"There's errors and there's errors" whispers Coach Paulino from the therapy table, raising a dark eyebrow as I knead and stretch his tight calf muscles.
"Hey P, I'm throwing on opening day" growls lanky Eddie Cicotte with his left arm hanging down into the ice tub. "There'd better be no errors out there."
"The old man's got the bucks and is paying us peanuts" grumbles Paulino. "We might as well plant a few of our own."
"Oh, you mean..." gasps Cicotte, both eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "No way I'm throwing that."
"Sinclair's so hyped about the new field he's probably putting half of that fracking fortune into a win" explains the coach and catcher, rolling over so I can stretch his hamstrings. "At twenty five to one we can ante up a thousand each and double our salaries."
Sinclair. I know I know that name from somewhere but where?
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"Any of you boys know the way to the big tree?" shouted a mustached man, halting our first afternoon soccer match after a landfill siesta.
He was in a dark blue Petrobras uniform and behind him was a group of foreigners in white polos and khakis. I imagined a traveling baseball team and my hand shot up before any of the others.
"You there, lead these American Rotarians to the Imbuia" commanded the state oil company guy handing me a machete.
We marched along the canal path for a kilometer and then turned single file onto a narrow trail into the Pantanal swamp. Soon the air stilled into stifling humidity as I put the machete to work on fronds that had filled the slender sliver of light above the old trail. Glancing back, I saw the panicked eyes of five sweaty guys swatting away at mosquitoes and vines.
"Dez minutinhos" I called, hoping one of them understood a little Portuguese.
"We'll be there ten minutes" translated the smallest guy from the rear of the line, wiping his glasses on a now untucked shirt.
After another half hour of chopping and swatting in the dense green jungle a little breeze cooled our faces as the path opened onto the floodplain of the Parana River. And there she was.
"Amazing" exclaimed the little guy reaching around the massive trunk.
"My God, how much timber in this beauty?" asked a bearded guy joining in trying to stretch around the tree.
"I don't need to clearcut to drill" answered their apparent leader.
Soon all five were standing fingertip to fingertip and they still couldn't encircle the ancient pine.
"Venha aqui por favor" called the smart one waving me over to join the chain.
"Milagrosa!" he proclaimed as we completed the loop around the trunk with six sets of arms, and the massive density and soaring branches of the old imbuia tree really was a miracle.
"Você quer ir comigo ao Nova Jersey?" he asked. "A smart boy like you would do well in an American foster family."
"Sinclair, let's get the fuck out of this hellhole before we get eaten" grumbled the bearded one waving at mosquitoes and stomping away.
"What do you say we get this show on the road" conceded the leader following him back up the trail.
The others followed and I took up the rear on the march out of the Pantanal.
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"I don't know P" replies Cicotte yanking his arm out of the ice. "This could get us banned for life."
"Come on Fast Eddie, we're already minor league lifers" continues Paulino. "Why not earn that nickname and share in the pot?"
"So how would we do it?"
"A passed ball here, a wild pitch there, a missed backup" the catcher concludes rolling up from the table and slipping on his flip-flops. "They'll never know that this battery has a short circuit."
"I'll let it ride overnight" concedes the pitcher grabbing a towel and heading for the shower.
Next installment..... bug? or no?
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