Heat: Chapters 15–28

When Mr. Amorosa asked about their dad, Mrs. C stepped right up and said she was standing in for him, once again being their honorary grandma, and that her dear, dear friend Victor Arroyo sent his deepest regrets from his brother’s bedside in Florida.

“We hear all the time in baseball about pitchers mowing batters down,” Mr. Amorosa said. “This time a fine young man from our borough mowed down a petty criminal who had preyed on this sweet old woman standing next to me.”

“We hear all the time in baseball about pitchers mowing batters down,” Mr. Amorosa said. “This time a fine young man from our borough mowed down a petty criminal who had preyed on this sweet old woman standing next to me.”

“Why do you need me?” Manny said.
“As moral support,” Michael said.
“As a human shield,” Manny said, and then told Michael he’d be right over.

Papi said the boy had snuck into the clubhouse that morning, just wanting to see some of his heroes. The manager of the team wanted to throw him out. But Papi had liked the spunk it had taken to sneak in there.

One night he was listening to one of the boys on the corner tell the story of how he had cried in front of the judge in Juvenile Court, boo hoo, getting a laugh now by touching his tongue to his cheek and leaving a wet mark there, and how the nice woman judge had actually let him off.

And Mr. Minaya said he had talked to Mr. Gibbs, the ACS man, about maybe contacting the Little League in Havana, finding someone sympathetic to what Mr. Minaya called Michael’s “plight.”

And Mr. Minaya said he had talked to Mr. Gibbs, the ACS man, about maybe contacting the Little League in Havana, finding someone sympathetic to what Mr. Minaya called Michael’s “plight.”

“Don’t sound so resentful, little one. You know what Grand-mama Cora says about people who are resentful in this world.”

He even sounds like him, Michael thought, the words coming out in a husky voice, like the low growl of a dog.

Sixty for Mr. M, who always said he was never going to put a twelve-year-old pitcher’s arm in jeopardy, was as much a magic number for him as eighty—as in miles per hour—was for Michael and Manny.

By the time he crossed the Macombs’ basketball courts, he could hear the PA music from inside. And could see people who had gotten caught in traffic or had just come late to the ballpark running for the turnstiles.

That was when Officer McRae was still playing the part of what Carlos called “bad cop,” acting for all the world as if Carlos was going to be arraigned as an adult in the Night Court at the Bronx County Courthouse that would be in session in a few hours. Where, Officer McRae told him, he would be given a court date and released in his own “recognizance.”

That was when Officer McRae was still playing the part of what Carlos called “bad cop,” acting for all the world as if Carlos was going to be arraigned as an adult in the Night Court at the Bronx County Courthouse that would be in session in a few hours. Where, Officer McRae told him, he would be given a court date and released in his own “recognizance.”

Ramon, he said, had showed him the moves, how to discreetly hold up two fingers, as though making an old-fashioned peace symbol, looking for the eye contact that meant somebody was interested.

In his head, it was always the game at Yankee Stadium, the one Manny wouldn’t let him talk about for fear of jinxing the Clippers, the game that would get them to Williamsport.

The people in the crowd got louder now, almost sounding desperate to get his attention.

The original thought was that it was just a high sprain, but that morning, they had decided to send him back to New York to see the Yankee team doctors, and have an MRI, which would show whether he had done some ligament damage.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up by now?” Justin said. Then, in a sarcastic way he said, “Oh, my bad. I forgot you’re too old to pitch in this league.”

Justin, the front of his uniform covered with dirt, jumped straight up in the air, hands grabbing for his batting helmet, taking it off his head like he planned to slam-dunk the sucker.
Michael thought: Do it.
Because it would have meant an automatic ejection.

“I just want to tell you I’m sorry I didn’t know about your predicament sooner,” Mr. Kain said.

“You’re always stifling me,” Manny said, popping up off the bench, ready to go.

But there was one condition. Carlos had to become an intern in the ACS’s Bronx office and work as Mr. Gibbs’ assistant until he turned eighteen at the end of September. And, Mr. Gibbs said, if he wanted to stay on the job after that, he could.

He showed them his locker, right around the corner from the manager’s office. His locker having some kind of plaster replica of the top of the Stadium on it the way they all did.

He saw the temporary fences they had put up in the outfield for tonight’s game, and the way they’d moved up home plate, putting a Little League screen behind it; saw how they’d reshaped the field so that the Clippers and Fordham Road could use the regular infield, just putting the bases closer together; and how they’d cut down the regular pitcher’s mound to make it conform to Little League standards.