Today, construction noises reverberate through the stadium, part of a $1.5 million renovation. There’s a new roof and a new press box on the way, but Jonathan has an old feeling: He is D.J. again and Aaron has just scored. Along the sideline, where you see rows of empty bleachers, he sees something else. “They’d [hold up] signs there that said HERNANDEZ,” he says. “Our whole family would sit up there.”
He exhales. His voice starts to crack.
He makes a sound with his tongue, click-click-click, like the rewinding of an old film projector.
He exhales again. “They’d fill up the whole bleacher, that whole side.”
Machines keep hammering away. Tears form. That sound from his mouth again, click-click-click. . . .
“We met up there. I've never run so fast—”
His voice stops. His chin quivers.
“We hugged. We ran back [to the sideline] together. My dad was standing there, crying.”
Jonathan would go on to win Gatorade Player of the Year in Connecticut. Aaron would go on to so much more—then so much less. Jonathan takes a breath, composes himself and says, “That was a good day.”
