Mr. Ramirez’s wheelchair was positioned in front of a framed picture of a baseball player hung beside the mirror. In the picture, the man was bent on one knee, a bat propped on his shoulder. She stared at the player’s face.
“It is his week. I remember him every day, but this is his special week.” Mr. Ramirez’ words were full of reverence. Lupe had no idea who this old player was. It wasn’t a West Coast team uniform; she recognized all of those colors and emblems.
“Who is it?” Lupe asked. Mr. Ramirez stared at her and shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“Ay, chica. You tell me you love softball, and yet, you don’t know who this is?”
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