Butterfly Winter. W. Kinsella P.

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 of beard. The boys were carrying the scout’s equipment: the batterypowered 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 A-Ball,’ said the general manager.

      ‘Double-A,’ said Al Tiller.

      ‘Triple-A,’ said the owner, who had been sitting in a director’s chair along the third base line. He was a slight, athletic-looking man with a soft, brown mustache, who was astronomically rich.

      ‘I want them at spring training,’ said Al Tiller. ‘That pitcher, I’ve never seen such a curve ball, such movement on a fast ball. How old did you say he is?’

      ‘Sixteen,’ said the owner. ‘The catcher’s not good though, get rid of him.’

      ‘There’s a problem,’ said the general manager. ‘They’re twins, the pitcher will only throw to his brother.’

      ‘Offer the pitcher more money,’ said the owner. ‘Everyone has a price.’

      ‘Not these boys,’ said the general manager. When I asked them about a signing bonus, Julio said, ‘I would like a Meccano set, if you please.’

      ‘And a puppy,’ said Esteban, the catcher.

      ‘Perhaps a bicycle with a banana seat,’ said Julio. ‘Candy-apple red would be nice.’

      ‘Are they really sixteen?’ demanded the owner. ‘Have you checked their documentation?’

      ‘Our scout says they’re sixteen. That’s good enough for me. Besides, we have their birth certificates.’

      ‘They’re sixteen,’ the general manager assured Tiller. He produced birth certificates, 8½-by-11-inch parchments, bordered with blood-red bougainvillea, sporting the Courteguayan flag and the national emblem of Courteguay, the clenched fist holding aloft a glittering machete.

      Tiller squinted at the certificates, counted on his fingers to substantiate that the twins were indeed sixteen.

      ‘Joe Nuxall played his first game in the majors at fifteen, so I guess it’s okay.’

      He did not notice the tiny blemish in the bottom right hand corner of each certificate where PRINTED IN USA had been removed by some terrible chemical known only to the CIA.

      ‘They play cowboys and Indians in the locker room,’ said Al Tiller.

      ‘Learn to live with it,’ said the owner, who amassed TV networks as a hobby, and was married to an aging movie star.

       SIXTEEN

       Esteban Pimental

      Even my mother refers to me as Esteban the turnip, though she does it in a loving way, shaking her head at a son she cannot now, nor will ever, understand. I am, indeed, a turnip. I stare dreamily into the distance, conveniently not hearing the racket of my brothers and sisters, of my contemporaries. Julio will come and tug at my ear when it is time to play baseball. I would just as soon not, but for Julio the game is everything. We appear to be extraordinarily talented, at least Julio is, and Julio cannot pitch unless I am his catcher. Many people do not understand this, and since I alone am only an average catcher and a dismal hitter, they try to substitute for me at every opportunity. A foolish ploy. If I am not catching him, Julio throws balls halfway up the backstop, or sometimes behind the batter, or he will deliver a sweet batting-practice pitch across the plate for the batter to wallop wherever he chooses.

      We play in the highest ranked league in Courteguay. We are the battery for the San Cristobel Flamethrowers, and Julio is 13–0 with a 1.28 ERA. Scouts from the United States sit in the stands behind home plate, utilize their speed guns, scribble notes and marvel at the talent of Julio as a pitcher. In Courteguay no one cares that we are children playing with adults. However, for the benefit of the scouts, The Wizard has arranged false birth certificates for us, to show that we are sixteen years old, although in reality we are barely nine. The scouts have not yet come to realize that I am a part of the bargain.

      On one of the happiest days of my life I remember watching as the wizard tossed blueberries into the stream behind our home. As each berry submerged it became a dazzling blue fish.

      ‘How do you do that?’ I asked the wizard.

      ‘I will teach you,’ he said, handing me several fat blueberries.

      I tossed one into the stream. It sank like a small rock as the water carried it downstream. I tried again with the same result. The Wizard tossed a berry and it changed immediately to a sparkling fish that leapt gaily in the water, turning its turquoise belly to the sun for a second before swimming away. He handed me a large handful of berries.

      ‘It takes years of practice,’ he said. ‘But if anyone has the patience, you do.’

      My word for today is ullage: the amount of empty space in a closed container. Father Cornelius instructs me that the word is usually used