Rooting for Rafael Rosales

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.