Read Online Butterfly Winter by W.P. Kinsella - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: W.P. Kinsella
Ads: Link
manufactured birth certificates for Esteban and Julio showing each to be sixteen years of age.
The bonus Julio’s father demanded for signing was a hot air balloon. The baseball club complied, for their negotiators were vaguely intimidated by the sinister demeanor of the Wizard, who always seemed present, his silks swishing malevolently in the background. They knew the hot air balloon was for the Wizard and they hoped it would encourage him to travel extensively.
The Wizard, though he did not actually take part in the deal-making, was inclined to take the negotiators for a walk along the now-yard-wide, crystal stream full of blue fish sparking like quicksilver; the Wizard made the negotiators aware that the stream began from nothing and diminished to nothing, and while he never claimed responsibility, he intimated strongly that he had something to do with its emergence.
FIFTEEN
THE GRINGO JOURNALIST
T he twins, the day after their tenth birthday, armed with official birth certificates stating them to be sixteen, left San Cristobel bound for the mysterious United States, where, they had been told, baseball players were revered as idols.
They had first to be smuggled out of Courteguay, for there was no reliable airline in the country. The aging scout took it upon himself to do the job. Baseball management didn’t understand the situation in these primitive countries.
“Be sure and get the proper visas,” was their advice. They didn’t know that if the boys applied for visas they and the scout might never be seen again. They also didn’t know that Dr. Noir, the head of the Secret Police, was taking more and more responsibility for running the Government of Courteguay, some of which the Old Dictator knew about, some of which he didn’t.
The baseball scout bought a bicycle, an elderly, cumbersome thing with balloon tires, and a metal basket that weighed more than the vehicle itself. The three of them appeared at the border to the Dominican Republic, the scout squat, insect-bitten, with a three-day growth ofbeard. The boys were carrying the scout’s equipment: the battery-powered speed gun, a sack of balls. The bats were in a canvas sack balanced across the black metal basket.
The scout explained in his halting Spanish that he was a baseball scout for a famous Major League team and that his car had broken down. He had hired the two boys to carry his equipment. He would pay them and put them on a bus back to Courteguay as soon he reached the Santo Domingo Airport.
“Beisbol,” the immigration officer said, smiling vaguely.
The scout named a couple of famous Dominican players. “I am the scout who discovered their talents,” he said, tapping his chest with a thick finger.
“Beisbol,” the officer said again.
The scout opened the canvas sack that held the bats. He pulled one out and extended it to the officer. That morning, while the three were eating a breakfast of mangos and day-old tortillas, he had used a black marker to sign one of the bats with the name of a famous Dominican shortstop.
“Ramon Esquibel,” he said, pointing to the black lettering.
The officer, clutching the champagne-colored bat, waved them through.
At the airport the scout used his team’s American Express card to buy tickets for the boys. He made several phone calls to America, first asking, then demanding that a team executive meet the plane with proper documentation for the boys.
“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” he said. “They look very young. But they’re sixteen. They are carrying their birth certificates, which were provided personally by the President of the United States, and El Presidente here in Courteguay.”
“ UNBELIEVABLE ,” said the field manager of the only Major League Baseball Club in the True South, as he first watched Julio hurl the ball toward Esteban’s mitt. His name was Al Tiller, and
Sports Illustrated
would one day call him the dumbest manager in baseball.
“We’ll start them in
The bonus Julio’s father demanded for signing was a hot air balloon. The baseball club complied, for their negotiators were vaguely intimidated by the sinister demeanor of the Wizard, who always seemed present, his silks swishing malevolently in the background. They knew the hot air balloon was for the Wizard and they hoped it would encourage him to travel extensively.
The Wizard, though he did not actually take part in the deal-making, was inclined to take the negotiators for a walk along the now-yard-wide, crystal stream full of blue fish sparking like quicksilver; the Wizard made the negotiators aware that the stream began from nothing and diminished to nothing, and while he never claimed responsibility, he intimated strongly that he had something to do with its emergence.
FIFTEEN
THE GRINGO JOURNALIST
T he twins, the day after their tenth birthday, armed with official birth certificates stating them to be sixteen, left San Cristobel bound for the mysterious United States, where, they had been told, baseball players were revered as idols.
They had first to be smuggled out of Courteguay, for there was no reliable airline in the country. The aging scout took it upon himself to do the job. Baseball management didn’t understand the situation in these primitive countries.
“Be sure and get the proper visas,” was their advice. They didn’t know that if the boys applied for visas they and the scout might never be seen again. They also didn’t know that Dr. Noir, the head of the Secret Police, was taking more and more responsibility for running the Government of Courteguay, some of which the Old Dictator knew about, some of which he didn’t.
The baseball scout bought a bicycle, an elderly, cumbersome thing with balloon tires, and a metal basket that weighed more than the vehicle itself. The three of them appeared at the border to the Dominican Republic, the scout squat, insect-bitten, with a three-day growth ofbeard. The boys were carrying the scout’s equipment: the battery-powered speed gun, a sack of balls. The bats were in a canvas sack balanced across the black metal basket.
The scout explained in his halting Spanish that he was a baseball scout for a famous Major League team and that his car had broken down. He had hired the two boys to carry his equipment. He would pay them and put them on a bus back to Courteguay as soon he reached the Santo Domingo Airport.
“Beisbol,” the immigration officer said, smiling vaguely.
The scout named a couple of famous Dominican players. “I am the scout who discovered their talents,” he said, tapping his chest with a thick finger.
“Beisbol,” the officer said again.
The scout opened the canvas sack that held the bats. He pulled one out and extended it to the officer. That morning, while the three were eating a breakfast of mangos and day-old tortillas, he had used a black marker to sign one of the bats with the name of a famous Dominican shortstop.
“Ramon Esquibel,” he said, pointing to the black lettering.
The officer, clutching the champagne-colored bat, waved them through.
At the airport the scout used his team’s American Express card to buy tickets for the boys. He made several phone calls to America, first asking, then demanding that a team executive meet the plane with proper documentation for the boys.
“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” he said. “They look very young. But they’re sixteen. They are carrying their birth certificates, which were provided personally by the President of the United States, and El Presidente here in Courteguay.”
“ UNBELIEVABLE ,” said the field manager of the only Major League Baseball Club in the True South, as he first watched Julio hurl the ball toward Esteban’s mitt. His name was Al Tiller, and
Sports Illustrated
would one day call him the dumbest manager in baseball.
“We’ll start them in
Similar Books
