A Long Pitch Home (25 page)

 Twenty-six

N
o one talks to me as we board the bus for home. Everyone talks
about
me, just not
to
me. Except for Jordan, who doesn't talk to anyone. As usual.

Even the coaches avoid me. The only thing Coach Matt said to me when I walked off that field was, “Why, Bilal?” He didn't even look mad, just hurt and confused.

I slide into a seat at the very back of the bus, hoping no one will sit near me. No one does. Akash comes back anyway, and I make room for him even though I don't feel like talking.

But Akash doesn't sit. He stands in the aisle next to my seat. When he speaks, his voice simmers with anger. “That wild pitch? Into the stands? You did that on purpose.”

There is nothing I can say to that.

“Traitor.” Akash turns and heads to another seat.

The weight of that last word is too heavy. It pushes me down, and I lie with my back on the seat, looking up at the curved metal ceiling of the bus.

Words like
loser
fly past my ears, but words mean something
different to me than they do to my team.
Traitor
is Mudassar's
father, who betrayed his very best friend.
Loser
is me,
but not in the way my teammates think. I lost more than just
a baseball game. I have lost my father.

The bus pulls up to our home field, where our parents wait for us. I stay in my seat until the last player shuffles off the bus.

I look out through the tinted windows as the other families head toward their cars. They're all probably mad at me, too.

When I pass the bus driver, he pats me on the shoulder. “There'll be other games, kid. You guys did your best.” He obviously wasn't at the game.

I can see through the windows that the only family left waiting is mine. I spot Hira holding limp pom-poms at her sides. Humza hugs a huge foam hand that reads We're Number One! that's almost as big as he is.

I clunk down the steps. Ammi steps forward, arms open, and hugs me. I close my eyes to keep my tears in, but a few squeeze out anyway. Hira rushes to join the hug, and so does Humza, who has no idea why we're hugging. Auntie wraps her arms around us, followed by Uncle, and even Jalaal joins in the group hug. We are standing this way when the bus pulls away from the curb and rumbles off down the road.

I have decided to quit baseball. The Cardinals don't need me; they have Jordan. Jalaal does not take this news well.

“You can't quit!” He throws the baseball extra hard, but I catch it in my glove, no problem.

My only answer is to throw a harder ball back.

Jalaal catches it, no problem. “So you wanted to meet Omar Khan. You got distracted.”

I did not tell my family why I threw that crazy ball. I feel stupid for thinking that I could somehow help Baba get here.

“It's not the end of the world.” Jalaal sends the ball back, and my glove stops it in midair.

“No, but it's the end of the Toronto trip.” I think of how badly everyone wanted to go, including the coaches.

But Jalaal is hearing none of it. “You guys'll be here for the state championship game in July instead. And the Loudoun team won't.”

Because they'll be having fun up in Toronto. And even if the Cardinals win the state championship, it won't feel like winning if their biggest competition isn't there.

Jalaal tucks the ball back into my bag. “Just go to today's practice, then see how you feel.” He tosses me the bag. “If you still want to quit after today, then quit.”

I hate the word quit.

But I'm not going to stay on the team if everyone hates me. I know Jalaal will be disappointed. If Baba were here, he'd be more than disappointed; he'd never let me quit in the middle of a season. He'd say I owe it to the team to play to the end.

“Okay. I'll go to practice. But only for today.”

I think I see Jalaal grin as he ducks into the car, but I can't tell for sure. We pull out of the driveway and head down the street. Before we get to the stop sign, Jalaal stops in front of Jordan's house.

“What are you doing?”

Jalaal shrugs. “We're giving Jordan a ride. Coach Matt's heading over from work and doesn't have time to swing home and pick her up.”

I sigh.

Jalaal nods toward the house. “Go up and knock, will you? We're running kinda late.”

I step out of the car and roll my eyes. I should have said I wasn't going to practice at all.

The yellow ribbon on the tree out front is faded and frayed. The pink blossoms fluttering down from the branches only make the ribbon seem more drab.

Before I raise my hand to knock, Jordan yanks the door open. I brace myself for her anger, but she stands there, silent.

So I talk. “I'm sorry about the game.”

She doesn't say anything, so I keep talking. “I'm quitting the team.”

She shakes her head. “Don't. You're too good to quit.”

“But I lost the game.”

She folds her arms. “It wasn't my best game, either.”

In the hours since my epic error, I had forgotten all about the way Jordan played—almost like she'd been in a daze. “Were you sick?” I ask.

She shakes her head, takes a breath, then stops, like she's trying to decide if she should tell me something.

“It's my dad. He got hurt over there. They don't know how bad yet . . .” Her voice trails off, and she looks at her shoes.

I had been prepared for her to hate me because I lost the game. Now I only wish that were the reason she looks so devastated.

I don't know what to say. She doesn't know Baba can't come to America yet—I never told her because we weren't speaking to each other. My shoulders slump. “I'm sorry—” I begin, but she shakes her head hard enough to set her curls bouncing.

“You don't have to be sorry, because he's going to be fine.”

I recognize myself in the set of her jaw. I've become an expert at talking myself into believing Baba will be fine, too. When you are trying to hold yourself together, you don't want to see sympathy on people's faces; you want them to lie and tell you that everything will be okay.

But I'm also sorry about something else.

Jordan grabs her bag and steps out, pulling the door closed behind her. She starts toward the car, but I don't move.

“Wait,” I say.

She turns and looks at me.

“I—I'm sorry. About not always being your friend.”

She looks at me like she's trying to decide if she believes me or not. Maybe she hates me. Finally she nods. “Thanks, Bilal.”

She turns, and I follow her to the car.

We ride to practice in silence. I am lost in a jumble of thoughts—Jordan's father, Baba, me quitting. And not just quitting baseball—quitting hope.

We park just as Akash's van pulls past us. When he gets out, I try to catch his eye, hoping he'll see how sorry I am. But he shakes his head and turns away, heading over to the field where the rest of the team is just hanging out. The coaches stand near the dugout, talking to some men in suits. They're probably all talking about how they hope I don't show up.

When Jordan and I get to the field, everyone's voices fade to whispers and then to silence. Akash turns his back when he sees me, and Henry never even glances in my direction. Jalaal lingers on the edge of the field, watching like he's waiting to see if I'm okay.

Coach Matt strides over. Instead of telling us to start warming up, he jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the dugout behind him and looks straight at me. “There's someone here to see you.”

I turn. My breath catches in my throat.

There, standing in the shadow of the dugout, is Omar Khan.

 Twenty-seven

T
he great Omar Khan strides over, a lopsided grin stretched wide across his face.Two men in suits and sunglasses flank his sides.

He stops in front of me, dust settling on his shiny shoes. I have to lean my head back to look up at him—that's how tall he is. Even though I'm staring right at that famous face, I still can't believe it's him. His face has more lines than I remember, but those eyes are the same ones I have seen in all the television interviews—direct and unwavering, like he can see right through me.

“Bilal?” Omar Khan holds up the ball I threw him yesterday, my Urdu words pinned beneath his thumb. “Is this yours?”

I swallow. “Yes, sir.”

Omar Khan speaks to me in Urdu, so none of the other kids understand him—except for Jalaal.The whole team stands silent around us, like if they listen hard enough, they'll understand what's going on.

Omar Khan looks at the ball and reads my message in Urdu: “I need your help.” Then he turns the ball so my words stare back at me. “Did you write this?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

Coach Pablo claps once. “Okay, folks, time for practice—let's get moving!”

Coach Matt cuts off the groans of protest. “Hustle, people! Time for warm-ups.”

Jordan is the last to leave.

Now it's just me, Jalaal, and Omar Khan. The two guys in suits stand ten feet away.

Omar opens his jacket, resting his hands on his hips. “What kind of help do you need?”

“My father is being kept in Pakistan,” I tell him.

Here is the chance I've been waiting for—to meet Omar Khan and tell him all about Baba so he can—what did Jack say?—pull strings to bring him here. Tears of relief spring to my eyes, but no more words come.

Omar Khan seems to understand. He probably gets this reaction a lot.

“Perhaps you would prefer to sit down?” He points to some benches beyond the field.

“Thank you, sir.”

Omar Khan motions to the men in suits that they don't need to follow us. They do anyway, but keep their distance. Omar Khan and Jalaal make space for me on the bench between them, and I sit.

Omar Khan's dark eyes focus on mine. “Tell me about your father.”

So I do. I tell him everything, from those three days Baba went missing before my last birthday, to when he was supposed to come on the plane but didn't, and how he can't get to America, all because of Mudassar's father.

When I am finished, Omar Khan is quiet at first. Then he says, “Throwing that ball was a brave thing to do. I suppose your teammates are not very happy with you.”

I shake my head. “No, sir, they are not.”

He pulls his phone from his suit pocket, and I imagine him making a phone call that will bring Baba here. Instead he looks at something on the screen, then slides the phone back into his pocket.

“May I speak with your family, Bilal?”

I glance at my cousin.

“You can follow us in your car,” Jalaal says.

I wish Omar Khan would ask me to ride in his fancy car, but he doesn't.

At home, I hop out of the car just as one of the men in sunglasses goes to open Omar Khan's door. But the greatest cricket player on earth opens his own door. He emerges from the car and adjusts his suit jacket.

Uncle pulls up right behind them, and the men in sunglasses hurry toward his car.