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"Castro hits it way into left field!"
La pega a la izquierda!
Fidel isn't known as Fidel here. Fidel is known as CASTRO, number 16, who is getting slower at running the bases but can still hit a pretty good one.
He hasn't been to Cuba in years; it's still tearing itself apart, the cities are the worst but the Sierra fighting will last forever. By now the US won't let him go back, it's too late. He stayed for his wife and children, he's got everything he ever wanted, except Cuba.
It was years ago that he read in a newspaper that his brother Raul was dead in the Sierra Madre. That was the first he'd heard of it. Too small of a force, too disorganized, too few against Batista's men and the US weapons. He should've been there, he swore in Spanish to his wife, who held him, understanding. Or Raul should've been here, and none of this would've happened.
There are a lot of chances in life that he's missed but he didn't miss this one. That's what he has to tell himself some nights.
He hates English, honestly. He misses being just another brown man among many other brown men, rather than this one brown man everyone sees but no one knows.
Sometimes he hears his name, Fidel, Fidel like chanting, but it's only dogs or the wind or his wife calling him in for supper.
He didn't miss this chance.