Free Happy That It's Not True by Carlos Alemán Page B

live.”   Octavio looked at her for a long while.  “Maybe when I get back from Afghanistan again—maybe it’ll be my last time.  Maybe I’ll take you somewhere.”
                  “I’ll wait for you.”
                  “Adriana—I’m so sorry I let you down.  We lost the house—we lost everything.  Thanks for taking care of the kids—they’re so beautiful.  Sorry I didn’t spend more time with them.”
                  “Tavi—I understand you not wanting to see me, but  it’s not fair to the kids—they will always need you.”
                  Octavio’s eyes filled with tears as he held Adriana’s hand.  “You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.  I want to die in your arms one day—not in Afghanistan.”
     
    ...
                 
                  In the distant baseball diamond, several players stretched, while a man in a windbreaker sprayed the infield with water.  Luciano parked and moved quickly to the trunk to get his duffle, hoping not to draw attention.
                  “Luciano!” Tyler Bobs, a silver haired, leather-faced Texan in his early sixties leaned against his SUV and gestured emphatically for Luciano to come.
                  Luciano trotted as if advancing to first base after a walk, dressed in a yellow button down shirt with jeans, his face obscured by a cap and sunglasses.
                  “Let’s talk in the car—let’s get out of the heat.”
                  The engine was running with the AC fan on low, the interior smelled of tobacco and upholstery baked by the sun.  Tyler Bobs was wearing khaki shorts and a white Polo.  He took a long look at Luciano and turned to stare out into the diamond.   
                  “Wassup boss?” Luciano said.
                  “Remember Bobby in triple A?—college world series MVP.  I don’t know if he’ll ever get to the majors.  He’s been in triple-A forever.”
                  “Uh huh.”
                  “Remember Juannie baby?  He got lucky—in the majors for almost three weeks, ‘til El Venezolano came back from DL.  Even with his .385 average—it didn’t mean anything to anyone.”
                  Luciano had never heard Tyler Bobs speaking in such a plain tone before.  It was always assumed that the obvious would forever be ignored—that this was a tough business—that no one on the team, not even Tyler Bobs himself wanted to win games.  The players only wanted get out, and climb the system to get a shot at the majors.  Tyler Bobs’ only job was to farm talent, any rhetoric about a team playing well in the A class short season was meaningless talk.  Luciano grew concerned as his livelihood was reduced to mythology.
                  “Do you know any of these young guys?  The roster is constantly changing.  The only reason they’re here is ‘cause they’ve been playing with aluminum bats in college and they’ve never hit with wood before.  I don’t care how good they are, Luciano, they probably won’t make it to the majors.”  Tyler Bobs nodded for a moment, chewing on his lower lip.  “You’ve got some friends in double-A making pretty good money.  They have no idea how soon that money’ll be gone.  They’ll live large for a while—buy mommy a Cadillac—but it’ll be gone soon enough, and some of them—all they have is a high school diploma and no marketable skills.”
                  Tyler Bobs looked at Luciano with his head lowered, peering over the rims of his sunglasses—conveying sternness.  “Luciano, I’m talking to you now like a brother—como un hermano.  Your double-A friends bailing you out of jail—for beating your wife—Luciano.  You don’t even make hardly any money here.  After you pay the club house dues and tip everyone—what do you have?