{"id":697,"date":"2008-09-15T19:42:42","date_gmt":"2008-09-16T02:42:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/2008\/09\/15\/desde-la-plataforma-de-un-camion-from-the-platform-of-a-truck\/"},"modified":"2008-09-15T19:43:43","modified_gmt":"2008-09-16T02:43:43","slug":"desde-la-plataforma-de-un-camion-from-the-platform-of-a-truck","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/2008\/09\/15\/desde-la-plataforma-de-un-camion-from-the-platform-of-a-truck\/","title":{"rendered":"Desde la plataforma de un cami\u00c3\u00b3n (From the Platform of a Truck)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Memories of the 1978 American League playoff game between the Red Sox and Yankees in two languages.<\/p>\n

Ten\u00c3\u00ada varios d\u00c3\u00adas arreglando los pormenores del viaje a Cuman\u00c3\u00a1 con Raimundo y Brairo. En julio hab\u00c3\u00ada terminado el \u00c3\u00baltimo a\u00c3\u00b1o de Bachillerato. La emoci\u00c3\u00b3n de ingresar a una Universidad me hac\u00c3\u00ada andar a una velocidad similar al vuelo de los p\u00c3\u00a1jaros. Dos d\u00c3\u00adas antes hab\u00c3\u00ada llenado la planilla del CNU en medio de una lista de requisitos que nos hac\u00c3\u00ada sentir como hombres de negocios. Brairo se\u00c3\u00b1al\u00c3\u00b3 un rengl\u00c3\u00b3n al final de la lista. La constancia de antecedentes penales hab\u00c3\u00ada que sacarla en Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Pap\u00c3\u00a1 me dio un billete de cinco bol\u00c3\u00advares para pagar el carro por puesto. Agarr\u00c3\u00a9 el radio con forma de cubo negro y lo met\u00c3\u00ad bajo el brazo. Ese d\u00c3\u00ada jugaban los Yanquis y los Medias Rojas el partido de desempate para pasar al play off de la temporada de 1978. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Encontr\u00c3\u00a9 a Raimundo bajo la sombra de la Ceiba al comienzo de la carretera que lleva de Cumanacoa a Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. Hab\u00c3\u00adamos acordado pedir una “cola”. As\u00c3\u00ad dispondr\u00c3\u00adamos de un dinero extra para pasear en Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. Cuando el sol arreci\u00c3\u00b3 entre las ramas del \u00c3\u00a1rbol, un cami\u00c3\u00b3n sin carga se detuvo ante las se\u00c3\u00b1as de Ram\u00c3\u00b3n. Varios gritos atravesaron el aire de la tarde. Brairo corr\u00c3\u00ada con la voz \u00c2\u00a0 encerrada en el pecho. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Saltamos a la plataforma met\u00c3\u00a0lica del cami\u00c3\u00b2n. La brisa generada por el impulso del veh\u00c3\u00acculo aliviaba el ardor del sol en la piel. Cuando Brairo recuper\u00c3\u00b2 el aliento se encar\u00c3\u00b2 con Raimundo. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0_\u00c2\u00bfY se iban a ir sin m\u00c3\u00ac?<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0Dijimos a la una en punto bajo la Ceiba.Ya es la una y media. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0El viento se llev\u00c3\u00b2 los gritos de Brairo. Se\u00c3\u00b1al\u00c3\u00b2 mi radio. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

_\u00c2\u00bfYa empez\u00c3\u00b2 el juego?<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

El ruido del viento imped\u00c3\u00aca escuchar el radio. El juego deb\u00c3\u00aca comenzar a la una de la tarde. Bob Lemon, el manger de los Yanquis anunci\u00c3\u00b2 a Ron Guidry. Don Zimmer \u00c2\u00a0se decidi\u00c3\u00b2 por Mike Torrez. Boston vio evaporarse una ventaja de 14 juegos en el mes de julio. Ahora deb\u00c3\u00aca resumir la temporada en un juego. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Raimundo enfrent\u00c3\u00b2 su voz con el viento.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0_No vengas a disimular con el juego. T\u00c3\u00b9 te traes algo entre manos. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Brairo sonri\u00c3\u00b2. Mir\u00c3\u00b2 hacia el fondo de la carretera. Un racimo de n\u00c3\u00adsperos se qued\u00c3\u00b2 suspendido en la mira cuando su madre lo grit\u00c3\u00b2. Le record\u00c3\u00b3 el viaje a Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. Brairo s\u00c3\u00b3lo tuvo tiempo de vestirse. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

_Si acaso me pare en la casa de Briceida para decirle que segu\u00c3\u00ada pendiente con los n\u00c3\u00adsperos. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Me pegu\u00c3\u00a9 el radio a la oreja y le d\u00c3\u00ad volumen. La voz de Buck Canel venc\u00c3\u00ada al viento. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 es un elevado a la izquierda Yastrzemski espera y se va el primero de los Yanquis con un boleto, cero carreras, cero hits\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

A la altura de Tataracual se perdi\u00c3\u00b3 la se\u00c3\u00b1al de la emisora. Carl Yastrzemski acababa de poner adelante a Boston con jonr\u00c3\u00b3n solitario. Mi sensaci\u00c3\u00b3n de disgusto se paraliz\u00c3\u00b3 cuando Raimundo se\u00c3\u00b1al\u00c3\u00b3 un carro vino tinto que sali\u00c3\u00b3 de la curva. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

_\u00c2\u00bfEse no es el carro de tu Pap\u00c3\u00a1?<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

El Caprice aceler\u00c3\u00b3 en la recta de Los Cocos. Distingu\u00c3\u00ad los detalles del carro. Comprend\u00c3\u00ad que estaba en aprietos cuando identifiqu\u00c3\u00a9 la cara de t\u00c3\u00ado Miguel a trav\u00c3\u00a9s de la ventanilla. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 baj\u00c3\u00b3 la velocidad frente al cami\u00c3\u00b3n. De inmediato aceler\u00c3\u00b3. La imagen del rega\u00c3\u00b1o que me esperaba al regresar a casa apret\u00c3\u00b3 mi cuello hasta los confines del coraz\u00c3\u00b3n. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Ram\u00c3\u00b3n se puso las manos alrededor de la boca. Quer\u00c3\u00ada saber como iba el juego. Gir\u00c3\u00a9 el interruptor. La voz de Canel traspasaba una nube de interferencias. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6Chris Chambliss la rueda por las paradas cortas. Rick Burleson la toma y fuerza en segunda a Lou Piniella. Cuando han transcurrido 3 innings y medio. Boston sigue venciendo 1- 0 a los Yanquis\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

La tensi\u00c3\u00b3n del juego diluy\u00c3\u00b3 un poco el miedo de tener que explicarle a Pap\u00c3\u00a1 mi presencia en aquel cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Sab\u00c3\u00ada que tendr\u00c3\u00ada que hablar con \u00c3\u00a9l un buen rato. S\u00c3\u00b3lo el duelo entre Torrez y Guidry detuvo la preocupaci\u00c3\u00b3n. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

El cami\u00c3\u00b3n entr\u00c3\u00b3 a Cuman\u00c3\u00a1 a las dos de la tarde. Nos bajamos frente al cine Paramount. Cuando salt\u00c3\u00a9 el radio casi cae al pavimento. El volumen aument\u00c3\u00b3. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6cuando tenemos cinco innings completos Boston sigue venciendo a los Yanquis 1-0. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Antes de llegar a la oficina de Identificaci\u00c3\u00b3n y Extranjer\u00c3\u00ada pasamos por la casa de mis abuelos maternos. Toqu\u00c3\u00a9 el timbre varias veces. Busqu\u00c3\u00a9 una lave en mi bolsillo. Le dije a los muchachos que pasaran. Llam\u00c3\u00a9 en todos los cuartos. La soledad saltaba en cada zancada. En el comedor me lanc\u00c3\u00a9 sobre el televisor. La pantalla mostraba el terreno del Fenway Park. Varios minutos m\u00c3\u00a1s tarde los comentaristas se disculpaban con la audiencia porque el sat\u00c3\u00a9lite de transmisi\u00c3\u00b3n ya no estar\u00c3\u00ada disponible para el juego. Me quedaba el consuelo de haber visto el sencillo con que Jim Rice puso el juego 2-0 al impulsar a Rick Burleson. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

En Identificaci\u00c3\u00b3n y Extranjer\u00c3\u00ada hab\u00c3\u00ada poca gente. En menos de media hora ten\u00c3\u00adamos la solvencia de antecedentes penales. Atravesamos la calle Ayacucho hasta la plaza Andr\u00c3\u00a9s Eloy Blanco. Frente a la muralla del r\u00c3\u00ado Manzanares compr\u00c3\u00a9 una kolita Sif\u00c3\u00b3n. El color encarnado se evaporaba en mi paladar con efluvios de refresco. La brisa llen\u00c3\u00b3 mis pulmones cuando entramos al puente Guzm\u00c3\u00a1n Blanco. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Trat\u00c3\u00a9 de olvidar el ajuste de cuentas que me esperaba al regresar a casa. El bullicio de la Avenida Berm\u00c3\u00badez quedaba relegado ante mi b\u00c3\u00basqueda de argumentos s\u00c3\u00b3lidos para justificar mi presencia en la parte trasera del cami\u00c3\u00b3n. El sol ca\u00c3\u00ada a plomo sobre Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. Por mi rostro bajaban r\u00c3\u00ados de sudor fr\u00c3\u00ado. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Raimundo me templ\u00c3\u00b3 el brazo varias veces. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0 _ Mira Alberto. Tarz\u00c3\u00a1n sale ahora m\u00c3\u00a1s temprano. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Un tropel de tambores de hojalata me hizo traspasar el laberinto del cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Un hombre embadurnado en negro humo, esgrim\u00c3\u00ada unas alas de metal y escup\u00c3\u00ada rojo \u00c2\u00a0 vegetal sobre el asfalto. La gente se arremolinaba alrededor del diablo de Cuman\u00c3\u00a1. Era una tradici\u00c3\u00b3n popular que se extend\u00c3\u00ada a lo largo del a\u00c3\u00b1o. Por primera vez \u00c2\u00a0 no sent\u00c3\u00ad miedo cuando Tarz\u00c3\u00a1n agarr\u00c3\u00b3 el tridente y simul\u00c3\u00b3 enterrarlo en el vientre de un desamparado indiecito. Las perolas retumbaban entre mis sienes como el rega\u00c3\u00b1o que imaginaba me iba a dar Pap\u00c3\u00a1 al regresar en la tarde a Cumanacoa. Hasta me d\u00c3\u00ad cuenta que el tridente se desviaba mil\u00c3\u00admetros antes de llegar a la piel del indiecito para romper una diminuta ves\u00c3\u00adcula cargada de rojo vegetal. Las mujeres se llevaban las manos a los ojos y gritaban “\u00c2\u00a1Pobrecito!”. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Entend\u00c3\u00aca las carreras de los ni\u00c3\u00b1os por esconderse detr\u00c3\u00a0s de las faldas de sus madres. M\u00c3\u00a0s de una vez trat\u00c3\u00a8 de hacerlo y mam\u00c3\u00a0 me sacaba de los escondites m\u00c3\u00a0s rebuscados. No recuerdo otra ocasi\u00c3\u00b3n que me haya molestado tanto con ella. Ese miedo brutal que me carcom\u00c3\u00aca la boca del est\u00c3\u00b2mago regresaba abrochado a tener que enfrentar a pap\u00c3\u00a0 en la noche. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

El resto de la tarde nos distrajimos siguiendo los vuelos en picada de los alcatraces sobre el mar en Puerto Sucre. Estuve tentado a prender el radio. Me confi\u00c3\u00a8 en que los Medias Rojas segu\u00c3\u00acan ganando el juego. Adem\u00c3\u00a0s de que el momento frente al mar despegaba cualquier mente de la rutina diaria, hasta de la amenaza de rega\u00c3\u00b1o que me aguardaba en casa. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Cuando el sol retozaba en el horizonte apretamos el paso por toda la Avenida Berm\u00c3\u00badez hasta llegar a la estaci\u00c3\u00b3n de carros por puesto. Brairo me templ\u00c3\u00b2 varias veces el brazo a mitad de trayecto. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0_\u00c2\u00bfQue te pasa Alberto? Ya con esta son como 3 muchachas bonitas y ni siquiera te das cuenta. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Cada paso que daba quer\u00c3\u00aca reducirlo al m\u00c3\u00a1ximo, para llegar a casa el mes siguiente cuando a Pap\u00c3\u00a0 se le hubiese olvidado lo del cami\u00c3\u00b2n. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Las sombras alargaron las dimensiones del carro entre los cocotales de la salida hacia Cumanacoa. En las curvas de Gamero \u00c2\u00a0 el chofer detuvo el carro. Varias personas levantaban las manos. Sobre el pavimento yac\u00c3\u00adan dos cuerpos. Un olor vol\u00c3\u00a1til alborotaba el anochecer. Mientras levantaron el choque quise sintonizar el radio. S\u00c3\u00b3lo sal\u00c3\u00adan ruidos de interferencia. El carro llamaba a seguir con una detonaci\u00c3\u00b3n en el escape. El chofer hundi\u00c3\u00b3 el acelerador y dos nubes blancas salieron del escape. La orina se paraliz\u00c3\u00b3 en mi vejiga y sal\u00c3\u00ad corriendo detr\u00c3\u00a1s de unos matorrales. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Raimundo me pregunt\u00c3\u00b3 como iba el juego. Empez\u00c3\u00b3 a sonre\u00c3\u00adrse. Dijo que solo los Medias Rojas echaban por la borda una ventaja de catorce juegos en julio. Me lo qued\u00c3\u00a9 mirando con ardor en los ojos. Las palabras no sal\u00c3\u00adan, igual que la par\u00c3\u00a1lisis al ver a Pap\u00c3\u00a1 desde la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Brairo record\u00c3\u00b3 que Boston ganaba 2-0. Raimundo estir\u00c3\u00b3 los pies debajo del caj\u00c3\u00adn delantero. Recit\u00c3\u00b3 las virtudes de un equipo inspirado como los Yanquis. Por algo ten\u00c3\u00adan a un jugador al que llamaban Mister Octubre. Todav\u00c3\u00ada ignoraba que razones le iba a dar a Pap\u00c3\u00a1 para viajar a Cuman\u00c3\u00a1 en un cami\u00c3\u00b3n. En medio de aquel laberinto emocional emergi\u00c3\u00b3 el jonr\u00c3\u00b3n de Carlton Fisk en la Serie Mundial de 1975. Tom\u00c3\u00a9 impulso y le dije a Raimundo que los Yanquis iban a tener que echarle pich\u00c3\u00b3n para ganar. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

A trav\u00c3\u00a8s de la ventanilla sorprend\u00c3\u00ac al sol contagiando de sarampi\u00c3\u00b2n a las nubes y de azul marino a la noche. La brisa fr\u00c3\u00aca fue insuficiente para tratar de explicarme por qu\u00c3\u00a8 segu\u00c3\u00aca un equipo tan irregular como los Medias Rojas. La desesperaci\u00c3\u00b2n que sent\u00c3\u00ac al ver como perd\u00c3\u00acan juego tras juego mientras los Yanquis ganaban y descontaban la vol\u00c3\u00a0til distancia, me hac\u00c3\u00aca volver a los examenes del Liceo donde llegaba a las \u00c3\u00b9ltimas preguntas cuando faltaba m\u00c3\u00a0s de media hora para terminar. No s\u00c3\u00a8 por qu\u00c3\u00a8 me sudaban las manos, s\u00c3\u00b2lo pensaba en el reloj. Me parec\u00c3\u00aca resbalar por la cuesta de un cerro y no hab\u00c3\u00aca ninguna mata de donde agarrarme. Al terminar el examen, ve\u00c3\u00aca clarito la soluci\u00c3\u00b2n de los problemas. Sal\u00c3\u00aca al patio chasqueando el piso con mis zapatos de goma y esquivaba a mis compa\u00c3\u00b1eros. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>El ulular de las chicharras destacaba los \u00c3\u00baltimos relumbrones del atardecer. En las curvas de Bichoroco, Raimundo suspir\u00c3\u00b3 y asom\u00c3\u00b3 el rostro a la ventanilla. Un carro que ven\u00c3\u00ada pidiendo paso desde Cede\u00c3\u00b1o pas\u00c3\u00b3 como un trueno. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0 _As\u00c3\u00ad van a pasar los Yanquis. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Apret\u00c3\u00a9 el pu\u00c3\u00b1o derecho. La desaparici\u00c3\u00b3n de la ventaja de catorce juegos permanec\u00c3\u00ada atragantada en mi garganta. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>La noche coje\u00c3\u00b2 sobre el neum\u00c3\u00a0tico del chofer. Un olor a caucho quemado borr\u00c3\u00b2 la carrera por el bander\u00c3\u00acn del Este de la Liga Americana. El chofer dirigi\u00c3\u00b2 el carro hacia unos matorrales aleda\u00c3\u00b1os a la carretera. Raimundo quizo ayudar con el caucho de repuesto. El chofer atraves\u00c3\u00b2 la barriga y levant\u00c3\u00b2 la mano. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0 _Si quieres me ayudas a aflojar las tuercas. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

El caucho desinflado me trajo las transmisiones de la serie entre Yanquis y Boston de la primera semana de septiembre. Los Medias Rojas parec\u00c3\u00acan los Osos Revoltosos, quiz\u00c3\u00a0s Walter Matthau hubiese dicho que sus muchachos lo hac\u00c3\u00acan mejor. Los marcadores de aquellos juegos me hicieron darle de pu\u00c3\u00b1etazos a la almohada y hasta al tronco de la mata de guayaba del patio. Todos los juegos se perdieron por m\u00c3\u00a0s de 3 carreras. Cuando levant\u00c3\u00a8 el caucho para meterlo en el ba\u00c3\u00bal del carro divis\u00c3\u00a8 en medio de la oscuridad un punto brillante donde varios pedazos de vidrio se hundieron en la goma. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/span>Al pasar por Arenas, aprovech\u00c3\u00a8 las luces y trat\u00c3\u00a8 de sintonizar la emisora en el radio. Solo escuchaba un ruido de fondo. En el radio del carro solo sonaba m\u00c3\u00b9sica. Frente a la Ceiba de la entrada a Cumanacoa entr\u00c3\u00b2 la se\u00c3\u00b1al de Noti Rumbos con las noticias de las seis de la tarde. Adher\u00c3\u00ad la oreja a la corneta del radio. Raimundo tuvo que gritar para \u00c2\u00a0 despedirse. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 -Mira chico, mejor vas pensando que le vas a inventar a tu Pap\u00c3\u00a0. Olv\u00c3\u00acdate de ese equipo, si perdieron 14 juegos de ventaja seguro que perdieron este tambien. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Segu\u00c3\u00ac caminando por la calle Flores sin voltear a mirar. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

En la esquina de la escuela la noticia sali\u00c3\u00b2 del radio como pu\u00c3\u00b1al en la espalda. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6y en dram\u00c3\u00a0tico juego realizado esta tarde en Fenway Park, el torpedero Bucky Dent sentenci\u00c3\u00b2 a los Medias Rojas de Boston con un cuadrangular ante Mike Torrez en el s\u00c3\u00a8ptimo inning \u00c2\u00a0que puso a ganar a los Yanquis. Desde all\u00c3\u00ac no perdieron la delantera a pesar de los esfuerzos de Carlton Fisk, Jim Rice, Fred Lynn y Carl Yastrzemski quien entreg\u00c3\u00b2 el \u00c3\u00b9ltimo out con un elevado a la tercera base\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Mis pasos tropezaron varias veces con la penumbra del crep\u00c3\u00basculo. Una r\u00c3\u00a1faga de viento entr\u00c3\u00b2 por mi camisa como un bloque de hielo. Miraba hacia el cielo buscando el azul de la capa de ozono pero s\u00c3\u00b2lo respiraba vapores espinosos. El parasol de cajas de cart\u00c3\u00b2n que hab\u00c3\u00aca improvisado a un lado del tanque de agua no ser\u00c3\u00aca mi refugio preferido las pr\u00c3\u00b2ximas tardes. Subir\u00c3\u00aca al techo de la casa, pero sin la misma emoci\u00c3\u00b3n \u00c2\u00a0de escuchar los nombres de Fisk, Yastrzemski, Eckersley, Evans y compa\u00c3\u00b1\u00c3\u00aca. Ser\u00c3\u00aca inevitable imaginar como jugar\u00c3\u00acan los Medias Rojas en el play off. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Detuve mis pies en la esquina antes de llegar a casa. Quer\u00c3\u00ada que llegase pronto abril para ver a los Medias Rojas desquitarse de los Yanquis. La idea de ver a los Mulos de Manhattan en el lugar que deb\u00c3\u00adan ocupar \u00c2\u00a0 los Patirrojos borraba por completo los gritos de Pap\u00c3\u00a1 llam\u00c3\u00a1ndome desde el portal. Si s\u00c3\u00b3lo a Luis Tiant le hubiera tocado lanzar uno de aquellos juegos de septiembre a esos Yanquis. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A cada paso que daba hacia la casa me parec\u00c3\u00ada avanzar a m\u00c3\u00a1s velocidad de los 100 kil\u00c3\u00b3metros por hora que rodaba el cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Mis pies resbalaban en la plataforma. Aunque sent\u00c3\u00ad un estallido en el pecho cuando pas\u00c3\u00b3 el carro de Pap\u00c3\u00a1, lo que permanec\u00c3\u00ada en mi coraz\u00c3\u00b3n eran los catorce juegos que los Yanquis se hab\u00c3\u00adan quitado de encima para dejar en el camino a los bostonianos. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Entr\u00c3\u00a9 a la casa con la mirada en el piso. T\u00c3\u00ado Miguel me indic\u00c3\u00b3 que Pap\u00c3\u00a1 me esperaba en la oficina. Hab\u00c3\u00ada cierta dureza en sus mejillas. Quiso detenerme pero ya hab\u00c3\u00ada empu\u00c3\u00b1ado la manilla de la puerta. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 sacaba unas cuentas en la m\u00c3\u00a1quina sumadora. Un estornudo detuvo su tecleo. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0 -\u00c2\u00bfTe diste cuenta de la imprudencia que cometiste? <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

En mis oidos todav\u00c3\u00ada resonaba la campanita de NotiRumbos antes de la noticia de la derrota de los Medias Rojas. Baj\u00c3\u00a9 la mirada. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 apag\u00c3\u00b3 el cigarrillo. Sus manos apretaron los dedos hacia arriba, parec\u00c3\u00adan llamas ardientes que llegaban hasta sus ojos. Una andanada de venas brotadas inundaron su frente. Por su cuello corr\u00c3\u00adan Orinocos de sudor. Dio dos manotazos sobre el escritorio que me hicieron parpadear. Baj\u00c3\u00a9 la mirada. Escond\u00c3\u00ad mis ojos en un rinc\u00c3\u00b3n que sali\u00c3\u00a1 varios metros m\u00c3\u00a1s all\u00c3\u00a1 de las dimensiones de la oficina. Miraba mis zapatos, sobre el piso de granito aparec\u00c3\u00adan los dibujos met\u00c3\u00a1licos de la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Resbalaba en cada curva. Me aferraba al radio en medio del deslizamiento. La voz de Pap\u00c3\u00a1 quemaba el aire de la oficina, la tensi\u00c3\u00b3n subi\u00c3\u00b3 la temperatura de mis ojos. Quer\u00c3\u00ada hablar. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 arremet\u00c3\u00ada con trompetas en la voz. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Dos l\u00c3\u00a1grimas asomaron en mis pesta\u00c3\u00b1as. La voz de Pap\u00c3\u00a1 sal\u00c3\u00ada simultanea con la pelota atrapada en el guante de Graig Nettles. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 gesticulaba y acentuaba las palabras cuando hablaba del cami\u00c3\u00b3n y la facilidad con que una persona puede salir despedida de su plataforma al m\u00c3\u00adnimo frenazo. Me llev\u00c3\u00a9 las manos a la boca varias veces. La pelota rebotaba contra todas las paredes. El concierto de percusi\u00c3\u00b3n se extend\u00c3\u00ada. Abr\u00c3\u00ada los ojos y desviaba la mirada hacia la confluencia de las paredes con el piso. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 dibujaba una y otra vez \u00c2\u00a0 como me pude haber caido de la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Mis manos pasaban sudorosas sobre mi frente, el jonr\u00c3\u00b3n de Bucky Dent segu\u00c3\u00ada estallando entre mis sienes. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

La brisa fr\u00c3\u00ada de la carretera segu\u00c3\u00ada pinchando mi rostro en medio de la cin\u00c3\u00a9tica de la vegetaci\u00c3\u00b3n. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 sub\u00c3\u00ada la voz y saltaba de la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b3n a la oficina. Segu\u00c3\u00ada insistiendo en saber como fue que decidimos montarnos en aquel cami\u00c3\u00b3n. Mis ojos solo llegaban hasta las rayas de cal del estadio donde los Medias Rojas acababan de ser eliminados por los Yanquis. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Los \u00c2\u00a0pasos de pap\u00c3\u00a1 alrededor de la habitaci\u00c3\u00b3n terminaban en explosiones de rega\u00c3\u00b1o. Para m\u00c3\u00ad eran s\u00c3\u00b3lo chasquidos en medio de la desolaci\u00c3\u00b3n del Fenway Park. El desagrado de Pap\u00c3\u00a1 aumentaba. En un momento me estremeci\u00c3\u00b3 por los hombros. Me anunci\u00c3\u00b3 que pasar\u00c3\u00ada una semana sin la mesada de dos bol\u00c3\u00advares diarios. Sent\u00c3\u00ad varios aguijones en los ojos. Guarec\u00c3\u00ad el ment\u00c3\u00b3n en mi pecho y agarr\u00c3\u00a9 el pomo de la puerta. Pap\u00c3\u00a1 se levant\u00c3\u00b3 de su silla. Quiso acercarse pero abr\u00c3\u00ad la puerta y sal\u00c3\u00ad disparado hacia el porche. En mi mente sintonizaba una y mil veces el radio de cubo negro para ligar el jonr\u00c3\u00b3n de Yastrzemski en el noveno inning. Siempre terminaba bateando ese m\u00c3\u00adsero elevado al cuadro. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Pap\u00c3\u00a1 quiso tranquilizarme al ver como me sent\u00c3\u00a9 en la acera con la cabeza entre las manos <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

_Vamos. No es para tanto. Todos cometemos travesuras a tu edad y despu\u00c3\u00a9s nos reponemos. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Mi frente continuaba aferrada a mi antebrazo derecho. Si pero de seguro \u00c3\u00a9l no se hab\u00c3\u00ada antojado de seguir a un equipo que perdiera una ventaja de 14 juego como los Medias Rojas. Reponerse iba a costar 6 largos meses hasta la llegada de abril. Mientras tanto hab\u00c3\u00ada que aguantar el temporal de los yanquistas. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Aquella noche s\u00c3\u00b3lo rec\u00c3\u00a9 una oraci\u00c3\u00b3n “\u00c2\u00bfPor qu\u00c3\u00a9 Bucky Dent se ten\u00c3\u00ada que antojar de dar jonr\u00c3\u00b3n hoy?”. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Pap\u00c3\u00a1 levant\u00c3\u00b3 la mirada y respir\u00c3\u00b3 profundo. Dio dos palmadas en mi espalda y regres\u00c3\u00b3 a la oficina. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0 -No te vayas a quedar mucho tiempo aqu\u00c3\u00ad. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Ahora el cami\u00c3\u00b3n corr\u00c3\u00ada m\u00c3\u00a1s r\u00c3\u00a1pido, en el radio sonaba \u00c2\u00a0 toda la voz de Buck Canel. Cada curva casi sacaba al cami\u00c3\u00b3n de la v\u00c3\u00ada. Mis pies permanec\u00c3\u00adan clavados sobre la plataforma, en busca del inning del jonr\u00c3\u00b3n para repetirlo y darle otra oportunidad a Mike Torrez. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Un rumor de r\u00c3\u00a1fagas zumbaba en la cola del cami\u00c3\u00b2n. Me aferr\u00c3\u00a8 al techo de la cabina. El impacto de varias gotas me hizo voltear. Pap\u00c3\u00a0 me alz\u00c3\u00b2 por los hombros. Le pregunt\u00c3\u00a8 por qu\u00c3\u00a8 se trabaja tanto por algo para perderlo todo al final. Pap\u00c3\u00a0 sacudi\u00c3\u00b2 el sudor de mi camisa. Me dijo que ten\u00c3\u00aca media hora vi\u00c3\u00a8ndome desde la oficina. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 -Lo que pas\u00c3\u00b2, es pasado. Ahora debes seguir adelante. Claro, debes corregir los errores. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Desde la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b2n trataba de mirar el dugout de los Medias Rojas \u00c2\u00bfEstar\u00c3\u00acan pensando en el jonr\u00c3\u00b2n de Bucky Dent? \u00c2\u00bfDiscutir\u00c3\u00acan como har\u00c3\u00acan la pr\u00c3\u00b2xima temporada para contener a los Yanquis? <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Me fui hacia el cuarto con la cabeza entre los hombros. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

La fotograf\u00c3\u00aca en el peri\u00c3\u00b2dico me hizo detener en la acera bajo el sol matinal. Carl Yastrzemski en el dugout de los Yanquis felicitando a Reggie Jackson luego del juego. Dobl\u00c3\u00a8 el peri\u00c3\u00b2dico y lo met\u00c3\u00ac debajo del brazo. Las piedrecillas volaban al contacto con la punta de mis zapatos. Despu\u00c3\u00a9s de tirar el peri\u00c3\u00b2dico en el rinc\u00c3\u00b3n m\u00c3\u00a0s alejado del cuarto, empezaron a aparecer im\u00c3\u00a1genes m\u00c3\u00a0s serenas en mi mente. Yastrzemski deb\u00c3\u00aca tener mucho car\u00c3\u00a1cter y autoestima para entrar al dugout de sus vencedores y reconocerles sus m\u00c3\u00a8ritos luego de una larga batalla de seis meses. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Las pr\u00c3\u00b2ximas dos semanas olvid\u00c3\u00a8 por completo los tr\u00c3\u00a0mites para ingresar a la Universidad. En mi mente s\u00c3\u00b2lo ebull\u00c3\u00aca el eco del \u00c3\u00b9ltimo out a manos de Graig Nettles. Un mediod\u00c3\u00aca el ni\u00c3\u00b1o de enfrente jugaba con unos globos de helio. El estruendo de un cami\u00c3\u00b2n vac\u00c3\u00aco sobre la batea de la calle dibuj\u00c3\u00b2 l\u00c3\u00a0grimas en la cara del ni\u00c3\u00b1o. Los globos volando sobre la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b2n destaparon mis oidos para escuchar un radio que dec\u00c3\u00aca: “La semana entrante vence el plazo para enviar los papeles al CNU”. Me levant\u00c3\u00a8 sin dejar de mirar la plataforma del cami\u00c3\u00b2n. En otras noticias dec\u00c3\u00acan que Boston hab\u00c3\u00aca cambiado al lanzador Bill Lee a los Expos de Montreal. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Mientras sacaba los papeles de bachillerato de una carpeta regres\u00c3\u00b2 a mi mente aquella serie de cuatro juegos en septiembre. “Si al menos Bill Lee hubiese lanzado uno de esos juegos”. Sal\u00c3\u00ac a la calle para ver si ve\u00c3\u00aca al cami\u00c3\u00b2n ,solo quedaba el resplandor meridiano. Los globos flotaban muy alto sobre la calle.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

English Translation<\/strong><\/p>\n

I planned to go to <\/st1>Cumana<\/st1> with Ramon and Brairo.\u00c2\u00a0 We had finished High School on July. The emotion of going to College made me fly like the birds. I had been filling some application forms two days before. Brairo told me there was a requisite we were missing. So we had to go to <\/st1>Cumana<\/st1>. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Dad gave me a 5 bolivar bill to pay the transportation. I took the black cube radio. That was the day when the Red Sox played against the Yankees to decide which team would advance to the 1978 playoff. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I met Raimundo at the big tree just at the beginning of the Cumanacoa-Cuman\u00c3\u00a0 road. We decided to hitchhike. That way we would have some extra money to spend at Cuman\u00c3\u00a0. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

When the sun shined among the tree branches, an empty truck stopped on Raimundo hands signs. Plenty of shouts crossed the air. Brairo ran asking to wait for him. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

We jumped to the truck’s platform. The wind made us forget about the sun intensity. Brairo confronted Ramon as soon as he recovered his breath. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0“Were you going to leave without me?” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0“We said, we’d meet at one o’clock at the big tree. It’s already half past one.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0The wind blew on Brairo’s shouting. He pointed to the radio. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0“Did the game begin?” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The wind’s noise made difficult to listen the radio. The game was supposed to begin at one o’clock. Bob Lemon, the Yankees’ skipper, had announced Ron Guidry. Don Zimmer decided to send Mike Torrez to the mound. <\/st1>Boston<\/st1>\u00c2\u00a0 lost a fourteen-game advantage from July to September.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I pushed my ear on the radio and raised the volume. Buck Canel’s voice defeated the wind. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 it’s a pop-up to the left field. Yastrzemski takes it and this is it for the Yanks in the first frame. No hits, no runs, just a base on balls.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The radio signal went lost when we passed by Tataracual town. Just after Carl Yastrzemski’s homerun to give <\/st1>Boston<\/st1> a 1-0 lead. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The angriness went away from my face when Ramon pointed to a dark red vehicle coming from behind. \u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

“Isn’t it your Dad’s car?” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The Caprice increased speeds at Los Cocos straight way. I recognized the car’s features. I knew I was in trouble when I saw uncle Miguel’s face through the window. Dad decreased the speed in front of the truck. He accelerated after two seconds. The image of Dad getting mad at home that night pressed my neck until the last corner of my heart. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The wind whistled from all the sides. Ramon shouted to ask about he game. I turned on the radio. Canel’s voice emerged through an interference sea.\u00c2\u00a0 “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6Chris Chambliss hits a grounder to short stop. Rick Burleson takes it and forces out Lou Piniella at second base.. After three innings and a half <\/st1>Boston<\/st1> still beats the Yankees 1-0.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The game’s intensity made me forget about having to explain Dad why was I on the platform of a truck. The duel between Guidry and Torrez stopped all my worries. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

We arrived to <\/st1>Cumana<\/st1> at two o’clock. While passing in front of the Paramount<\/st1> theater I raised the radio’s volume. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6and in five innings Boston<\/st1> 1 -\u00c2\u00a0 <\/st1>New York<\/st1> 0.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Before going to the identification office to get the documents we needed, we stopped by my grandparents home. I knocked the door three times. I took a key from my pocket and told Raimundo and Brairo to come in. I called my Grandparents at all the rooms. Loneliness jumped at every step. At the living room I turned on the tv set.\u00c2\u00a0 The screen showed all the green surfaces of <\/st1>Fenway<\/st1> Park<\/st1>. A couple of minutes later the commentators excused because the satellite wasn’t going to be available to continue the game broadcasting. We just saw Jim Rice’s single to bring Burleson home. Boston<\/st1> 2 <\/st1>New York<\/st1> 0.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The identification office was almost empty. We got the documents in 20 minutes. We went straight ahead on <\/st1>Ayacucho street<\/st1> until Andres Eloy Blanco square. I bought a kola beverage in front of Manzanares river. The breeze refreshed my lungs at the Guzman Blanco bridge. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I tried to forget about the explanation I had to give Dad as soon as I got back home. The Bermudez avenue madding crowd got trapped inside my search of solid reasons to justify my traveling on the platform of the truck. The sun burned Cumana. Cold sweat rivers flew through my face. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Ramon hit my arm many times. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Look Alberto, Tarzan is coming out earlier. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The rumble of a tin can drum made me forget about the truck.\u00c2\u00a0 A man with carbon powder on his skin, moved two metallic wings and spitted red saliva over the pavement. People got closer to the Cumana’s devil. It was a popular tradition through the whole year. For the first time in my life I did’nt feel fear when Tarzan took the trident and simulated to push it on the belly of a little Indian.\u00c2\u00a0 The tin can drums sounded in my temples like the quarrel I imagined Dad was going to have with me. I got aware that the trident changed its way just few millimiters before reaching the little Indian’s belly, to break a little bag with red liquid. The women put her hands on her eyes and shouted: “Poor litlle Indian!”<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I knew what the children felt when they ran to hide behind his mothers’ skirts. I tried it many times but Mom always carried me to meet the devil. I got very disappointed with her. That big fear was only matched by having to talk to Dad about the truck episode. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

We spent the rest of the afternoon by watching the pelicans fishing in Puerto Sucre. I almost turned on the radio but I took it for granted that the Red Sox kept winning. Furthermore tha marine landscape really made me forget of everything for a couple of minutes. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

When the sun jumped at the horizon we went back trhough the Bermudez Avenue. Brairo touched my shoulder. “Hey Albert What’s the matter with you? You don’t see even the pretty girls.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I wanted to reduce each step in order to arrive home next month, when\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 Dad had forgotten about the truck. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

We got in the car and paid the fare. At the beginning of the road a tunnel of coconut trees stretched their shadows on the way. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The pilot sopped the car at Gamero’s curves. Some people raised their hand from one side of the road. Two persons laid on the pavement. A blood smell filled twilight. I tried to get the ballgame radiostation while the collision was solved. I only got interference noise. The pilot called to continue the trip. The urine got trapped in my bladder and I had to run from behind some trees. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Ram\u00c3\u00b2n asked me about the game. He began to laugh. He said that only the Red Sox wasted and advantage of fourteen games. I looked at him with fiere in my eyes. I couldn’t speak like when I saw Dad’s car from the platform of the truck.\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 Brairo recalled that Boston was winning 2-0. Raimundo stretched hius feet under the seat and talked abouit the Yankees inspiration. It wasn’t in vane that Reggie Jackson was called Mister October. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I still didn’t know what I was going to do to explain Dad about my trip on the platform of the truck. In the middle of that emotional labyrinth, the Carlton Fisk home run in 1975 World\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 Series came to my mind. I took a breath and told Raimundo that the Yankees would have to hustle a lot to win that game. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I looked through the window and catched the sun infecting\u00c2\u00a0 the clouds with the reddest fever. Thel cold breeze wasn’t enough to explain myself why did I follow a team like the Red Sox.\u00c2\u00a0 I got back to high school examinations each time the Red Sox lost a game while the Yankees won and erased the distance. It was almost the same with those tests. I arrived at the last question with more than 30 minutes left.\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 I couldn’t explain myself the reason of that sea of sweat in my hands. I only had brain for the clock. It was like I was falling down from the top of a hill and no trees were to stop the sliding. When everything was over I saw very clear the answer of the questions. I went outside hiting the floor with the soil of my shoes.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The cricket’s orchestra performed in the last twilight sparks. At Bichoroco’s curves of the road, Raimundo took his head out of the window. Another car passed as a thunder. “That’s the way the Yankees ar going to beat the Red Sox. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I pressed my right fist. The evaporation of those fourteen games remained in my throat. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

A smell of burned tire disappeared the run for the American League East Division Pennant. The pilot led the car to a side of the road. Raimundo wanted to help with the spare tire. The pilot showed his left palm hand. “If you want to help, loosen the bolts.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The flat tire remembered me\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 the Boston-Yankees series of September first week.\u00c2\u00a0 The Red Sox looked like the Bad News Bears. Maybe Walter Matthau would\u00c2\u00a0 have said that his guys performed better. Those games scores made me hit the pillow with all the strength of my fists. They lost all the games for more than\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 three runs. When I raised the tire to store it in the trunk I notice a bright spot in the middle of it. A bunch of broken glasses were inserted trough the tire. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

While passing by the town of Arenas I tried to dial the game’s radio station. I only heard that interference noise. In front of the big tree at Cumanacoa’s entrance I got the Noti-Rumbos news report. I pressed the radio against my ear as we got off the car. Raimundo had to shout to say good bye. I kept listening to the radio. “Look boy. You’d better think about what are you going to tell your Dad. Forget about the Red Sox. If they lost 14 advantage games, they sure lost this one too.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I kept walking on Las Flores street without looking back. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

At the school corner the news came from the radio like a knife in the back. “\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6in a dramatic game played this afternoon at Fenway Park, shortstop Bucky Dent killed the Red Sox with a home run before Mike Torrez in the seventh inning. From then on the Yankees never lost the lead no matter the efforts of Carlton Fisk, Jim Rice, Carl Yastrzemski who gave up the last out in a pop-up to third base\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I almost fell down over the sidewalk. A\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 blow of wind carried all the night darkness over my back. I looked to the sky looking for the ozone layer blue but I only felt thorny vapor. The cardboard\u00c2\u00a0 roof I improvised at a side of the water reservoir wouldn\u00c2\u00b4t be a refuge for me the next afternoons of play off games. I would clim the house’s roof but the emotion wouldn’t be the same as when I listened to the names of Rice, Fisk, Evans, Torrez, Yastrzemski, Tiant and company. It would be a pity to imagine how the Red Sox would perform in the play off. \u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I stopped my feet at the last corner before home. I wanted April to come soon to watch the Red Sox taking revenge from the Yankees. The idea of seeing the Manhattan Mules at the place the Red Sox should be, erased completely Dad’s shouts from the porch. If only Luis Tiant would have thrown one of those September games against the Yankees. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Each step I advanced home it seemed to me I was running faster than the truck’s hundred miles per hour. My feet slipped on the platform. No matter the bang I felt on my chest when Dad’s car passed by the truck what remained in my heart was the fourteen games the Yankees took out to leave behind the Red Sox. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I went into the house with my eyes on the floor. Uncle Miguel told me Dad waited for me in his office. I pushed the door. Dad read a book on the desk. He showed me the chair. “Do you realize what have you done?” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The Noti Rumbos news report’s little bell\u00c2\u00a0 before they informed the Yankees had defeated the Red Sox still sounded in my head. Dad threw his cigarette. A bunch of veins came out from his forehead. On his neck ran many sweat rivers. He hit the desk with the palm of his hand. I hid my eyes in the farthest corner. I looked at my shoes. On the floor appeared a lot of metallic drawings that resembled the truck’s platform. Dad’s voice burned the office’s air. Each time I tried to talk, Dad raised his trumpet’s volume. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Two tears came at the border of my eyes. Dad’s voice came together with the ball caught at Graig Nettles’ glove.\u00c2\u00a0 Dad made gestures while talking about the risks of traveling in the platform of a truck driving at high speed. I put the hands on my mouth many times. The ball bounced on all the walls. Dad illustrated once again how I could have fallen from the truck. My hands\u00c2\u00a0 got wet with the sweat on my forehead. Bucky Dent’s home run boiled in my temples.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The cold breeze kept hitting my forehead in front of the road kinetic. Dad kept asking about how we decided to travel on that truck. My eyes only arrived to the white lines of the stadium where the Red Sox had lost to the Yankees. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Dad’s steps around the room ended in mad explosions at me. To me it was just little sounds at Fenway Park’s silence.\u00c2\u00a0 Dad’s upsetting increased. He scrambled my shoulders and told me he wasn’t going to give me any money for one week. I went out to the porch. In my mind I dialed a thousand times the last Yastrzemski at bat. Bu he always finished batting that pop-up to third base. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I sat on the sidewalk with my head on my hands. Dad came to calm me down. “Come on. Everybody makes those mistakes at your age.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

My forehead kept welded to my right forearm.\u00c2\u00a0 Yes, but he didn’t followed a team losing a fourteen-game advantage. \u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

That night I said just a prayer:\u00c2\u00a0\u00c2\u00a0 “Why Bucky Dent had to smack a dinger today?” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Dad raised his gaze, took a deep breathe, gave me some pats on my back and went back to the office. “Remember your bedroom is inside, not here.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Now the truck ran faster, the radio sounded with all Buck Canel’s voice. Each curve almost took the truck away from the road. My feet remained planted on the platform. I looked for the homerun inning to repeat and give advice to Mike Torrez. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

A dry rumor buzzed at the truck’s tail. I pressed my hands against the cabin’s roof.\u00c2\u00a0 Dad raised me by my shoulders. I asked him why we work so much for something if at the end we’ll lose it. He told me he had half an hour looking at me from the office. “Leave in the past whatever it happened.\u00c2\u00a0 No you have to keep going. Of course you’d better solve your mistakes.” <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I tried to look at the Red Sox dugout from the platform of the truck. Would they be thinking about Bucky Dent’s homerun? Would they discuss about how to do to beat the Yankees next season? <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

I went to my bedroom with my head between my shoulders. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The newspaper picture made me stop on the sidewalk under the morning sun. Yastrzemski congratulated Reggie Jackson at Yankees clubhouse after the game.\u00c2\u00a0 I folded the paper and put it under my shoulder. I kicked a bunch of little stones and them flied like rockets. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

Once I threw the paper at the last corner of the bedroom I started to see quieter images in my mind. Yastrzemski had to have a lot of character and self steem to go to his rivals’ dugout and recognize their merits after a six month battle. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

The next two weeks I forgot everything about going to College. That last out kept boiling in my thoughts. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

One noon the next door boy played wit some helium globes. The rumble of a truck at the corner brought tears to the boy’s cheeks.\u00c2\u00a0 The globes flying over the street made me listen to a radio news report. “Next week is the last one to send the College Application Forms”. I kept looking at the truck. In other news they told that Boston had sent pitcher Bill Lee to the Montreal Expos.<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

While I took out my High School papers from a folder. It came to my mind that four-game series at September. If Only Bill Lee had thrown one of those games! I went out to see the truck. It only remained the sun splendor. The globes floated very high in the sky. <\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0<\/span><\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0<\/o><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00c2\u00a0<\/o><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Memories of the 1978 American League playoff game between the Red Sox and Yankees in two languages.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":75,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-697","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/697","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/75"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=697"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/697\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=697"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=697"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=697"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}