough to leave a country, probably forever. Omar almost asked those reporters that question, but he knew it would only be misunderstood and make trouble for himself.

At the crack of the bat, a hard grounder shot up the third-base line. It skimmed across the grass once, twice, and Omar glided toward it, positioning himself as best he could. He flipped the glove to the backhand side and felt the ball jump up, snared in the webbing. In one motion, he planted his right foot and reached into the glove. Grabbing the ball with his free hand, he fired the ball across the diamond to get the Oriole base runner by a half-step.
That was the third out of the inning and as Team Cuba ran off the field, here and there, in the crowd, people began to applaud. Some of them even stood.

“Omar Silva,” the PA announcer said for no apparent reason and the applause built a bit more before fading away.

Team Cuba was coming down the dugout steps, leaving their gloves on the steps or flipping them onto the small shelf atop the bench, one of the coaches barking the batting order, when it happened. If two or three men got on, Omar would bat this inning. It was the ordinary business of baseball when a loud cheer rose from the crowd and Omar’s team turned to see three people running onto the field -- two adults and a teenager. One carried a Cuban flag and the kid a Free Cuba sign. The Cuban ballplayers watched as the security police moved in from the sidelines and to lead them away.

“Idiots,” somebody said and the team tried to focus on the next at-bat.

Omar wondered if Pilar, even Carmelo, would consider these demonstrators as idiots. Carmelo wasn’t at the game. Word had it that they had locked him in his room at the Hyatt Hotel. That he had been too talkative about his possible plans to defect. So now he was in the worst of all worlds. He couldn’t play and would be going home to an uncertain future. Once again Omar told himself not to become too caught up in such things. If you’re going to do something totally crazy like defect, you must keep your mouth shut. When you start thinking such thoughts, nobody is your friend.

Team Cuba tacked on two more runs and then held the Orioles scoreless in the bottom of the fourth inning. The major leaguers seem partly embarrassed, partly bored. For Team Cuba, this was the biggest game in the world. But the Baltimore team had supposedly wanted the day off. They were looking forward to playing golf, being home with their families. That’s what Omar’s manager had told his team.

Once more the stands swelled with noise. This time a lone protester came onto the field. He held up a sign that read, “Cuba, si; Castro, no.”

How could this be happening here? Why couldn’t they just play the game? Before they had left for Baltimore, Fidel had invited the entire team over to the presidential palace in Havana, not too far from the Habana Libre, where he and Pilar had honeymooned only six months ago. Fidel had been all smiles and talk of baseball. He had warned Omar and the others to watch out for Mussina’s knuckle-curve. Even El Jefe thought Baltimore would pitch its ace. He had reminded Omar to shake Cal Ripken’s hand. How Ripken was a great ballplayer. No doubt Fidel had watched Ripken many times on his satellite TV. But even Fidel couldn’t have foreseen how much of a circus this game in Baltimore would be. When the Orioles played in Cuba, there had been none of this madness. The crowd was mostly party regulars and sports federation people. True, the Gran Stadium wasn’t as loud as usual. No salsa band or team cheers, but nobody had been so impolite as to run on the field and interrupt play, either.

For some reason, this protester was allowed to parade around the infield, holding up his sign. As he drew closer to second base, Cesar Valdez, one of the three umpires who had accompanied the team from Cuba, had words for him. The two of them – umpire and protester – began to argue.

“Get him, Cesar,” shouted Jorge, the Cuban trainer, and it was as if Valdez somehow heard him above the growing the din because the umpire amazingly grabbed the protester and started to wrestle him to the ground. As the crowd roared, security guards ran onto the field and Orioles outfielder B.J. Surhoff was the first player there, trying to pull them apart.

Omar turned to Morales and said, “Let’s beat them so bad that they’ll never forget us.”

***

In the end, Morales did a better job than Omar of defeating the major-league Orioles. In the ninth inning, Morales hit a three-run home run. Almost an unbelievable feat considering he had only been swinging a wooden bat less than a month.

After Morales’ drive cleared the green-colored fence far out in left-center field, the Cuban team stood on the top step of the dugout and applauded. The ballpark was already half-empty as Morales circled the bases like a drunken fool, laughing and holding his arms out, pretending to be an airplane. Team Cuba had proven that it could beat major leaguers. Never again would its players have to listen to the Yanqui sportswriters, the ones who steal onto the island to write about baseball in the socialist state. Never again would they have to listen to them pass judgment on Cuban ball. That a player like Morales could, perhaps, play in Triple-A. That a few of them, like Omar Silva, could reach the major leagues.

Hours later, in the hotel, Omar sat on the balcony and looked over the Baltimore harbor. With the crowd gone, the city settled into being a tranquil, almost lovely place. The reflections of the neon lights from the restaurants and tall buildings danced on the dark water like so many broken promises. Off to the left was Camden Yards, where they had played earlier that evening. Omar had been told that it was one of the most beautiful ballparks in the major leagues, and he saw now that it was true. The lights above the outfield seats were still on and he could see the outline of the ancient red-stone warehouse that overlooked the field. He could slip outside and reach that place in minutes, and the Orioles would take him in. He had proven himself tonight. He could leave and Pilar would someday follow. That was what she truly wanted, wasn’t it?

There was a knock at the door and Omar opened it to find Jorge Gonzalez, the team’s trainer. Jorge’s breath smelled of rum and he was quiet, almost embarrassed to have disturbed the star player.

“Jorge,” Omar said and held the door open, inviting him in.

The trainer barely came up to the player’s shoulder and he shuffled into the room, eyes focused on his feet. Omar nodded toward the mini bar. “Drink?”

Jorge shook his head and held up a half-full bottle of Havana Rum.

“Here, sit down,” Omar said and they settled into the two chairs on the small balcony overlooking the harbor and the ballpark. The night air was humid, like back home, and a hint of a breeze somehow reached them, even up here.

In the silence, they gazed upon the water and the city. At the ballpark, the huge banks of lights above the outfield seats went out section by section.

“Carmelo is gone,” Jorge said. His voice broke and Omar feared that his friend was about to cry.

“He slipped away while everyone was celebrating downstairs,” Jorge continued. “Even Contreras was there. The whole team except for you and Carmelo.”

Omar tried to smile at this. Joke about it, but no words came.

“So when I heard he was gone,” Jorge said, “and nobody had seen you.”

“You decided to check on me.”

“No, it’s not like that, Omar. It’s just that if you had left, well, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Omar glanced again at the Camden Yards ballpark in the distance. Except for the flashing red lights atop the stadium and the white street lamps, it had faded into shadows and dark silhouettes. Still, it remained so close he felt as if he could reach it in one big step. Simply leap from this balcony and come down magically upon that glorious emerald field once again. He could do it and nobody could stop him. Jorge wouldn’t dare.

“Have you ever thought about leaving?” Jorge asked.

Omar turned toward him, wondering if the trainer could somehow read my mind.

“I’m sorry,” Jorge said. “I don’t know why I came up here. Nobody ordered me to find you. You may think that’s a lie, but it’s true. I just had to see for myself because if you hadn’t opened the door I would have gone back downstairs and gotten a whole bottle to myself. I wouldn’t have told a soul. You can trust me, Omar. It’s just that I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t watch you play anymore.”

Now it was Omar who struggled to find the right words. He reached over and clasped Jorge on the shoulder. He pressed hard, feeling the knots of muscle in the shoulder and upper back. Then Omar got up and walked over to the mini bar. He opened the dark-wood doors and found a bottle of scotch. He held it one huge hand, just staring at it. He knew this would cost him plenty in U.S. dollars. Omar held it another beat longer in his throwing hand and then proceeded to break the seal. He found two glasses in the bathroom and filled each halfway. One for Jorge and one for himself.

Back out on the balcony, they drank and gazed anew at the sleeping city. It had grown so quiet that they could hear the music and laughter from the hotel bar many floors below them.

“Those Orioles had a great third baseman,” Jorge said.

“Where? Nobody on their team was much good.”

“No, not now, but years ago,” Jorge said and took a long sip. “Before the game I had to go over to their clubhouse. We didn’t have enough tape or wraps. We never have enough. But their trainers were kind. They gave me plenty. One of them knew some Spanish and we got to talking. You should see their clubhouse, Omar. It is like a palace, with carpet and music speakers and more whirlpools than we have in our entire league.

“Sounds like you should have stayed there, Jorge,” Omar replied. “Capitalism agrees with you.”

Jorge shook his head. “No, no, Omar, it’s not like that. I’m just telling a story.”

“All right then,” Omar said, sorry that he had embarrassed his friend. “Tell me.”

Jorge nodded -- eager to continue.

“In their clubhouse, there are large photos, like old movie posters,” he said. “We stood in front of one of them and I asked who it was. They told me it was somebody called Brooks Robinson. They told me that Robinson played third base and once was even in our old winterball league.”

“Robinson must be an old man by now.”

“Yes, but he was the best third baseman they ever had with the Orioles. The trainer, his name was Mickey, said that Robinson won more Gold Gloves than he could remember and he could hit the long ball, did it with men on base and the pitcher bearing down. He was one of the best third baseman of all-time. And then do you what he told me, Omar?”

“No,” Omar replied. He didn’t want to hear the rest, but he knew there was nothing he could do to stop his friend now.

“He said that you’re better than Brooks Robinson,” Jorge said, the words tumbling out. “Even though Mickey has barely seen you play, he says you’re the best third baseman he’s ever laid eyes on.”

They finished their drinks in silence, watching the city settle into a deep slumber. After awhile, Jorge got up and patted Omar lightly on the back and then he headed for the door.

As dawn bled across the morning sky, Omar packed his things in the old leather suitcase that had been his grandfather’s. The story was that grandfather had bought the suitcase from a salesman on the sidewalk in Coral Gables back in the day when a Cuban could take the ferry to Florida any time he wanted. Grandmother had told her husband that he was being foolish. That anything not from a store wouldn’t last. But the Florida suitcase was still the best bag that the Silva Family had ever owned.

Omar carefully folded his clothes and began to tuck them away. The team bus left for the airport and the return flight to Havana at 7 a.m. After he folded the last shirt and put it in his grandfather’s bag, Omar looked out the window at Camden Yards, home of the Baltimore Orioles. Downstairs he knew that Rene Tovar and other agents would be waiting, watching his every more. Yet as Omar closed the hotel door, he told himself to keep his eyes straight ahead once he got downstairs. File on to the bus with his teammates and Jorge and the others, and try not to look back at that beautiful ballpark ever again.