A Dangerous Man

I look up from the phone.

– Yeah, it’s fine.

THE PLAYERS ARE over Miguel before they even see him. They pulled up, saw the Escalade parked next to the players’ entrance, and word got around quick who it belonged to. Not what you want to see when you’re getting bused to work and living in a dorm. They tap fists with Miguel and say yo, but no one hangs out with him. He makes it worse because he doesn’t seem to care. Just does his thing, lets the publicity guy take his photos, talks with the GM, does some jogging, meets the manager and coaches, everything smooth and professional and with the air of a guy who knows this is a pit stop. All the while Jay tags after him, whispering in his ear, blatantly pointing at other guys on the team and talking shit about them.

There’s press around, and the Staten Island players are starting to drift onto the field to stretch. First game of the season, everyone’s early. This may be single A, but add the Mets farm vs. Yankees farm matchup to that first-day vibe and throw in Miguel’s debut. It may not be a game for ESPN, but local interest is high. There are reporters from all the city papers, and TV cameras are set up to do a cable broadcast of the game. I decide it’s time to lie low.

I duck past a couple of the visitors and cut through their dugout into the tunnels. Down at one end I can see an Aramark vending truck pulling up to the loading dock. I turn in the other direction, past a stack of boxes filled with player photos; a guy walking around in a seagull suit carrying the mangy head under his arm.

THEY HAVE A little museum devoted to Brooklyn baseball. I go in. There’s a bench just inside the door. I sit down and lean my back against the window and watch a young woman as she leads a group of kids around the place, showing them relics of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

I try to relax, try to enjoy the air-conditioning and let myself be soothed by the woman’s voice as she tells the kids about the importance of Jackie Robinson. But all I end up doing is grinding my teeth and wishing I’d at least kept some Xanax.

I’m itchy and antsy and sweaty and my face hurts and I’m thinking about the thirteen thousand. All those mornings I might have if I kill Mickey’s mom.

I think about going back to Mexico, back to my beach. It wouldn’t be the same, I wouldn’t have the 4 million stashed away. But Pedro might still be there running the bar I gave him. He’d give me a job. A place to be. A home. And shit, of course he’s still there. Where else would he be? Pedro and his wife Ofelia and their kids and his brother Leo, and Bud. Bud. Yeah, Pedro will still have my cat Bud. Shit, I’d sure like to see that cat again.

I THINK ABOUT working at the bar and taking swims in the ocean, getting tan and fit again. I wonder if my bungalow is still there. Pedro probably rents it out. But he’ll get rid of whoever’s in it if I come back.

I think about the sun and the impossibly blue ocean and the jungle. I think about not worrying over my mom and dad. Thirteen thousand mornings spent waking up and not worrying that I’ll fuck up and Branko will appear on their doorstep.

Thirteen thousand mornings.

To spend however I like.

A better stash than the 4 million ever was.

Someone bangs on the glass my head is resting against. I jump and twist around to see Jay.

– Yo, Scarface, snap out of it. Batting practice is starting. You want to see this shit.

FANS ARE COMING into the park for batting practice. These are the hard core, the folks wearing authentic Cyclones jerseys and jostling around the white-board on the concourse, copying the starting lineups onto their scorecards. I follow Jay down the steps to our game seats behind home. We settle and Jay gives me a jab with his elbow.

– Yo, these people don’t know. Watch this shit, they’re gonna freak.

I don’t say anything, just push my sunglasses against my face and watch the players as they parade to the plate one by one and take their hacks. The pitching coach pours low-key fastballs down the middle and the players slap them to short or pop them up or send easy flies to the outfield. The first baseman has some power and actually puts a couple over the left field wall, just above the 315-foot mark. None of it matters much. The fielding in single A is almost as bad as the hitting; just making contact with the ball is enough to put a guy on base half the time. Then Miguel comes up.

The atmosphere changes. The feeling from his teammates is less, Now, let’s see what the star can do, than, Man, I can’t wait to watch this asshole flailing at this shit. He sets up in the right side of the batter’s box. The pitching coach puts a little extra on the first one and the ball cuts, coming in on Miguel’s hands. He’s looking middle of the plate, he swings anyway and shatters his bat. It doesn’t just break at the handle, it explodes into four or five pieces.

Jay shifts in his seat and Miguel goes for another bat.

– Oh, this is gonna be good.

Miguel sets, the pitch comes down the pipe and his bat hits it. The ball soars into center, and keeps going. It slaps into the huge black screen in dead center, just over the 412-foot mark.

– Yo, Mike. Get one over! I want to see a Green Monster shot!

Another pitch. The ball goes to the same place, only higher this time.

– Stop topping the ball, bitch, I said I want one over that shit!

Miguel glances at him, adjusts his cap with the middle finger of his right hand, making sure Jay catches the gesture, then steps back into the box.

Jay laughs.

– This is it. This one is a goner.

The coach rears back, puts everything he has into it this time. Miguel swings free and easy, getting all of the ball this time. And the ball climbs and climbs, and clears the top of the screen, cutting through the wind coming off the water.

– That my boy! Now give me another!

Another ball goes over.

– Another one!

Over.

– Give it to me.

Over.

– Again!

And again and again and again. Seven in a row go over the screen, Major League homers all, moon shots. ESPN Top Ten material, every one.

– That’s my boy! Yo! That. Is. My. Boy.

Then Miguel switches sides of the plate, sets up to hit lefty, and does more of the same.

THE COACHES AND players have a bit more enthusiasm for Miguel when he comes up during the game. Not that he seems to care. Not that he seems the least aware that he is playing in his first game of pro ball.

And it may be a silly game for children being played by grown men, but when he comes to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, having single-handedly kept the Cyclones in the game, and swats an RBI double to tie it up, I jump out of my seat and cheer.

And I almost give a shit when they lose it in the tenth.

– Yo, we tried to find a shitty Olds for you, Scarface, but the Caddy was all they had.

We’re in Mike’s Escalade, driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. Mike stares out the window at the lights of the Manhattan skyline.

Jay sticks his face between the seats.

– Sweet. You see that shit on TV, but it’s not the same, yo.

Mike nods.

– Can you fucking imagine if the Mets hadn’t grabbed me number one?