Leo approached them, pointing to the paddle boards, and the drills began again in earnest and lasted until late afternoon. They were all wrung out, but Rique seemed to be the one most out of shape. He was limping as they returned to the van for the short ride to Harborside, the field where the Greenliner’s played.
As they were pulling up to the steel building, he heard the peal of a siren that jarred and Leo’s bark. “What the fuck?”
They all streamed out, Leo hurrying ahead, asking questions as he followed the EMTs into the passageway that led to the offices.
Someone was pacing furiously outside Farina’s office. Mateo knew whose it was because he’d met the team manager just yesterday for the first time, had sat in that very room, Farina welcoming him to the city, asking him if he had any concerns, upbeat about the team Alicia had helped assemble. He’d been looking forward to a winning season. Now… Mateo was as unsure as any of them as to what it mean if he was no longer around.
The tension was thick, the air filled with anxiety, and he half-expected to smell the pungent aroma of what he’d come to know as death. The foul odor had permeated the house when his grandfather had died, and it took days to bleach it out. The cleansing had also wiped out all other familiar scents that reminded him of the old man, the fruity aftershave they’d bought on the black market, stale cigar smoke, and his salt-tinged hair. His grandfather had been the only man in his life and the death had felled him. It was Uriel Arteaga who’d introduced him to Rumi, the Persian poet, when he was just a boy. The ancient tenets were universal in their appeal and had become the old man’s religion in the absence of those forbidden ones, and the tenets had become the food and drink for the soul he could find nowhere else. Mateo had picked up the old, battered copy of The Illuminated Rumi after the funeral and immersed himself in his teachings and found them filled with meaning. Farina’s death was the emptiness Rumi spoke to. With his absence, they would live among the ruins. At least for a while.
He noticed the confusion on Rique’s face, but he wasn’t going to offer what he suspected. He waited until the medical team came out with the gurney, a sheet covering the man who’d been in charge of the team up until… his last breath.
Leo had been the only one mumbling. Not direct conversation, more a mantra of the two-word phrase, “shit, fuck,” as if in meditation. By the pallid and panicked look on the coach’s face when told Farina was dead, he knew they were in for an upheaval.
As soon as the body had left the building, Leo gathered himself together.
“I’ve got to make some calls. You guys get showered. Everyone else back to work. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
Most of the other witnesses dispersed back to their offices, leaving the three players standing stock-still, their eyes darting back and forth to each other. He finally took the lead, willing to do what was instructed, and moved toward the locker room. Seb and Rique followed in unison behind him, Seb visibly worried about what would happen to the team now.
“We’re so close to spring training. Who the fuck is going to take his place?”
Mateo wasn’t as concerned as the other two. He was used to upheaval. Coaches for the Cuban teams came and went as the political winds blew. The team carried on without hesitation, the routine so ingrained it didn’t matter who held the reins. The Greenliners’ problem was, with so many new players filling key positions, they hadn’t been able to set any protocols yet. The only constant to this point had been the infield coach who they’d been working with.
Mateo wondered out loud, “Will they promote Leo?”
Neither of his teammates had an answer for him. Even Reid Jackson had no clue. He’d been shocked by the news when Rique had called him, and it might have sent all thought about the future into oblivion. There were men and women who would mourn this loss in true grief. There were others, like him, who would be more reserved in their condolences. Without a past or direct connection, this loss wouldn’t affect his life, and he let nothing affect his game.
As the water cascaded over him, he washed away the grime of the day, believing that everything happened for a reason and that out of this death, something new would be born.
After he showered and put on his street clothes, he waited for the other two to finish up. He knew they’d take longer, move more slowly, weighted down by their anxiety. He didn’t have their fear of the unknown. He’d braved that with his defection, leaving everything he knew behind. If he’d been careless, he could have been kidnapped, held hostage, become a prisoner to some cartel looking for ransom. Even though he’d been deliberate in his escape, his future hadn’t looked all that secure from that stool in Cancun. It had taken a miracle whose name was Alicia Nilsson to get him to America.
A new coach was a bump in the road, not a major incident. It would not affect him. His intention was to stay, one way or another, be it with the Greenliners or if they let him go, with some other team. He didn’t know what that would mean for Alicia, but he wasn’t going to think about that yet. Not until something concrete was decided.
When Seb came out, a towel wrapped around his waist, he said, “I think this calls for a stiff drink.”
Still thinking of the woman who risked all to get him here, Mateo said, “Maybe two.”
The three of them were sitting at the bar in the Greenies’ local post-game hang out when the story broke. Mateo watched interviews,
