A Long Pitch Home (24 page)

Jack can't stop talking about the game. “My dad works on the Hill, so he's got special tickets for the game, right up front with the VIPs.” Jack nods like he's the one who went out and got the special tickets. “It's all about who you know.”

I don't know what hill he's talking about until Akash whispers, “Jack's always going on about his dad and Capitol Hill and how important he is in the government, blah, blah, blah.” Akash rolls his eyes. “That's how it is with politicians—they're always doing favors for each other, pulling strings.”

I still can't think of Omar Khan as a politician. To me, he's still the world's best cricket player. I would give anything to meet him. Maybe I should care if our team wins, because if we do, then we get to shake hands with the VIPs. I'll bring a Sharpie pen and ask Omar Khan to autograph my arm and then never wash it again.

The Cardinals make it to the semi-final game, and Coach Pablo says we haven't had a season like this ever. My teammates whoop and clap as we board the bus for Nats Park.

“All right, folks,” Coach Matt says after we've taken our seats. “Let's bring the volume down a notch and focus on the game ahead. Remember, the outcome doesn't matter—as long as you try your best.”

Which we all know is a lie. Winning does matter. To the Cardinals, and now to me if it means I'll get to meet Omar Khan. Jordan sits three seats in front of me—alone, of course. I wonder if she's nervous. Probably not.

Our bus drives past the main entrance to the park, where people stream into the gate under a red sign that reads Nationals Park Center Field Gate. Shiny, silver baseballs as big as me line the top of the wall along the street. I see a distorted reflection of our bus in the underside of each giant silver baseball as we move through traffic and turn a corner. This side of the stadium isn't fancy like the front—it looks more like an office building or apartments. We get off the bus and walk through a black gate, the one Akash says the players use. I wonder if this is the gate that Omar Khan will walk through.

I only catch a glimpse of the bright green grass of the field before we turn right through a door leading into the belly of the stadium. Pipes hang far above us, and our cleats echo as we walk past the guest team's locker room.Then we take a left and head up a ramp and out into the sun and the noise of the crowd.

The biggest TV screen I have ever seen rises above the far end of the field. The grass has a checkerboard pattern running through it, and home plate is surrounded by a perfect circle of white sand with that big, loopy
W
right behind it. The coaches lead us down the steps to our dugout, where we sit on a long, wooden bench. It feels kind of like being in a fort, hidden halfway underground with the crowd behind us and the field in front, right at eye level.

The Loudoun team emerges from the other dugout and starts warming up, so Coach Matt calls the Cardinals out to the field, too. I probably don't even need to warm up, since Jordan will be pitching the whole game anyway.

It only takes me a few seconds before I notice the kid on the Loudoun team—a lefty, throwing the ball back and forth with his teammate. I peer through the green fence between the dugout and the field. Coach Matt said Loudoun didn't have any southpaws. I wonder if Jordan has noticed him yet. When Sebastian didn't end up joining the Cardinals, that left only one lefty—me. And Jordan never has trouble striking me out. But a lefty who can swing? I wonder if she's worried.

As I scan the crowd for my family, the announcer's voice booms over the loudspeaker: “Helloooo, baseball fans!”

The crowd cheers and waves in the direction of a gigantic TV screen, while a camera somewhere sweeps across the crowd. The announcer welcomes the VIPs as the camera zooms in on their faces.

I spot him right away—Omar Khan! I can't believe Baba is missing this. The camera pans some more, and there's Jack's dad. He's talking to some of the VIPs, smiling and shaking hands. Jack must be right: it's all about who you know.

That's when the idea hits me like a baseball out of left field.

Omar Khan. He must know people who can get Baba to America.

But how will I get a chance to talk to him? Guys in suits with dark sunglasses surround the VIP section right behind home plate. Would they let a kid in?

Jack can get me in. His dad is practically sitting right behind Omar Khan.

When we finish warming up I ask if Jack can help me. He shakes his head. “I don't have my phone.”

There is a phone in the dugout, an old-fashioned one with no numbers on it, so no way to dial. Jack seems to read my mind. “That's a direct line to the press box.” He nods at a row of glass windows high above the VIPs' seats. I have to think of another way. Looking around at the security guards, I realize there is only one way to meet Omar Khan: the Cardinals have to win.

A group of men step out onto the field with microphones. They say something about how baseball should still be in the Olympics, but my brain is thinking too hard to listen. Finally they get out of the way so the game can start. According to Coach Pablo, there will be five innings instead of six, since this is an exhibition game and the VIPs are very busy people.

A group of kids in jeans and matching T-shirts comes out and sings the national anthem. I put my hand over my heart like everyone else, which reminds me of Baba's and my secret sign to each other—two pats over the heart.

Once the announcer yells, “Plllllllllaaaay ball!” everyone stands and shouts and stomps their feet. Our team bats first, and Carlos gets to second base on his first hit. When Akash gets a single, though, Carlos is out at third. It goes on like this—one hit, one out, back and forth, with no one crossing home plate. Three outs and now Loudoun is up at bat.

Loudoun cannot win this game. It has to be us.

Everyone scrambles to take their field positions. I'm left in the dugout with the coaches, who haven't taken their eyes off the field.

Jordan's first pitch is so fast, I don't even think the batter knew she'd sent it until it was in Akash's glove. The Loudoun batter hits a foul ball and then a lucky single. The next batter looks fidgety. He should be.

But when Jordan winds up to pitch, she doesn't throw the ball; instead she drops her arm and leans over, hands on her knees. I hope she doesn't throw up.

But no, she stands and pitches. The batter hits it over second and makes it to third before Nate can send it back infield to Jack on third. Safe.

The next batter strikes out, but the kid after him makes it to second, and the kid from third makes it home.Two runs for Loudoun, zero for the Cardinals.

The next kid up is the lefty I saw earlier. I know Jordan hates this, but she can do it.

Or so I thought.

Home run. Two more runs.

Zero to four.

Coach Pablo chews his gum so fast it looks like his jaw will pop any second.

The next inning isn't much better. I spot another lefty on the Loudoun team—that makes two. We finally score a run, but so does Loudoun.

One to five.

We are going to lose the game, but I can't lose my only chance to meet Omar Khan. Once the game ends and everyone is leaving the stands, I'll run over and try to get past the security guards to the VIP section.

We almost catch up in the next inning, but we're still behind by one run at the top of the fourth.

Four to Five.

And at the bottom of the fourth, we're still behind by one. Something is wrong with Jordan. She's taking longer and longer to throw her pitches, and she's off whenever the lefties are up at bat. She's going to cost the Cardinals the game.

Coach Matt waves me over. I stand by his side, but he turns to Coach Pablo instead. “I think it's time.”

It takes Coach Pablo a second to look at me, like it pains him to take his eyes off the field.

Coach Pablo shakes his head. “Jordan's doing fine.”

He winces when a Loudoun lefty hits a double.

Coach Pablo looks sideways at me now, his jaw working his piece of gum slower and slower until it stops altogether.

Coach Matt nods. “I say put him on the mound.” He pulls his gaze from the field and looks at me, searching my face for a confidence I don't feel.

He meets Jordan as she comes down into the dugout, while I stay on the opposite end. I slump onto the bench, my stomach in my throat.

I thought Jordan would look mad, but she just looks empty. Something is definitely wrong, but I don't have time to figure that out now.

Top of the fifth, and we're up at bat. We're still down by one by the time my turn comes up.

Let's just say my turn at bat is over pretty quickly.

Two more outs, one more run, and now we're tied. No one talks as we head onto the field, but we can't help smiling. If this ends in a tie, they have to go to extra innings; only one team gets to go to Toronto. And only one team gets to meet the VIPs. All I need is a few minutes with Omar Khan—enough time to ask for his help to bring Baba home.

Time for the bottom of the fifth; the last half of the last inning.

I take the mound, willing my breakfast to stay in my stomach. But I forget about my stomach when I spot Omar Khan through the safety net behind home plate. I am close enough to see the white crescent moon and star on his green tie—like the flag of Pakistan. He's on his phone, shaking his head. Frowning, he tucks his phone back into his pocket.

I force my gaze back to the batter. He finishes up his goodluck routine with three taps of the bat on home plate, and he's ready to go. So am I.

I let the ball fly.

It's a hit, but he only gets to first.

Next batter.

Strike one.

Again—strike two. But this time the kid on first races to second, catching our shortstop totally by surprise. Safe! This kid really wants to go to Toronto.

Well, so do the Cardinals. I take in a deep breath.

With my third pitch, the crack of wood on the ball sends the batter sprinting toward first. But it's a foul ball—up and behind home plate, and Akash never lets it hit the ground.

Out!

I look over at Omar Khan to see if he is paying attention. He's back on his phone again, looking more unhappy than before.

And speaking of unhappy, Jordan looks miserable, slumped in the dugout with her arms folded and eyes on the ground.

I take a breath. Focus.

The next batter looks as nervous as I feel, and he's out without ever touching bat to ball.

Now all I need to do is strike out one more batter, and we'll go into extra innings. But the next batter gets a single, and the base stealer is now on third. Next to bat is a lefty.

It's up to me. I shake out my pitching arm, then look up into the stands where Omar Khan is shaking hands with the other VIPs as he makes his way down the row. Maybe he's only stretching his legs. A man wearing sunglasses helps him into his jacket.

Omar Khan is leaving.

My heart drops to my feet. I race back to the dugout where my teammates stand frozen, staring at me like I'm crazy.

“Bilal!” Coach Pablo rips off his cap. “What are you doing?”

“Get back out there!” Coach Matt sounds like he's about to pitch me back to the mound himself.

I don't have time to answer. I pull the Sharpie from my bag, scribble on the ball, and then throw the marker down before racing back out to the field.

The words I wrote on the ball seem to pulse against my palm as I take the mound. I study the lefty as he studies me, a smug grin on his face.

I have to strike this kid out to win. I have to get Omar Khan to stay.The crowd whistles and claps, ready for my pitch.

I watch as Omar Khan shakes the hand of the last VIP in his row before jogging down to the men who talked into the microphone before the game started. Flanked by his bodyguards, he shakes their hands and then lifts his own in a final wave.

I glance at the batter, his elbows high, bat at the ready. The crowd is in a frenzy, stomping and waving, their shouts filling my ears. Omar Khan moves out from behind the safety net to shake one more hand.

It's now or never.

I let the ball fly, and it goes right where I want it to—straight into the stands, toward Omar Khan. I can almost see my Urdu words scrawled on the ball as they spin around and around, the ball spiraling, falling, falling.

One of the bodyguards shouts and points, whipping off his sunglasses. Omar Khan turns as if in slow motion, reaches up, and snatches my ball from the air, his fingers closing around my message.

He waves at me and smiles, then tosses the ball to one of his bodyguards as he turns and walks back underneath the Presidents Club sign and into the building.

The great Omar Khan does not look back, and he never looked at the ball.

I stand there on the mound, shoulders slumped, as the Loudoun team goes crazy.

Who knew that pitching the ball into the stands means the other team gets to advance one base?

Which means Loudoun wins. We lose. And I have lost my chance to get Baba to America.