Amezaga laughs. "He's only five!"
Guerrero smiles but doesn't let up, and the child doesn't seem to mind. He chases the ball, jumps, lunges, tries his best not to let it get past him. When Guerrero has to leave to take batting practice, the boy hugs him tightly around the thighs, and Guerrero bends down, strokes the top of his head.
"Good job," he says, and the boy saunters away grinning as if he's just received the biggest gift of his life. Guerrero, too, grins as he jogs toward the batting cage, a long way from the fields of his boyhood and his grandmother's prediction. Somewhere in the Dominican Republic, the ants are talking about him.