Heat by Mike Lupica

From Barnes & Noble

Michael Arroyo's lightning fastball makes him the envy of all his teammates, but this speedy southpaw labors under a secret that allows him no rest. Softspoken 12-year-old Cuban refugee Mike worries that he and his 17-year-old brother, Carlos, stand in danger of being separated, even deported. Mike Lupica's middle school novel touches all the bases: suspense, excitement, convincing characterization.

From the Publisher

Michael Arroyo grows up in the shadows of hallowed Yankee Stadium, a boy forever on the outside looking in. His only chance to see his field of dreams? Pitch his Bronx all-star team to the district finals and a shot at the Little League World Series.
But there is a problem. Michael is good–too good. Rival coaches and players can’t believe a boy could be this good and be only twelve years old. And Michael has no way to prove it–no mother, no father, and a birth certificate that is stuck home in his native Cuba. If the people from social services find out his secret, he will have an even worse problem: being separated from the only family he knows, his older brother Carlos. Baseball can be a game of heroes, of champions who refuse to lose. Or it can be a field of crushed dreams. For one boy, the game is about to turn serious.

Publishers Weekly

As readers go, Andino seems to have it all, as heard in his sharp performance of Lupica's (Traveling Team) latest baseball tale. The story centers on two Cuban brothers living in New York and trying to avoid being sent to foster care, or even back to Cuba, after their father dies. Michael Arroyo is the star of his Bronx Little League team, but he is benched when he is accused of being older than 12. With no father to help and his birth certificate lost in Cuba, Michael is at a loss for what to do. It doesn't help that both boys have inadvertently drawn the attention of the police (Michael for helping apprehend a crook, and his older brother Carlos for working for him). Andino has his work cut out for him: Dominican, Cuban, old, young, male, female he is totally convincing as every character. Particularly fun is the thespian uncle Timo of Michael's friend Manny; the boys talk Timo into playing "Papi" when they are visited by the officials. His transformation from surfer-dude to middle-aged Cuban refugee is as enjoyable as it is impressive. Ages 10-up. (July) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Rollie Welch - VOYA

Lupica's second middle school sports book follows Travel Team (Philomel, 2004/VOYA December 2004) and relates the story of twelve-year-old Michael Arroyo who considers baseball his "best friend," has a terrific once-in-a-generation pitching arm, and misses Papi, his father who is not around. Originally from Cuba and now living in the South Bronx near Yankee Stadium, Michael dominates Little League games with at-home support from his seventeen-year-old brother, Carlos, and on-the-field help from his sidekick and catcher, Manny, a friend who "always has his back." Trouble arises when Michael's overpowering talent embarrasses a spoiled brat opponent, provoking the player's father to question Michael's age and demand to see a birth certificate. Adults cannot acquire the necessary proof from Havana, and Michael is benched. Targeting middle school readers, this sports novel hits the sweet spot during the on-field play, and many diverse secondary characters-Maria Cuellar plays second base-bring life to the action. Although they are necessary to the story, subplots of Carlos scalping Yankee tickets, the plight of Cuban immigrants, and an alluring girl with a powerful throwing arm (and a secret) slightly interrupt the novel's flow. The author's devotion to the New York Yankees and constant name-dropping does not encourage a gray area and will either annoy or be embraced by teens. One viewpoint is that the Yankees, Katie Couric, Oprah, Dan Patrick of ESPN, and the Daily News all mentioned on a single page seems excessive. That complaint aside, this positive portrayal of Hispanic teens competing athletically is recommended for both school and public libraries. VOYA CODES: 3Q 4P M J (Readablewithout serious defects; Broad general YA appeal; Middle School, defined as grades 6 to 8; Junior High, defined as grades 7 to 9). 2006, Philomel, 324p., Ages 11 to 15.

Alan Review

Heat is a well paced, steadily building novel that examines baseball, cultural identity, first love, and adulthood. When their father dies, Michael and his older brother are forced to fend for themselves. But should anyone find out their secret, they will be split up or worse…sent back to Cuba, spoiling Mike's chances of playing in the Little League World Series. This coming of age tale uses the America's past-time as backdrop for exploring multiple adolescent themes. The fairy-tale ending borders on the unbelievable, but overall the work is a terrific read for those looking for a dose of childhood baseball nostalgia.

School Library Journal

Gr 5-8-When Michael Arroyo is on the baseball diamond, everything feels right. He's a terrific pitcher who dreams of leading his South Bronx All-Stars to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, PA. It's a dream he shared with his father, one they brought with them as they fled Cuba and wound up living in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. Michael's ultimate dream is to play in the major leagues like his hero, El Grande, Yankee star and fellow Cuban refugee. Tragically, Papi died of a heart attack a few months back, leaving Michael and his older brother, Carlos, to struggle along on their own. Afraid of being separated, they hide the news of their father's death from everyone but a kindly neighbor, Mrs. Cora, and Michael's best friend, Manny Cabrera. When a bitter rival spreads rumors that Michael is older than he appears, the league demands that he be benched until he can produce a birth certificate. As he did in Travel Team (Philomel, 2004), Lupica crafts an involving, fast-paced novel peopled with strong, well-developed characters. Readers will find themselves rooting for Michael as he struggles with the loss of his father, stumbles into his first boy-girl relationship, and yearns to play baseball. The sports scenes are especially well written; fittingly, the euphoric finale takes place at Yankee Stadium. At times, the author veers toward melodrama but he keeps his lively plot on course with humor, crisp dialogue, and true-to-life characters. Lupica scores another hit with this warmhearted novel.-Marilyn Taniguchi, Beverly Hills Public Library, CA Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Michael Arroyo's left arm is "a gift from the gods." His Papi would say, "Someday, you will make it to the World Series." Michael has grown up the object of his father's dreams, but what he loved most was just playing catch with his father in Cuba and, now, playing pickup games with his friends in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. Lurking behind the scenes is the issue of Michael's real age and whether he's really eligible to play in the Little League World Series, if his team makes it that far. Lupica follows his bestselling Travel Team (2004) with another winner. He has the veteran sportswriter's gift of dialogue and muscular prose, employed well in creating believable characters and well-developed action scenes. The story culminates in a tear-jerking scene with Michael on the mound in Yankee Stadium, making this work an irresistible treat for sports fans. (Fiction. 10+)

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Mrs. Cora walked slowly up River Avenue in the summer heat, secure within the boundaries of her world. The great ballpark, Yankee Stadium, was on her right. The blue subway tracks were above her, the tracks colliding up there with the roar of the train as it pulled into the station across the street from the Stadium, at 161st Street and River. The two constants in my life, Mrs. Cora thought: baseball and the thump thump thump of another train, like my own personal rap music.

She had her green purse over her arm, the one that was supposed to look more expensive than it really was, the one the boys upstairs had bought for her birthday. Inside the purse, in the bank envelope, was the one hundred dollars-Quik Cash they called it-she had just gotten from Bank of New York ATM machine. Her food money. But she was suddenly too tired to go back to the Imperial Market. Mrs. C, as the kids in her building called her, was preparing for what could feel like the toughest part of her whole day, the walk back up the hill to 825 Gerard from the Stadium.

Now she moved past all the stores selling Yankee merchandise-Stan's Sports World, Stan the Man's Kids and Ladies, Stan the Man's Baseball World-wondering as she did sometimes if there was some famous Yankee who had been named Stan.

He hit her from behind.

She was in front of Stan's Bar and Restaurant, suddenly falling to her right, onto the sidewalk in front of the window as she felt the green purse being pulled from her arm, as if whoever it was didn't care if he took Mrs. Cora's arm with it.

Mrs. Cora hit the ground hard, rolled on her side, feeling dizzy, but turning herself to watch this . . . what? This boy not much bigger than some of the boys at 825 Gerard? Watched him sprint down River Avenue as if faster than the train that was right over her head this very minute, pulling into the elevated Yankee Stadium stop.

Mrs. Cora tried to make herself heard over the roar of the 4 train.

"Stop," Mrs. Cora said.

Then, as loud as she could manage: "Stop thief!"

There were people reaching down to help her now, neighborhood people she was sure, voices asking if she was all right, if anything was broken.

All Mrs. Cora could do was point toward 161st Street.

"My food money," she said, her voice cracking.

Then a man's voice above her was yelling, "Police!"

Mrs. Cora looked past the crowd starting to form around her, saw a policeman come down the steps from the subway platform, saw him look right at her, and then the flash of the boy making a left around what she knew was the far outfield part of the Stadium.

The policeman started running, too.

The thief's name was Ramon.

He was not the smartest sixteen-year-old in the South Bronx. Not even close to being the smartest, mostly because he had always treated school like some sort of hobby. He was not the laziest, either, this he knew, because there were boys his age who spent much more time on the streetcorner and sitting on the stoop than he did. But he was lazy enough, and hated the idea of work even more than he hated the idea of school, which is why he preferred to occasionally get his spending money stealing purses and handbags like the Hulk-green one he had in his hand right now.

As far as Ramon could tell at this point in his life, the only real job skill he had was this: He was fast.

He had been a young soccer star of the neighborhood in his early teens, just across the way on the fields of Joseph Yancy park, those fields a blur to him right now as he ran on the sidewalk at the back end of Yankee Stadium, on his way to the cobblestones of Ruppert Place, which ran down toward home plate.

"Stop! Police!" Ramon heard from behind him.

He looked around, saw the fat cop starting to chase him, wobbling like a car with a flat tire.

Fat chance, Ramon thought.

Ramon's plan was simple: He would cut across Ruppert Place and run down the hill to Macombs Dam Park, across the basketball courts there, then across the green expanse of outfield that the two ballfields shared there. Then he would hop the fence at the far end of Macombs Dam Park and run underneath the overpass for the exit from the Deegan Expressway, one of the Stadium exits.

And then Ramon would be gone, working his way back toward the neighborhoods to the north, with all their signs pointing toward the George Washington Bridge, finding a quiet place to count his profits and decide which girl he would spend them on tonight. "Stop . . . I mean it!" the fat cop yelled.

Ramon looked over his shoulder, saw that the cop was already falling behind, trying to chase and yell and speak into the walkie-talkie he had in his right hand all at once. It made Ramon want to laugh his head off, even as he ran. No cop had ever caught him and no cop ever would, unless they had begun recruiting Olympic sprinters for the New York Police Department. He imagined himself as a sprinter now, felt his arms and legs pumping, thought of the old Cuban sprinter his father used to tell him about. Juan something?

No, no.

Juantarena.

Alberto Juantarena.

His father said it was like watching a god run. And his father, the old fool, wasn't even Cuban, he was Dominican. The only Dominican who wanted to talk about track stars instead of baseball.

Whatever.

Ramon ran now, across the green grass of Macombs Dam Park, where boys played catch in the July morning, ran toward the fence underneath the overpass.

It wasn't even noon yet, Ramon thought, and I've already earned a whole day's pay. He felt the sharp pain in the back of his head in that moment, like a rock hitting him back there.

Then Ramon went down like somebody had tackled him from behind.

What the . . . ?

Ramon, who wasn't much of a thinker, tried to think what had just happened to him, but his head hurt too much.

Then he went out.

When the thief opened his eyes, his hands were already cuffed in front of him. The fat policeman stood with a skinny boy, a tall, skinny boy with long arms and long fingers attached to them, wearing a Yankee T-shirt, a baseball glove under his arm.

"What's your name, kid?"

The one on the ground said, "Ramon," thinking the policeman was talking to him.

The cop looked down, as if he'd forgotten Ramon was there. "Wasn't talking to you."

"Michael," the skinny boy said. "Michael Arroyo."

"And you're telling me you got him with this from home plate?"

The cop held up a baseball that looked older than the old Stadium that rose behind them to the sky.

"Got lucky, I guess," Michael said.

The cop smiled, rolling the ball around in his hand.

"You lefty or righty?"

Now Michael smiled and held up his left hand, like he was a boy with the right answer in class.

"Home plate to dead center?" the cop said.

Michael nodded, like now the cop had come up with the right answer.

"You got some arm, kid," the cop said.

"That's what they tell me," Michael said.