Not like them: they always played baseball, he recalled, and then recalled how few of them were left in the neighbourhood: while some went in and out of prison for lesser or greater crimes, others had moved on to such disparate destinations as Alamar, Hialeah, Santiago de las Vegas, Union City, Cojimar or Stockholm, and one had even collected a one-way ticket to the Colon Cemetery: poor Marquitos. Consequently, even if they’d wanted to and still had enough strength left in their legs and arms, the guys from that era could never organize another game of baseball on that street corner: because life had destroyed that option, along with so many others.

When the celebrations and arguments were over, the boys decided to play another game and the two obvious group leaders prepared to pick their sides with an eye to redistributing forces and continuing the war in more balanced conditions. Then the Count had an idea: he’d ask if he could play. He felt roasted by his eight hours that day in the Information Bureau at Police Headquarters, but it was only six in the afternoon and he’d rather not yet return to the solitary heat of his house. A much better idea would be to start playing baseball. If they’d let him.

He walked over to the group, which was around the plank chosen as home-plate, and hailed Black Felicio’s son. Felicio was one of those he’d always played with and the Count reckoned he must be back inside as he’d not seen him for a long, long time. The boy was as black as his father and had also inherited that abrasive, acrid smell of sweat the Count knew by heart, for he always managed to catch it when out with Felicio.

“Ruben,” he addressed the black kid, who looked at him slightly alarmed. “Reckon I could join the game for a bit?”

The boy kept staring as if he hadn’t understood, and then looked at his friends. The Count thought an explanation was in order.

“I’ve not played for some time and suddenly felt like making a few catches…”