A Long Pitch Home (10 page)

“
S
o here's the thing,” Akash says as we walk out to the field the next morning. “You're one of the fastest throwers out there, Bilal. When you're up at bat, just keep your eye on the ball. You'll be fine.”

I definitely don't feel fine. There must be at least forty kids sitting out there on the bleachers.

When we reach the group, Akash drops his bag at his feet. “What is
she
doing here?”

I know who he's talking about even before I spot Jordan's curly ponytail sticking out of her baseball cap.

Akash lets out a long breath. “Girls don't try out for boys' travel baseball teams.”

Apparently they do. I do not say this to Akash.

“Okay, folks!” Coach Matt claps his hand on the shoulder of a man who can't be much taller than I am. “Some of you worked with Coach Pablo last year on the travel team.” A few kids murmur and nod.

Coach Pablo's dark blue shorts and white camp T-shirt look like the clean, crisp “after” from a laundry soap commercial, with Coach Matt's rumpled clothes as the “before.” Coach Pablo raises his cap. “Gentlemen.”

Jordan crosses her arms. Coach Pablo must notice, because he clears his throat and tries again. “Er, ladies and gentlemen.”

Coach Matt continues: “Our high school helpers, Kyle and Jalaal, will distribute your pinnies. Reds and greens, you'll be with Jalaal and me on the lower field. Yellows and blues go with Coach Pablo and Kyle on the upper diamond.”

In a flurry of arms and colorful mesh, everyone slips on their pinnies and moves into groups. I poke my head through a yellow pinnie, but no one I know is wearing yellow. At least Akash and Jordan have blue pinnies, so they'll be in Coach Pablo's group with me.

When we get to the dugout, Coach Pablo squints at us from underneath the shade of his cap, like he is sizing us up. I swallow.

“Okay, players. Here is how it is going to work.”

His English is a little different from the way Coach Matt talks; slower and easier to understand.

“This morning everyone will have several chances up at bat. Kyle will play catcher, and I will pitch through the first cycle until everyone has batted.”

Cycle?

“Then we take a water break, and I will rotate some of you in as pitchers.”

Rotate?

“Once everyone has batted a second time, we will let you know who makes the cut.”

We have to cut something?

Coach Pablo is not so easy to understand after all. “Yellow team, you're up at bat.” Coach Pablo checks something off on his clipboard, and my heart sinks to my ankles. We're batting first? Why couldn't we start out on the field? I go to the very end of the line, behind a boy with the number ten on the back of his T-shirt. I recognize his face from camp, but I don't remember his name. Number Ten turns and says, “Wait 'til you see this guy swing.”

A tall boy strides over to home plate like he can't wait to get started. He grips the bat with one hand, flexes his fingers on the other, then switches hands and repeats. He taps home plate with the toe of each cleat, then plants his feet in the dirt. After taking a few practice swings, he thumps home base with his bat three times, releasing a cloud of red dust. Pulling the bat over his shoulder, he nods at Coach Pablo.

Number Ten whispers, “Nate's good-luck ritual works every time. Watch this.”

Coach Pablo lets the ball fly, and sure enough, Nate sends it back, clear over second base. The players in the outfield scramble for the ball while Nate sails around one base after the other until he rounds third on his way back home.

Kyle springs up from his catcher position, lifts his face mask, and whistles. “That kid sure can run.”

Nate performs a spectacular slide into home plate even though the ball isn't anywhere near him.

Kyle pats him on the shoulder. “That was epic, Nate.”

“Thanks, man.” Nate grins at Kyle, then shrugs like making a home run is no big deal. Nate reminds me of myself during cricket tryouts—confident I would make the top team. Nate brushes past the next kid, Aiden, who mutters to himself and takes so many deep breaths that I start to worry he'll pass out. There were kids like Aiden on my cricket team, but I never thought to encourage them during tryouts. Now I wish I had.

“You got this, Aiden,” Kyle says before squatting into catcher position.

Aiden takes his helmet off, turns it over in his hands, puts it on, takes it off, and puts it on again. He tosses his bat from one hand to the other three times, draws a line in the dirt with his toe, then grips the bat.

Number Ten whispers, “Aiden's ritual never works.”

Coach Pablo pitches. Aiden swings—and misses.

“Strike one!” Kyle calls, but he sounds sorry about it. Aiden cringes.

Number Ten keeps his voice low. “He tries all these new lucky moves, but it doesn't work that way.” He shakes his head.

“What is the good way?” I ask.

Number Ten sighs. “You can't just make up any old goodluck ritual, you know?”

I don't know, but I nod anyway.

“I mean, do you think Joe DiMaggio randomly invented his good-luck routines?” Number Ten shakes his head. “Man, they were inspired.”

I shake my head, too, but I have no idea who Joe Di . . . whatever-his-name-is is. Did Omar Khan ever have a lucky ritual before cricket matches? Maybe Baba will remember from his cricket-playing days with Omar Khan.

“Strike two!” Kyle calls.

I wince—partly for Aiden and partly for myself, because I know I won't do any better. This time Aiden doesn't do any of his lucky movements. He just stands there, bat over his shoulder. He might even be praying, judging by the way his lips are moving.

Coach Pablo tosses the ball underhand this time. It traces a lazy upward arc, falling right where Aiden can't miss it. Ball and bat connect with a hollow thunk. Aiden drops the bat and takes off toward first base like he is being chased by a mad rhinoceros. The ball rolls a slow path toward Coach Pablo. He scoops it up, waits a few seconds for Aiden to reach Jordan at first base, and then signals to Number Ten.

Kyle nods. “You got this, Jack.”

Jack—now I remember Number Ten's name. From all Jack's talk about good-luck rituals, I should have known he'd have one of his own. He jogs clockwise around home plate, reverses direction and jogs around once more. He spins his bat like a baton, passing it from one hand to the other. It seems like he won't ever stop until Coach Pablo yells, “Jack! You are batting today, yes?”

Could Jack choose to bat tomorrow, instead? Could I?

But Jack doesn't choose tomorrow; he chooses today. He barely catches his spinning bat, almost dropping it before holding it high over his shoulder. He nods.

Jack hits the pitch on his first swing. Flinging his bat aside, he sprints toward first base while the ball rolls straight to third. Jack is already past first and heading for second when the kid on third throws the ball like a bullet to second.The kid on second catches it right before Jack slides into him.

“Out!”

Jack picks himself up and brushes off the seat of his pants, shaking his head.

Kyle calls, “Nice, Jack!” He adjusts his face mask as he squats down for the next pitch. Kyle shakes his head. “Risky, though,” he says, keeping his voice low. “He should have stayed on first.”

I wouldn't know, because I have never been on first. Or second. Or third. And I'm only ever on the home base when I'm batting.

“You're up, Bilal,” Coach Pablo calls. I silently command my stomach to stop flip-flopping as I hurry over and grab a bat. When I walk around to the lefty side of home base, Coach Pablo shifts back a step. I position my feet and raise my bat, hoping no one notices that it's trembling. Before I steady myself, Coach Pablo pitches the ball. I am not ready, but I swing anyway.

Too soon. My bat whooshes into nothing a half second before the ball speeds past my nose and thwacks into Kyle's glove.

I swallow, and reposition my feet.

Kyle's voice comes from behind me. “That was just a warmup. You got this, Bilal.”

I take a shaky breath. I didn't have a lucky ritual in cricket. But when Baba was in the stands, he would catch my eye and pat his heart twice. I would pat my heart, too. It wasn't for luck, really—it was his way of saying, “I love watching you play cricket,” and it was my way of saying back, “Thank you for being here.”

I adjust my wobbly helmet. Maybe patting my heart twice will bring me luck. So I do it—two quick pats so no one will notice—then I lift my bat high. I am ready.

When the ball leaves Coach Pablo's hand this time, I don't take my eyes off it for even half a second. I remember what Jalaal told me about waiting until the ball is in my hitting zone, so I wait . . . wait . . . swing! I feel the crack of the bat vibrate from my fingers clear up to my elbows. I don't stop to see where the ball goes; I just run. I'm halfway to first base when I remember I'm still clutching the bat. I toss it aside and hear it clatter to the ground. Legs pumping, arms swinging, I don't see Jordan waving me back until I'm almost to first.

“Bilal!” Coach Pablo calls. I skid to a stop in a cloud of dirt and turn to see Kyle waving both arms. “Foul ball!”

No one laughs, but the players on the field suddenly find something very interesting on the ground right behind them.

I trudge back toward home base, swiping my bat off the ground along the way.

“Don't sweat it, Bilal. Wait a half second longer to swing.” Kyle punches his glove. “This one's yours, buddy.”

“
Inshallah
,” I say automatically, forgetting Kyle doesn't know what this means.
If Allah wills it
.

Judging from the last six weeks of camp, I don't think me playing baseball is Allah's will. But it
is
Baba's will. If baseball can get Baba here sooner, then I have to make the Cardinals.

I decide to try the double pat again, but this time I don't hide it. I pat my heart twice, the way I would if Baba were in the stands.

I get into position and nod at Coach Pablo. He pulls his elbow back, knee raised, then launches the ball.

I force myself to wait—not yet . . . not yet—now! My shoulders swivel, my body twists, and
crack!
I drop my bat and run. I can almost see Daddo in the stands, tiny next to my towering Baba, cheering louder than even the men. Jordan shouts something from first base, her glove high, face tipped toward the sun. I speed toward her—five meters, four, three, two—she leaps, arm stretched to the sky.The ball whacks into the pocket of her glove before her heel lands back on base half a second before my foot slams into first in a cloud of red dust.

“Out!” Coach Pablo calls.

Jordan offers a hand to help me up. The guys all stare.

I turn, pretending not to see her hand as I stand and brush the dirt from my knees.

“Nice hit, Bilal,” she says, tossing the ball back to Coach.

I nod my thanks, but my heart is not thankful. I couldn't even get to first base. I think the double-heart pat is only lucky when there are two hearts and two hands and Baba is there in the stands.

Finally Allah must hear my baseball prayers: not one ball flies my way the whole time I am stuck in the outfield.

Jordan hits a double and a home run. The boys from camp say she bats like a girl. But if batting like a girl means getting bases, I wouldn't mind batting like a girl. I try to imagine how I would feel if a girl joined my cricket team back home. Then I imagine what it would be like to play cricket with a girl who is better than me. And that is how I start to understand how the other boys feel.

After everyone has batted and we take a water break, Coach Pablo tosses me the ball. “Coach Matt tells me you're a southpaw pitcher.”

I do not know what a southpaw is, so I just say, “I like to pitch.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Let's see what you've got.”

Before I can tell him that I haven't got anything, Coach Pablo waves Jordan over.

“Your uncle said I should see you pitch.”

Jordan looks down, like she's trying to hide the proud smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I'm giving each of you a chance on the bump.” He nods and strides toward the dugout.

“The bump?”

I don't realize I've said this out loud until Jordan answers me, nodding toward the pitching mound. “He's letting us both pitch.” She says it like this is a common question instead of a stupid one, and for that I am grateful.

The rest of the morning flies by, but that's because there isn't as much running this time around—Jordan strikes out three kids (including me, of course), and I strike out two (not including Jordan, of course).

And then it's time to find out who is a Cardinal and who is not.

A honking sound comes from the sky as a flock of fat, brown geese fly in a V over our heads. Jalaal says they are called
Canada geese
, so I wonder what they are doing here in America. As the geese fly past, Coach Matt roars with laughter and points to Coach Pablo's dark blue cap, where a greenish-white stain runs across the white
NY
on the front. Coach Pablo takes off his cap and shakes his fist at the geese, yelling a word I have never heard followed by “Red Sox fans!” I don't understand this, but everyone laughs, so I laugh, too. It must have something to do with the pair of red socks on the front of Coach Matt's blue cap.