“Because he came here the most times,”the old man said.“If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager.”
“Tell me about the baseball,”The boy asked him.
The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and walked in quietly with his bare feet.The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon.He took hold of one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him.The old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and, sitting on the bed,pulled them on.
“There was nothing ever like them.He hits the longest ball I have ever seen.”
“Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?”
“I don't know,”the boy said.“All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard.”
“I must thank him.”
They had coffee from condensed milk cans at an early morning place that served fishermen.
They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road,in the dark,barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.
Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake the boy.But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbors and roadsteads of the Canary Islands.