I leaned back in the cushioned seat of the gondola. I looked over at my close friend and mountain bike riding partner Daniel Vest. Dirt smudges ran across his face, and his clothes had a tint of brown on them. Both of our shirts were drenched with sweat. I drummed my fingers on the seat. Outside, the wind howled at us as the gondola took us to the top of Mammoth Mountain. Daniel and I had been riding cross-country trails all day to train for our next race, and to finish the day off, we were going to ride the world-famous downhill course Kamikaze. It drops from a summit of 11,o53 feet to 8,9oo feet in about seven minutes, riding at a medium pace. Daniel rode a Specialized Hard Rock, a 24-speed hardtail and an all-out cross-country bike. I had a Schwinn Rocket 88, a 27-speed full-suspension bike. It was also a cross-country bike. At the time, we were both saving up for downhill bikes so that we could each have one bike for downhill and free riding and one bike for cross-country; however, we couldn’t wait until we had the right equipment. The Kamikaze’s draw was too powerful. I looked out the window. Trees stretched out for miles and miles, and they could be seen all the way to the White Mountains. The gondola rumbled and shook as we entered the station at the peak of Mammoth’s height. The doors opened with a sound like the release of a cap on a soda bottle. Daniel and I grabbed our glasses, stepped out of the gondola, and wheeled our bikes out of the station and down the stairs. A cold wind blew through the air and moaned in my ears. A dust devil swirled through the air, causing all of the tourists who were taking the scenic gondola ride to gape and point. I looked over the barbed-wire fence which separated the level ground from a section of Kamikaze. The wide course was windswept, and rocks littered it. Daniel and I clipped into our pedals and rode toward the start. A wooden sign read “Kamikaze,” and right next to the name of the course there was a black diamond. My stomach knotted up. Should we be doing this? It was a pro downhill course, and we were only thirteen. No, I said to myself, I can’t chicken out now. I’ve just got to do this. I can’t chicken out now. I’ve just got to do this We turned and began our descent. One minute later, we were speeding down the course side by side. Unlike the sheltered cross-country courses, trees were nowhere to be found except in the distance since the course was above the tree line. There were, however, plenty of rocks. My shocks rocketed up and down. My fingers were sore because of their position on the brakes. I had to be ready for anything. My knees moved in harmony with my shocks. The wind blew into our faces and moaned in our ears, but neither of us was daunted. I saw a bump throw the back of Daniel’s bike into the air. His back tire came down crooked, but he shifted his weight and corrected it just in time. He then began a right turn which took us into another straight downhill section. I shifted my weight toward the back tire so that I didn’t lean forward too much. We leaned into another right turn. Pink flags fluttered in the wind to our left. I sighed in relief. This was the last part of the course. We were finally done. I pushed my pedals as I tried to catch up to Daniel, my bike wobbling from the sheer speed of it all. “Whoa!” Daniel shouted. He leaned into a hard left turn and was then out of sight. Right ahead of me lay a series of sandy ditches. That was why Daniel had turned so suddenly I, however, couldn’t turn. If I turned right, I would just hit more sand. If I turned left, I would hit the metal pole that supported the pink flags. I stared ahead, frozen. A bump knocked my hand off its resting position on the back brake. I braced myself for the impact. I would have to do whatever I could to avoid injury. My front tire dug into the sand, and my bike immediately stopped. I, however, kept moving. My stomach lurched as my body threw itself over the handlebars. There was a snap as my clip-in shoes tore out of the pedals. My arms flailed as I flew through the air. My legs jutted upward. I was in the same position a swimmer is in as he dives into the water, but my hands weren’t in front of my head. My head slammed into the ground. Bright lights erupted in my eyes. I kept rolling and rolling until the sand finally stopped me. I heard Daniel shout something, I couldn’t tell what, as he dropped his bike and sprinted toward me. My head burned, and it felt as if it were swelling inside my helmet. I unbuckled my helmet and threw it to the ground. “Are you OK?” Daniel asked. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied. I put my hand in my hair. Rocks littered it, and dirt was smeared all over my shirt. I sat there for about a minute. Finally, after he asked if I was OK again, Daniel suggested that we get to the bottom. I nodded. * * * We sat on a bench outside of the main lodge. I looked around at all of the tourists who climbed the climbing wall and rented mountain bikes. I rubbed my head. That had been a pretty hard fall. My head still hurt, but it should since the fall was only about—how long ago was it? I thought about it. Why couldn’t I remember? I had fallen on . . . “Oh, no,” I said. “What?” Daniel turned
Sports
The Moment of Decision
“Strike three!” The quarterfinal game was over. Jesús Castillo had tossed his fourth perfect game in a row, earning the Little Leaguers of Miami a bid to the semifinals of the Little League World Series. His face was all over the newspapers. Headlines of Jesús becoming the next Koufax streaked across the tops of the pages. Even though it was in the Little Leagues, when was the last time any pitcher struck out every batter he faced in a game? As Jesús was leaving the locker room, a man in a polo shirt he had seen on TV ran up to him and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Jesús,” he said. “I’m Harold Reynolds from ESPN, and I was wondering if I could do a quick interview with you.” Jesús timidly nodded his head. “I got to ask you this, little man. What’s it like being the most famous twelve-year-old kid in the country?” Jesús felt his heart drift into his throat. Trying to find an answer, he found his mouth saying the words, “It’s great.” “Tomorrow’s the semifinal game. You must be nervous.” “Yes,” Jesús agreed. “Jesús, scouts from the Yankees, Mets, Athletics, and Rockies will be at tomorrow’s game and the championship. Just about every scout from every team will be watching these Little League games. Do you have anything special up your sleeve?” “No,” Jesús replied. “I’m just going to pitch like I normally do.” He had pitched one of the most memorable games in Little League history Harold Reynolds laughed. “I know you’re twelve years old, but there is talk around the league that you’ll be the number one pick in the Major League Baseball draft someday. How does that make you feel?” “Great,” he answered. “All right, Jesús, I got one last question. How did you get such an incredibly strong arm? I mean, it defies the laws of physics that a kid your age could have such a powerful arm.” Jesús could not answer that question. He simply looked into Harold Reynolds’s eyes. “It’s all right,” Reynolds said. “Your secret can stay a secret. Anyway, thanks a lot for giving us your time to do this interview. Good luck in tomorrow’s game.” With that, he left Jesús. For ten minutes, Jesús sat in his chair, looking at the ground, thinking. * * * “Play ball!” Team Miami was up to bat first. Jesús anxiously sat in the dugout, waiting for his opportunity to go out and pitch. Yet the look in his eyes was not that of the predator, but that of the prey. He sat back and closed his eyes. As Jesús sat in the dugout with his eyes closed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced at the scoreboard and found out that Roberto had hit a home run. Jesús was not the only superstar for team Miami. His best friend, Roberto, the catcher, basked in the glory that Jesús also shared. For a league of twelve-year-olds, Roberto displayed incredible power. In the previous three games that the Miami team had played, Roberto had hit five home runs. The team from Miami was truly blessed to have these two remarkable players on the same team. Anyhow, it was time for Jesús to go to work. That inning was a breeze for Jesús. To the delight of the capacity crowd, he struck out all three batters he faced. Strangely, he did not feel any satisfaction with what he accomplished. After each batter that he struck out, he did not feel joy, but anger. His heart was heavy. He returned to the dugout, and sat in the same exact spot that he had left. He didn’t like to be disturbed whenever he was pitching. The next inning was essentially the same for Jesús as the first. Before he threw each pitch, the crowd would rise in eager anticipation to see what the result would be. Even though the stadium was packed with people, Jesús could not sense any of them sitting there. To him, the only people he could see were his teammates, the opposing team, and his father. After every pitch, he would take a look at the stands and see his father smiling with pride. Five innings had passed. Jesús had been pitching like a man on fire. During those five innings, he had fifteen strikeouts. Thanks to two home runs by Jesús’s friend Roberto, team Miami had a two-to-zero lead. As Jesús made the jog to the pitcher’s mound, he looked into the stands and saw his father. Seeing that Jesús was staring at him, his father gave him a thumbs up. Jesús handled the first batter of the final inning incredibly. Three pitches and he was out. The second batter was also remarkably easy and Jesús struck him out on three pitches. The third batter, however, presented more of a challenge. Refusing to go down, he constantly fought off the pitches by fouling them into the stands. Finally, Jesús threw a curve ball that seemed to fall from the heavens. The batter swung and missed. Every player from team Miami ran toward Jesús. Roberto ran from home plate and embraced Jesús. He had pitched one of the most memorable games in Little League history. Night had arrived, and Jesús knew that he would need his rest for tomorrow’s big game. To his dismay, however, he tossed and turned in bed. He cupped his hands behind his head and lay there, thinking about times when he was little. * * * It wasn’t too long ago. Jesús was I still living in Cuba at that time. He was thirteen years old, and all day long it had been stormy. He had been inside fiddling with his glove and baseball when he heard screaming come from outside. His father quickly snatched him off the ground and left the house in a full sprint. After hours of running, Jesús and his father finally approached the Caribbean Sea. At last, Jesús understood
Silver
Tendrils of clinging fog rose up off the ice, curling into claws, sinking into my skin, freezing my blood as it pumped through my body. Shaking, I looked around, seeking a friendly face, a familiar face, anything, something that wouldn’t leave me feeling so alienated and alone. There was none. The judges’ faces were blank, their mouths set in hard lines. The audience was no better. They seemed to be sneering at me from the bleachers. Even my coach, leaning over the boards, looked cold and distant. The music came on. I pushed off on my ice skate as the first few phrases drifted down through the still air. The melody seemed right, at first, but as the program went on, it grew faster and faster, the notes harder and colder. It wasn’t right. Nothing was right. My toe loop was wild and out of control. I landed it, but barely. Turning to my coach for help, I saw her shrug and mouth “go on.” Trembling, I pushed forward. The hardest jump—the double axel—loomed ahead. Quivering like a bowstring, I took off. I flew higher and higher, too high, so high that my arms flailed out of position and started pinwheeling. Yelling helplessly, legs dangling, the ice rushed toward me. I just knew I was going to die. * * * I sat up straight in bed, eyes wide, chest ballooning in and out, gasping for breath. The room was dark and still. I jammed my glasses on my face, and glanced at the digital clock on my night table. Three o’clock in the morning. Too early to be up. Nightmares had been plaguing me for more than a week about the upcoming show. Tonight’s dream had been the worst by far. My head swung around to glare at the calendar perched on the wall. Yes, it was still December 10, two weeks before the Christmas Eve ice show. Yes, I was still alive. Shaking, but alive. I caught a glimpse of the mirror and groaned. My wiry red-brown curls stuck up almost vertically from my head, and my terror-stricken eyes had enormous bags under them. My twin, Sara, slept peacefully in the bed next to mine, her auburn hair lying in rippling waves on her pillow. She’s just about as different from me as humanly possible. Graceful and elegant, Sara wows everyone on the ice with just a few cross-overs, while I have to do flips to get a little attention. Though we’re both short and thin, Sara is slender, not scrawny like me. She brings to mind a willow, while I’m more like a scraggly thorn bush-prickly and ugly. Sara says I’m too hard on myself, but then, she always knows what to say. Still, I love her. Even though she’s perfect. With a sigh, I dropped back onto the pillows and waited for sleep. * * * “Toe loop! Cally, leg straight! Back cross-overs! Sara, don’t lean in so far! Scratch spin, and step out! Very good!” called Coach Vanessa from behind the boards. Her face was happy and animated, so unlike the coach in my dreams. She skated out to meet us. “All right, girls, now you’re going to have to do something difficult. I want you to go into a double axel from a curve on opposite sides of the rink, and then cross in midair. Cally, what’s wrong?” My face had gone white and I was sweating. Remembering the dream, and what my coach had urged me to do, had set my stomach churning. I ran my fingers through my bangs and mumbled, “Nothing.” “Good. For a minute there I thought you were going to fall over,” said Vanessa briskly. “Now, get to it!” Gulping, I got into the starting position and pushed off. Cross-over, crossover, step forward, and jump!!! I felt Sara go whizzing past me in a whirlwind of blue velvet skating dress before my leg shot out and I landed. Breathing a sigh of relief, I waited for Vanessa’s approval. I wasn’t disappointed. “Awesome! Now, do it again.” We practiced all afternoon until my leg muscles felt like jelly and I was actually looking forward to homework. “Can we practice more tomorrow?” I asked. “I feel like I’m going to collapse.” I felt Sara go whizzing past me in a whirlwind of blue velvet skating dress “Just do that jump combo one more time,” urged Vanessa. “All right, all right. Good for you, sister?” “Definitely. Let’s do it!” Cross-over, cross-over. I glanced over my shoulder at Sara. She was out of line. “Sara, scoot!” I called to her. Step forward. Sara was still out of line. My leg swung forward without me thinking. Jump. Time slowed to a crawl. We were going to crash, fast and hard. I couldn’t move, couldn’t stop, couldn’t prevent the inevitable. The panicked look in Sara’s eyes told me that she knew what I knew. Vanessa’s shouting was a distant buzz in my ears. We crashed. I flew backwards, hitting the ice with a whack that stole the breath from me. The sharp pain in my back receded to a dull ache as I slumped to the ice, stunned. Sara hadn’t been so lucky. She fell awkwardly to the ice, skidding across the rink. She was a limp pile of skater, face down on the ice. * * * “Sister, you sure know how to pack a punch,” said Sara with a grimace. Her leg was in a cast, and stitches inched up her hand where my skate had slashed her skin. “I told you I’m sorry!” I said in a frenzy of guilt. “I didn’t mean to do it! It just . . . happened. What can . . . ” “Stop, stop,” interrupted Sara, “it was really my fault. Should have scooted when you told me to. By the way, how’s your back?” She had remembered. “The doctor said I was lucky not to have cracked a rib. Anyway, I’m going to have
