# Read the first page of Game Seven by Paul Volponi

Read the opening of Game Seven by Paul Volponi free, no signup. A Cuban teen ballplayer torn between family and freedom.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/game-seven-paul-volponi
- Genre: Coming of age
- Year: 2016
- ISBN: 9780142424292
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780142424292&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780142424292
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780142424292

## The opening

There are 108 stitches on a baseball. I should know. I've run my fingers over every one. The first and last stitches are hidden beneath the surface. But believe me, I've felt those, too.

I was up on my toes, shifting my weight from side to side. It's important for a shortstop. You don't ever want to get stuck in one spot, unable to move. So you learn to stay light on your feet. As our pitcher went into his windup, I was focused on the baseball in his left hand, following it all the way through his release.

Spinning out of his hand, it was just a seed of white to my eyes. A split second later, off the hitter's bat, it had turned into a scalding line drive headed right at me.

On instinct, I raised my glove in front of my face, almost in self-defense. The baseball stuck in its pocket, stinging my palm through the soft brown leather. Then I reached inside, gripping the ball by the seams before I tossed it around the infield diamond.

Six years ago, on my tenth birthday, Papi gave me this glove as a present. At the time it was brand-new and way too big for me.

“Don’t worry. You grow into a glove. Then you’ll have it the rest of your life,” Papi said as I struggled to keep it on my hand. “We’ll play lots of catch together, every day. That’ll help you break it in.”

Before I went to bed that night, Papi oiled the glove’s pocket. He put a stone that was slightly bigger and heavier than a baseball in its center. Then he tied the fingers tightly closed around it, using string from Mama’s kitchen.

“Do this every night and the ball will feel like a feather when it hits your glove,” Papi promised.

So I did.

Back then, every kid I knew was jealous of me. That’s because baseball is practically a religion in my country. And Papi walked through the streets of our hometown, Matanzas, like a god, with me trailing behind. He’d been an all-star pitcher for almost a decade. Not only for the Matanzas Crocodiles, but also for the Cuban National Team—the Nacionales—in all the big international tournaments.

Fans called him El Fuego, for his blazing fastball, which no batter could touch. The only way Papi could have been more respected was if he’d been a general in the military or a high-ranking government official. But most of that respect would have come out of fear.

A few months after my birthday, though, everything changed.

The Cuban National Team traveled to play an exhibition in the US. I was so excited. Papi promised to bring back lots of presents, like blue jeans for Mama and my younger sister, Lola. And Papi said that if he could find a way, he’d bring me a brand-new ten-speed racing bike. I would have gladly settled for a pair of new tires and a chain for my old bike—more than most of my friends’ fathers could get for them.

Every night while Papi was gone, I dreamed about that bike while the stone sat tied inside my glove.

When the Nacionales swept all three games of the US exhibition—against the Baltimore Orioles, St. Louis Cardinals, and Chicago Cubs—it made the front page of every government-run newspaper in Cuba. Only Papi’s name wasn’t mentioned in any of the stories. I figured he might have injured his arm, or the team’s manager decided to use other pitchers. Either way, I was completely disappointed and didn’t know how to explain it to my friends.

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