as a child, and when you're fluent in multiple languages early enough, you can nail pronunciation in any tongue. He nodded knowingly.

After several rounds, Cabrera extends his weapon to me. Then he hides beside a bench in the back. "He gonna kill us," he warns.

And he may be right. I lift the heavy bow and let loose on a wolf.

Thud.

"Where did it go?" a clerk shouts. I have no clue where it went. Nobody does. "They can't find your arrow!" Cabrera howls. It'll be several minutes before the range's four-man crew locates the thing, high up the back wall. "Get the ladder!" This is embarrassing. "Good job," Cabrera says, once he stops cackling.

LIKE THE ARCHERY range, Islamorada Fish Company is a comfortable spot for Cabrera. The staff knowsdo something bad." Cabrera isn't agitated when he says this and, in the moment, seems to be speaking to a litany of betrayals, the kind that come when you're young, famous and wary. Trust is a topic Cabrera returns to often. Trust, he will insist, is why his inner circle is limited to long-timers from Maracay. And trust, or rather the lack thereof, is why when Cabrera swings his last bat for money, he will move back there.

Jose Miguel Cabrera was raised in a small home with one bathroom, a kitchen and two rooms in a community of five homes where extended family lived. Cabrera bunked with his younger sister, Ruth, but preferred to spend most of his time with a rowdy brood of friends who threw punches