Underneath Fernando

Ricardo followed Jorge reluctantly up the stairs to their section of the stands. Jorge turned to Ricardo, saw the expression on his face and rolled his eyes.

“Why did you say yes to this if that’s how you’re going to look?” Jorge asked.

“For the free booze and hot dogs,” Ricardo responded dryly.

Jorge shook his head but said nothing.

They got to their seats and Ricardo looked out at the field.

Night games were admittedly somewhat magical.

He didn’t know why, but it felt otherworldly.

Like the teams and the crowd were momentarily thrust into a different dimension; a world all to themselves.

And then there was the moment before the game even started.

The moment right now when the crowd was just arriving; the field scattered with workers setting up microphones and top executives in suits making sure everything was running smoothly.

The moment of anticipation.

Ricardo had loved baseball as a child.

He could remember playing with his friends on the hills by his house.

If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the dust, feel the sun on his shoulders, the weight of the bat in his hands.

“Hey, Ricardo, here’s what you came for.”

Ricardo opened his eyes and took the hot dog and beer that Jorge offered.

“Thanks,” Ricardo said.

“Where’d you go?” Jorge asked with a grin.

“To the past,” Ricardo answered.

“Well,” Jorge said, “You’re gonna want to stick to the present. I am so excited for you to see this guy. He’s incredible.”

Ricardo huffed in response.

He had heard of this pitcher.

Everyone had.

“I barely got us tickets,” Jorge continued, “So count yourself lucky. You’re welcome by the way.”

“Hey,” Ricardo said, “I didn’t ask for this. You invited me.”

“Cause, I knew you’d like it!” Jorge responded.

Ricardo raised an eyebrow at his friend, “You really think I’ll enjoy this?”

Jorge sighed, “Just try and have a good time. Don’t make me regret bringing you.”

Ricardo didn’t reply.

He stared out at the field again.

Jorge couldn’t understand.

No one could unless you’d been a part of it.

“Look! Here they come,” Jorge yelled excitedly, nudging Ricardo in the ribs.

Ricardo looked and there came the players, dressed in their blue and white Dodger uniforms.

And there was the man that the crowd went crazy for.

Fernando Valenzuela.

“He looks so small,” Ricardo mused.

“That’s cause we’re up high, pendejo,” Jorge said laughing.

Ricardo rolled his eyes, “I’m just saying. All of this for just a man.”

“Well, wait till you see what this man can do,” Jorge replied.

Ricardo looked around at the crowd.

Their faces aglow, their smiles wide, all watching Fernando down below.

Music began to play.

Ricardo looked confusedly at Jorge, “Is this Abba?”

Jorge nodded without taking his eyes away from Fernando, “They play this every time he warms up.”

Can you hear the drums, Fernando?

I remember long ago another starry night like this

In the firelight, Fernando.

Ricardo watched as Fernando threw pitches.

“Why does he look up before he throws?” he asked Jorge.

Jorge shrugged, “Praying to God?”

Praying to God, Ricardo thought.

Praying to God about what, though?

To win would be the obvious answer.

“Does he know?” Ricardo asked.

“Know what?” Jorge responded.

Ricardo didn’t reply.

Jorge finally looked at him and said, “Oh…I don’t think so. Well, maybe he does now, but he didn’t when he got drafted.”

“Has he said anything about it?” Ricardo asked.

“…I don’t think so,” Jorge said.

The two friends looked at each other for a moment and then Jorge went back to watching Fernando.

Ricardo looked around at the crowd again.

A sea of Latino faces entranced by the pitcher.

They were holding signs, screaming his name, wearing makeshift t-shirts with his face plastered on the front.

It all felt a bit pandering to Ricardo.

Considering.

Considering the past.

Considering his past.

As Ricardo looked out over the stands, he could still see the hills that used to be there.

The houses that his neighbors built.

That his father built.

He could see himself holding a baseball bat, hitting the ball far, his friends running to go grab it, him running and watching the city from high above as he ran passed the bags of rice they set up as bases.

Baseball, he thought.

The All-American sport.

The sport that seemed to define America somehow.

And here they were watching a Mexican athlete rise to fame.

And Ricardo knew he should feel pride.

In a way, he wanted to.

He knew this was huge.

It was a moment that would be written about, laid down in not just sports’ history, but American history.

He could feel it.

Fernandomania it was already called, and Ricardo felt that he should feel some excitement about history being made in front of his eyes.

But all he could feel was a massive weight in the pit of his stomach.

He turned to Jorge and said, “I got to go, man.”

Jorge gaped back, “You serious? The game hasn’t even started! Come on, Ric, just watch one inning. One inning and if you still want to leave, then leave.”

Ricardo looked down again at Fernando.

He again pondered the importance of it all.

A Mexican pitcher bringing a mass of Latino fans to the stadium.

A Mexican pitcher they hoped would help soothe the wounds of a Mexican American past.

A Mexican pitcher from a small rancho who blew everyone away; who was doing exponentially better than ever anticipated. And wasn’t that what it was all about really? The fact that Latinos were constantly being underestimated? Constantly defying expectations?

And maybe that’s why this moment was so monumental.

Except.

Except.

Except.

Ricardo could still see the women being dragged by their hair from their houses.

He could see the children standing in the rubble.

And they hadn’t even bothered to tear down the school yard,

Or the cemetery.

No.

They had just built over it.

And Fernando was standing on it.

Beneath the green-grass field, beneath Fernando’s feet, were the remnants of Ricardo’s home.

Ricardo wasn’t a religious man, but it felt strange to feel like he was surrounded by the ghosts of La Loma, Palo Verde and Bishop.

Chavez Ravine, they called it.

So, no, he couldn’t stay.

Ricardo gave Jorge a pat on the shoulder and made his way out of the stadium.

As he was leaving, he could hear the first notes of Oh, say can you see being sung.

He didn’t even turn around.

He walked by fans standing with their hands over their hearts, tears already in their eyes with the anticipation of the game.

And he knew what they felt.

They were about to be transported; shot into a different dimension; they were going to live for a few hours in another world.

And Ricardo wished he could join them.

But he knew that if he were to stay, he would keep getting lost in the past.

Seeing his mother working in their garden; his father fixing the roof; him and his brother sitting on the edge of the hill talking about what they wanted to be when they grew up.

“What do you want to be?” his brother had asked.

“A baseball player,” Ricardo had said.

And Ricardo drove away from the stadium, the bright lights shining in his rearview mirror, and as he looked back he could almost make out where his house used to stand.