He silences my gasp with a sneaky kiss, and not a quick one.
The room erupts into cheers and whistles, and I’m sure I’m burning bright red. From the attention and that blistering kiss.
“Sorry, had to get one in before the game. Didn’t think I’d be able to get one once you’re out of this suite.” He smiles shyly.
And guilt weighs heavily in my gut.
“Well, it’s just that a lot of people are watching…”
“I know.”
“And people will talk…”
“I know.”
“And I—”
“Baby, you don’t have to explain or worry about me, okay? We move at your pace and your pace only. I’m just the smart bastard who thought ahead and came to get what’s mine before this show starts.” He kisses me again, then winks as he retreats. “Have fun tonight, baby. Oh, and by the way, I love your jersey.” He smirks as he backs away and slowly retreats from the suite, waving goodbye to our crew.
I laugh as I recall the jersey I found on our bed this morning. The very one I’m wearing tonight. With a big 1 in the center andMoraleswritten in big block letters over my back.
forty-two
This past week, I’vebeen brainstorming with Isabella and Daisy about the charity game nonstop.
Daisy’s in charge of the charity event, and after I decided I was going to participate, I realized that there was so much more I could do.
I gave her free rein, including permission to use my name and promote the event however she saw fit, auctioning off signed items, and scheduling meet-and-greets with me. Something that seems so stupidly trivial, yet can bring in so much aid for those in need.
Though I did keep some things close to the vest when I decided to make a few phone calls and make some changes to the opening ceremony.
For instance, after the national anthems for both the US and Puerto Rico were sung, I let Daisy know at the last minute that Marc Anthony would be stepping up to my pitcher’s mound to sing “Preciosa.”
The opening notes of the Puerto Rican cuatro vibrate through the stadium, and I can see the collective gasps within the audience.
I let Marc get through the first half of the song on his own, but once he gets to that long note, I make my way onto the field. I jog with the Puerto Rican flag on a pole leaning against my left shoulder and, for the first time ever, run the bases.
The place feels like it’s going to erupt with all the barely contained energy.
The flashes from professional camera bulbs look like small fireworks surrounding every corner of the field.
As a pitcher, I never get this view or the chance to run these bases, but as I do now, with a grin plastered on my face, I vow to never take this place or these people for granted.
When I round third and start to make it to home base, some of my team is waiting there, rallied around in a huddle of overexcited Hispanic men.
When I arrive, they give me a moment to step on home properly, and with a shift of the pole, I’m able to get a good grasp, and wave it proudly for all of Monarch Stadium to see.
For the entire world to see.
Because my island may be small, but it is powerful.
And it may have taken me almost thirty-three years to claim it as my own, but just like everyone I love in my life, it shall forever remain mine.
With misty eyes, I mouth,“Te quiero, Puerto Rico,” I place my right hand over my heart and nod my head to those cheering up in the stands.
My team decides that they’ve given me enough of a moment to shine, and they promptly surround me, bouncing in place as if we’ve just won a big game. I’m completely put out of sight, but I make sure to prop the flagpole higher so eyes are always on my beloved Puerto Rico.
When the song is over and the pitcher’s mound is now vacant, I hand the flag over to Anthony, who takes it proudly and starts to wave it enthusiastically while yelling, “¡Eso eh puñeta! De Puerto Rico pa’l mundo!”
