Rooting for Rafael Rosales Read online

  Years ago in San Pedro de Macorís…

  Rafael has dreams. Every chance he gets he plays baseball in the street, trying to build his skills, get noticed by scouts, and—someday—play professionally in America. But how can a kid like him beat the odds?

  Today in Minnesota…

  Maya has worries. She can’t stop thinking about oil spills, melting ice caps, and how the company her dad works for might be killing all the bees. Is there any way a twelve-year-old girl can make a difference?

  And then…

  One day Maya goes to a spring training game and sees Rafael play. Even though he has the worst stats on the team, Maya suddenly decides to start rooting for him. Because even though baseball can’t save the bees, if Rafael Rosales can make it to the major leagues, then maybe—just maybe—the world will be okay.

  ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY

  Publishing award-winning children’s books since 1919

  www.albertwhitman.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Jacket art copyright © by Kelsey Garrity-Riley

  For Beverly Cleary, who showed that the inner lives of children could be the whole story

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication

  data is on file with the publisher.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Kurtis Scaletta

  Published in 2017 by Albert Whitman & Company

  ISBN 978-0-8075-6742-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Cover art copyright © 2016 by Kelsey Garrity-Riley

  Design by Ellen Kokontis

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  visit our website at www.albertwhitman.com.

  Rafael Rosales saw his first baseball game when he was five. He sprinted up the bleacher steps of Tetelo Vargas Stadium, flapped his arms, and pretended to fly. For a few glorious moments, he ran along the bench at the very top, his footsteps clanging, but when Papa got to the top, he tugged on Rafael’s arm.

  “Sit down or we’ll leave now!” he threatened. Rafael plopped down on the bleacher. He could imagine Papa making them march out of the stadium before the game even started. His father wasn’t a baseball fan and almost never spent money on fun things. He must have gotten the tickets for free.

  Mama reached their seats carrying Iván, who was still a toddler. She handed Rafael a piece of candy to chew on. He leaned back and kicked up his feet and laughed. Papa settled him down with a firm hand. The stadium gradually filled up with people, most of them wearing the bright green of Las Estrellas Orientales. Rafael wished he had a cap with a shooting star like many of the fans wore. He wanted to feel like one of the crowd. He had never been a part of something so grand.

  The fans roared and shook noisemakers as the Estrellas took to the field. The sound was deafening and wonderful. Children ran down to the front row and hung over the infield fence. Beautiful women in green skirts danced on top of the dugouts. Everybody stood still for the national anthem: “Valiant Quisqueyanos, let’s raise our song!” At the end of the song, a merengue band started up. A man with the head of an elephant capered down on the field. Rafael started to dance, like many other fans, but Papa nudged him back into his seat.

  At last, the game began, and Rafael stopped fidgeting and watched. He was fascinated at the ball whizzing by, fast as light, and the batter taking a swing. He was so excited to see the batter hit the ball that he hollered “Ayiiiiii!” as the ball sailed over the fence. A few fans gave him stern looks, but others laughed.

  “The wrong team scored,” Papa whispered sharply.

  After that, Rafael watched the crowd. He cheered when they cheered and groaned when they groaned. Mostly he watched the field, entranced. He finally understood why older boys in the barrio pretended to rear up and pitch oranges before peeling them, why they took practice swings with sticks they found in the street. They were imitating these men. He also wanted to run across green grass and hook a gleaming white ball out of the air while people whistled and clapped. He wanted to hit the ball and run in a circle and clap hands with the other players as he crossed the plate. He wanted to wave his cap at thousands of cheering people. He knew the word béisbol, but for the first time he understood all the wonder and magic that word held.

  He knew then and lived by it every day after: this is what I want to do.

  ***

  When he was seven years old and able to get away from the house and Mama’s watchful eyes, Rafael inched closer and closer to the games that were always being played at the dead end of the street where there was no traffic.

  He asked for a chance to swing the stick and was shoved aside by a slightly older boy in a New York Yankees cap. Rafael had to hang back and simply watch with the other niñitos.

  Even so, he started to watch the games every chance he got. He found out the older boy’s name was Juan Santos Garcia. He overheard that Juan’s cap had been sent by his uncle, who used to play professional baseball in the United States. More than once, Rafael saw Juan point out the shiny sticker on the cap. “That means it’s authentic,” Juan would say. He used the English word authentic, his tongue hissing against his teeth in the middle of the word.

  Rafael got a chance to play a few weeks later. It was early in the morning after a heavy rain, and only a few boys were out to play.

  “Rafael, you can join my team!” Juan called to him.

  “I can play?” Rafael asked, unsure he’d heard him right. He didn’t know that Juan even knew his name.

  “Yes. You be defender.” In street baseball, there was only one all-purpose fielder other than the pitcher and catcher. Rafael saw that the boy at the plate was right-handed, so he stood where a shortstop would be. He remembered this boy was a weak hitter and moved up a few steps. Juan saw that Rafael knew what to do and gave him a thumbs-up sign. “You’re OK!” he said, using another expression from the United States.

  Rafael did not have a glove, but he didn’t need one. The ball was made of white socks pulled tight over a stone. He caught the ball the first time it was hit his way. He dropped it the second time but still got it to Juan for an out. The last boy struck out.

  Juan gave him the stick.

  “Abres,” he said. Rafael knew the word to mean open, like a door. He hadn’t heard it used in baseball.

  “You mean I’m up first?”

  “Yes. Try to get on base, and I will bring you home.”

  Rafael couldn’t believe it. He was finally getting a chance to bat! He imitated every tough boy he had ever seen—tapping the plate with the stick and scowling at the pitcher. It was not really a plate, but a house-shape drawn in chalk.

  The ball came at him, faster and closer than he’d thought it would. He swung at it, the way he had in all of his dreams, and made contact. The ball arced back to the pitcher, who caught it barehanded before Rafael could take a step. All of the boys cheered—he thought because he was out until Juan patted him on the shoulder.

  “You almost got a hit!” he said. “You hit it hard! You’re going to be a real pelotero.”

  After that game, Rafael never had to wait long to play. And once he was in a game, he wouldn’t quit until all the other boys had gone home or his mother dragged him home by his shirt collar. By his eighth birthday, he figured he was second best, after Juan. But he wasn’t even a close second. Juan could leap up and nab a ball out of the air. Juan seemed to get
a hit every time he batted.

  One afternoon, a boy named Tomás hit a pop fly higher than any of them had ever seen. The boys stood and watched in awe as the ball hung in the air for a full countable second, spinning, before dropping back down.

  “I bet I can hit it higher!” a boy named Diego shouted.

  “No way, but I can!” The boys grappled for the makeshift bat. Rafael watched while they took turns popping the ball straight up in the air.

  “Come on!” said Rafael. “We’re playing a game.” Nobody seemed to hear. Diego wrenched the bat free and took a turn. Tomás pitched while Diego flailed with the stick, trying to hit the ball straight in the air.

  “It’s my turn!” Another boy grabbed the bat away.

  Juan edged over to Rafael and touched the brim of his beaten-up Yankees cap to say hello.

  “Are you going to have a go?” he asked.

  “A pop fly is usually an out. Why practice it?”

  “Because it’s fun.”

  “I don’t care,” said Rafael.

  “Do you know the score right now?”

  “Five to two. Your team is ahead.”

  Juan smirked, but not because he was winning. “Nobody else keeps score. You’re so serious, Rafael. You have fiebre.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Rafael. His face flushed. Is this what the other boys thought of him? That he took himself too seriously?

  “Yes, you do. It’s all right.”

  “Hey, Yankee Juan!” Tomás called. “Do you want to try?”

  “Sure!” Juan called back. “I’ll show you how to hit a high one.”

  “Ooh, Matatán is going to show us!” Diego said.

  “I’ll show you all right.” Juan strutted over and grabbed the stick from Diego. “I’ll show you how to punch a hole in a cloud. I hope I don’t hit an angel in the foot.” The other boys laughed at Juan’s patter.

  “Let’s let the big boss demonstrate!” Tomás reared back and threw a fast pitch instead of the underhanded lobs he’d been tossing to the others. Juan was ready for it. He swung and connected. The ball sailed up into the air, not as high as Tomás’s, but higher than the tops of the houses.

  “The big boss showed us!” Tomás said, his voice full of awe.

  “Do it again,” the other boys begged.

  “Nah, let’s play baseball,” said Juan. He nodded slightly in Rafael’s direction. “A pop fly is usually an out. Why practice it?”

  “He knows he got lucky,” Diego teased, but he walked out to his fielding position.

  Rafael felt a pang of jealousy, not for the fly ball, but for the way the other boys did whatever Juan said.

  ***

  For the next few weeks, Rafael played with new ferocity. He was out early every morning to practice before school. When nobody else showed up, he practiced throwing his own handmade ball hard against the sidewall of the colmado until the shopkeeper ordered him to stop. When he did play, he tried to knock the stone out of the socks every time he came to the plate. He scraped his knees and elbows chasing ground balls. If he was going to be known for his fever, he wanted his reputation to spread through the streets and reach the campo where the older boys played.

  But as his fever grew, so did his impatience with the other boys. He ground his teeth when they got to chatting and didn’t resume play. He fumed when they let easy grounders get by them. He never said a word, but he sensed the other boys didn’t like him. They didn’t joke with him as they did with each other.

  One day, Tomás ducked out of the way when a hard-hit ball flew at his head.

  “Don’t act like a turtle,” Rafael shouted, his frustration finally getting the better of him. “This ball is like a sponge! It won’t hurt to hit you!” He threw it hard against his own forehead to demonstrate.

  The other boys laughed so hard they nearly fell to the ground.

  “You should listen to Rafael,” said Juan. “He’s the real deal.” It was another estadounidense expression he’d picked up. None of the boys knew what it meant, but they knew Juan was scolding them. The laughter died down.

  “Lo siento,” Tomás muttered.

  Later the same day, Diego attempted a new pitch—he called it “the blind man’s curve” and threw with his eyes closed, missing the batter by a mile. Rafael had seen entire games fall apart when that kind of nonsense got started.

  “Pitch normal,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Diego said, and threw an eyes-open pitch.

  ***

  After the game, Juan surprised Rafael by stepping up behind him and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

  “You should come to my house,” he said.

  “I should?” He had known Juan for a year and had never been invited to his house. He had not been invited to anyone’s house.

  “You need to meet my brother, Hugo. He’s got the fever like you, pelotero.” Juan led Rafael down the street, past rows of small concrete houses with tin roofs. Most of the houses were painted in bright colors, but some had been painted more recently than others.

  “My papa will be there too. He’s between jobs. Don’t worry, he’ll find work soon. He’s one of the best at what he does.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He lays tiles. He helped build half the hotels between Boca Chica and Punta Cana. Helped make the floors, anyway.” Juan stopped and tugged on Rafael’s arm. “Have you ever been in La Playa de Mar Verde?”

  “No.” Mar Verde was where rich tourists stayed. Why would he have been inside?

  “My papa tiled all the bathrooms on the first floor.”

  “De verdad?” Rafael thought Juan wanted him to be impressed, but the older boy snorted laughter and started walking again.

  “Hugo is the best player in the barrio, Rafael. He’s going to be a big star. He can throw a cutter like Rogério Romero. He’s going to be a superstar, and then Papa won’t have to crawl around in other people’s bathrooms.”

  They reached a row of homes that had once been painted pink and yellow, but had flaked and paled in the sun and salty air. Juan led him through a door that was propped open with a brick. Rafael’s stomach was tight with nervousness. He was excited to be friends with Juan, but what if his big brother didn’t like him? Inside, a man and a boy were sitting on a stiff couch, listening to the radio. The walls were covered with framed photographs and pictures, unlike the blank walls in Rafael’s own house. The boy was eleven or twelve. He looked like Juan but did not have Juan’s easygoing smile. His lips were tight and turned down at the corners.

  “Papa, Hugo. This is Rafael,” said Juan.

  This was Hugo? Rafael had imagined someone nearly full grown. Hugo was only a few years older than he was.

  “Shh,” said his father. “Rogério is pitching to Sanchez.”

  “Rogério Romero?” Rafael asked in a whisper. Before either could answer, cheers erupted three thousand miles away. The radio switched to a commercial.

  “Sí, it was Rogério Romero,” Hugo said excitedly. “Los Astros loaded the bases with no outs, but LA brought in Romero, and he struck out the side!”

  “He’s still got it,” said Juan’s father. He lowered his voice. “At least some days he’s still got it.”

  “Papa knew Rogério when they were boys,” Juan said.

  “He struck me out a few times,” said his father. “Never saw a kid who could throw that hard until this one came along.” He thumped Hugo on the back.

  “I can pitch,” Hugo admitted, beaming. He stood up and flexed his arm, as if he were stretching before a game.

  “That campo behind the taxi stand, that’s where Romero and my papa used to play,” said Juan. His father offered a faint nod of agreement. “Hugo plays there now,” said Juan. “And I’ll play there soon.”

  “I know that field,” said Rafael. You had to be good to get into those games, and older boys dominated.

  “Rafael is a good player too,” said Juan. “He never quits or goofs off. He’s the most intense of anyone. He has t
he fever, like you. I wanted him to meet you.”

  “Sí?” Hugo looked at Rafael, appraised him, and cracked a wide grin. “If you’re serious about ball, then why do you hang around with my goofy brother?” Juan playfully punched at Hugo, nearly knocking him back to the couch, but Hugo snared his hand and the two boys wrestled for a moment. Rafael backed up, bumping into a table that filled up the room.

  “Oh, oh. Enough.” Their father reached in and nudged Juan away. “Watch your hands.”

  “I’m fine,” said Hugo. He held up his right hand to the light shining through the paneless window and splayed his fingers. His hand was large for his body; silhouetted he looked like a child wearing a man’s glove. “Hey, I’m pitching tomorrow. You should come see us play, hermanito. You too!” He nodded at Rafael.

  Juan was looking at his own fingers, which were normal sized and looked like stumps compared to Hugo’s. He dropped his hand. “Only if I can play.”

  “Ha. You wish, Mister Yankee.” He took the brim of Juan’s cap and yanked it down. “This hat barely fits you anymore, hermanito.”

  Juan straightened his cap. “It’s all I got. And I would rather play in the street than see your game. I’m a player, not a spectator.”

  “You can play in a year or two,” said Hugo.

  “I’ll come to your game,” Rafael blurted out. At that moment, he would have followed Hugo into the Caribbean Sea if he’d suggested it.

  Rafael was too excited for the game after school to pay attention to his teacher. He would probably not be allowed to play, but he fantasized that he would be mistaken for older and put into the game.

  “Rafael?” He sat up straight when he heard Señora Pereña say his name. What had she been talking about? What subject was it? “Can you tell us why Bartolomé Colón is important in our history?” she asked. Rafael’s mind raced. He had heard of Bartolo Colon. Bartolomé must be his full name.

  “He just won the Cy Young Award?”

  “Good guess, but Bartolomé Colón founded Santo Domingo in 1498. You have heard of Cristobál, his brother?” The class burst into laughter. Cristobál Colón was the most famous person in history, probably. He brought Jesus and Spanish to the Americas. There were cities and countries named for him, statues and a giant lighthouse in Santo Domingo. Rafael wanted to disappear. What was the point of school, anyway? It was all multiplication tables and indirect objects and white men on boats. None of it would do him any good when he played baseball.