'You want to play baseball? Now?'
'In honor of your arrival. Unfortunately, my best team is out on maneuvers—yes, even my finest players bear arms for the cause. We will make do with reserves and scrimmage my third team, me pitching, you catching. This hippie friend of yours, do you think he is a player of quality?'
'I doubt if Tomlinson's ever touched a ball, but I really don't think—'
'Ah, then he will not need a uniform. He will play on the opposing team. It is only fair that the third team be handicapped in some way since my own team is not at full strength.'
Ford said, 'Juan, I haven't played since the last time I was here—' Dropping the formal address with only the two guards outside the tent to hear.
'Tut-tut, Marion, no excuses. I have something to show you. Something new. Very important!' Rivera lowered his voice, sharing a secret. 'It is a new pitch, my friend. A pitch I have developed which, I say in all modesty, no hitter in the American major leagues could touch. But I am anxious for you to judge. You, my favorite catcher, will evaluate this pitch of mine fairly.'
'The reason I'm here, Juan—it can't wait while we play nine innings.'
'Just seven, then. A short game.' Looking at his watch, smiling through his beard, Rivera said, 'Did you know that the Giants of New York once drafted Fidel as a pitcher?'
Fidel as in Fidel Castro, and Ford did know because Rivera mentioned it every time they met. Rivera continued, 'Do you realize that no American major league team has ever made me—probably the greatest pitcher in all of Central America— even the smallest of offers? Does that not seem odd?'
Ford said, 'We've talked about this before, Juan. I think it's because major league scouts shy away from war zones.'
'It is purely politics,' Rivera countered severely. 'The capitalist dogs of your country have conspired against me so that I may not spread my influence through fame earned playing your national sport.' He looked at Ford, calculating. 'Do you still count the manager of the Royals of Kansas City as one of your friends?'
Ford said, 'He managed the Royals' Triple-A team and now he's with Pittsburgh, in the majors. Yes, we still stay in touch.'
'In the major leagues?' Rivera wagged his eyebrows, impressed.
'Yes. Gene Lamont. A third-base coach.'
'Then I will leave it to you to judge this new pitch of mine. If you are excited and feel it necessary to contact your friend who coaches in the major leagues, I will not object. But I warn you, I am no longer interested in their offers—though, even at the age of thirty-seven, I feel certain I could win twenty games.'
Ford played along. 'But General, if this new pitch is as effective as you say, I will feel obligated. The game of baseball makes certain demands upon its fans.'
Rivera was stripping off his shirt, showing his massive hairy chest. 'Perhaps. But I warn you again, their offers are a matter of complete indifference to me. I live now only for the revolution.'
'The Pirates of Pittsburgh will be disappointed. As will the Dodgers of Los Angeles. '
Rivera stopped undressing, one leg still in his pants. 'It is possible that your friend might communicate the information to the Dodgers of Los Angeles?'
'Both teams are in the National League, and you know how baseball players love to talk. '
The guerrilla leader considered this for a moment, then threw his pants into the corner for his orderly to pick up. 'If the Dodgers of Los Angeles are to be disappointed, you will leave it for me to disappoint them. You will communicate only what you see. It is not necessary for them to know I live only for the revolution and would refuse their offer anyway.'
Ford said, 'As you wish, General Rivera,' and followed one of the guards to his billet, where he suited up.
Monkeys watched them warm up. They came down out of the high forest canopy, a whole tribe of howler monkeys hanging from the lower branches, babies clinging to their mothers' backs, big males swinging by their tails and throwing small green mangoes, imitating the players.
'That one monkey has a better arm than I do,' Ford said to Tomlinson. Tomlinson was playing catch with him, handling the glove and throwing better than Ford had expected. He was pretty smooth; he'd played the game, which was another surprise.
Tomlinson said, 'What I don't understand is why you get a uniform and I don't.' Like a child slighted, and now he was throwing harder as if to prove he had talent enough to deserve the gray double-knit suit with MASAGUAN PEOPLE'S ARMY emblazoned in blue on the front. 'I played in high school, man. I played two years in college. I mean, this was my sport before I got interested in substance abuse.'
Ford said, 'I'll give you my uniform if you promise not to get any hits off Rivera. No joke. Strike out if you can. But don't make him mad by getting a hit. We want to get this game over with fast, and then I'm going to have to ask him for a favor.'
'It's just that it seems a little arbitrary, putting me on a team without uniforms just because he doesn't like long hair. It's not in keeping with Marxist-Leninist philosophy to choose a ball team that way. How can the guy pretend to be a communist?' As if he hadn't even heard Ford. Still indignant, still throwing hard, Tomlinson was already being drawn onto competitive avenues, and Rivera wasn't even on the mound yet.
'I'm surprised a Zen Buddhist could get upset about a game.'
'The Buddha woulda been a baseball fan, believe me.'
'Ah.'
'Baseball is more than a game, man. It's a ceremony.'
'Oh.'
'All the people who have ever played baseball are linked by virtue of having dealt with predictable game situations in unpredictable ways, each person trying to resolve random events within an orderly sphere of balls, strikes, and outs—'
'Boy oh boy.'
'Plus there's the scorebook: a historical document more accurate and succinct than, say, the Old Testament. All these thousands and thousands of scorebooks all over the world forming an unbroken ceremonial chronicle far more detailed than, say, Ireland's Book of Kells—'
'Tomlinson, all we want to do is finish the damn game without offending Rivera. He's a baseball fanatic. He takes it very seriously.'
'Well, I'll try . . . but I'll feel like a heretic.'
Tomlinson didn't have to try too hard to look bad, nor did anyone else on the opposing team: a ragtag bunch of teenagers and men in khaki who played with enthusiasm but not much skill.
Rivera could pitch. He'd lost some velocity on his fastball, but it still moved; still tailed in on right-handed hitters. He had a fair curve, a split-fingered sinker, plus his new pitch, the one he said he had invented, a one- fingered knuckleball he threw side-armed so that it broke like a screwball. He presented an imposing figure on the mound, too: six feet tall, probably two twenty, bushy black beard and in full uniform except for the fatigue cap he always wore, lighting a fresh El Presidente cigar between each inning. In a potential strikeout situation, Rivera would call Ford out to the mound. 'You probably do not realize it,' he would say, 'but this man at the plate hits as well as the great George Brett.' Ford would look back to see some stringy kid who didn't look old enough to drive. 'Watch how I handle
Doubling as umpire, Ford moved the game along as quickly as he could, giving Rivera every close call. But he still found pleasure in being behind the plate, calling pitches, blocking low stuff, talking to the hitters. The knuckleball was hard to handle, especially on third strikes, and his concentration drew him deeper into the game, like a kid again, for Tomlinson was right in a way: a world seen through the bars of a catcher's mask is timeless, unchanging, and for those few innings Ford became a creature whose life had been interrupted by nothing more than twenty-five years of passed balls and stolen bases. Better yet, he hit two singles and a double, driving in three runs.
Going into the top of the seventh, Rivera had walked four but had a no-hitter going, and Tomlinson came up with two out.
