A Long Pitch Home (14 page)

Apparently it is a mythical bird that rose from some ashes. Coach Matt calls that a metaphor for our team, which I don't really understand.

No matter what we are called, it is painfully obvious that we Phoenixes are not ready to be Cardinals.

Akash told me how to figure out my batting average, and it's .120. I think this is a big improvement, considering my average used to be .000. But it's still not good enough for the Cardinals.

The one good thing about practicing next to the Cardinals is that I can study Jordan's pitches and try to figure out how she strikes out so many players. Sometimes she pretends not to be ready, then she lets the ball fly. Other times she actually yawns and you think she's getting tired or bored, but then the ball is suddenly in Akash's catcher's mitt and you don't even know how it happened.

The best part of practices is definitely the pitching clinics, when it's just me, Coach Pablo, and Jordan. Coach Pablo teaches us how to be better pitchers, while the other kids learn how to be better catchers or shortstops or whatever position they play. During pitching clinics, everyone knows I have to work with Jordan, so no one suspects that sometimes we talk about non-baseball things like our fathers and our homes before we came here.

But I have to stay focused and work harder to become a great pitcher like Jordan. I have to practice batting and catching with a glove. I have to move up and play with the Cardinals so Baba will keep his promise to get here in time to see me play in a real game.

“Okay, folks!” Coach Matt calls. “Time for some conditioning.” There's a groan that sounds a lot like Jack, and Coach Matt folds his arms. “Anyone who doesn't like that can go home.”

Silence.

“All right, ten laps around the bases clockwise, then ten more counterclockwise.” He pauses, as if he's daring Jack to moan again. When no one makes a sound, he continues. “Then we'll break up into our groups according to position, followed by batting practice, then a scrimmage.” He nods toward our bags. “I hope everyone brought water. This Indian summer's been a doozy. Isn't this supposed to be October?” He glances at Coach Pablo, who shakes his head.

I don't know what a doozy is, but it is true that summers in India are very hot.

We start our twenty runs around the bases. Trees as tall as our apartment building back home ring the field, and the colors of the leaves blur together as I run—green, red, yellow, orange, and brown. Fall leaves are the latest addition to my American list of things for Baba to know. I even sent him pictures that show how some leaves have more than one color. But you can't take a picture of the way they smell or feel when you wade through them, crunching and kicking and jumping. Baba's latest Karachi memory for me was pistachio Peshawari ice cream, which only reminds me that while I'm jumping in piles of leaves, my friends back home still jump in the warm sea.

Coach Matt looks at his watch as we finish our baserunning. He nods. “Not bad.”

We take it as a compliment. His phone sounds from his pocket, a song I now know is “Sweet Caroline” and has something to do with the Boston Red Sox—Coach Matt's favorite team. Coach Pablo shakes his head and covers his ears. I have learned that Coach Pablo is a Yankees fan, and Yankees fans don't like this song.

We break into our clinic groups, and I am paired with Jordan. Coach Matt slides his phone into his back pocket. “Got a minute, Pablo?”

Coach Pablo turns to Jordan and me. “You two start warming up. I'll be right there.” He turns back to Coach Matt, and they talk about the tournament the Cardinals will play in this weekend.

Jordan points her glove toward a grassy strip well beyond second base. “Let's go.”

We head over, listening to the sounds of our cleats swooshing through the grass, the crack of a bat meeting a ball, and players' voices floating across the field.

Jordan breaks the sounds of baseball with this question: “So when is your dad getting here?”

I slow my steps, and Jordan falls back to match my pace.

“I don't know. He always says ‘soon,' but . . .”

And I leave it at that.

Jordan sighs. “It's never soon enough. I know.”

“How long is your father in Afghanistan?”

The muscle in her jaw tightens. “Three months so far. He spent a whole year there before—two different times.”

“When will he come home?”

Jordan picks up her pace, her eyes on the cars that snake along the road beyond the field. “Next summer.”

I start to ask why she is here and not in the place called Illinois, but she breaks into a jog. “You can pitch first, okay?” she calls over her shoulder. I stop where I am and wait for her to turn. She finally does, slipping on the catcher's mask and punching her glove three times before crouching and turning her glove out. “Ready?” she calls.

I nod, lift my right knee, and send a slow pitch. She catches it easily, stands, and throws it back, all in a series of fluid movements. She almost looks bored. When I get to my last pitch, a fast one, I draw in a breath. I know her fastest pitches are faster than mine, but I want to make this a good one. I don't know why, but I want to show her I'm getting better.

I raise my right knee like always and pull my left arm back as my right arm stretches forward, keeping my balance. I stay like that for a few moments, and Jordan's bored expression is replaced by another one—curiosity. Before she can wonder another second longer, I let the ball fly, hurling it through the thick, mid-October air. Jordan catches it easily, but she shakes her head as she studies the ball in her glove.

Then she stands and nods once. “Okay, my turn.”

I pull on the catcher's mask and get into position, but I slip off my glove for the first slow pitches. After she sends her medium pitch, my hand stings. I want to shake it out and flex my fingers, but I don't. I do slip my glove on for the fast pitch, though. Even if I can't catch as well with it on, I'm not stupid.

Jordan nods. I nod back and send up a small prayer to Allah that this ball will miss my knee and my shoulder and my head and find its way into my glove.

It does. I don't even need to move my glove; it's like the ball decided it was meant to be there.

As I stand to stretch my legs, Coach Pablo jogs over. “Sorry about the delay.”

I toss him the ball. “No problem, Coach.”

“I just saw some excellent pitching.” He nods at Jordan, then turns to me. “Nice job catching, Bilal.”

I wonder if he knows I wasn't really catching; I was just holding the glove in the right place at the right time.

We work for another half hour with Coach Pablo before Coach Matt calls us over for a practice scrimmage.

As we get closer to the dugout, I spot Henry whispering something to Aiden. They laugh.

I turn to Jordan. “Um, I need some water.” Before she can answer, I am jogging toward the dugout. When I get there, I dig through my bag, pull out my water bottle, and join the rest of the team. I don't stand anywhere near Jordan.

Coach Matt pats the shoulder of a boy I've never seen before, then calls, “All right, folks, quiet down.” He turns to the boy. “This is Sebastian. He and his family just moved to DC, and he's looking to join a team.”

Sebastian waves. “Hey,” he says, and we say “hey” back.

“I heard he's also trying out for some powerhouse team up in Maryland,” Akash whispers. “Or maybe he'll end up being a Cardinal.”

I shrug. I just hope he's not a pitcher.

The scrimmage begins and Jordan is on a roll, as Jalaal would say. We get two outs—one when Jack strikes out, and one when Nate's ball is caught in the outfield.

Sebastian is up next, and I pray he gets out so I can start pitching instead of worrying about batting. Sebastian saunters over to home plate like he's got all the time in the world. Jordan wears her usual calm expression; she doesn't seem nervous at all about pitching to someone new.

Sebastian taps the base once with his bat, then moves around to the other side of the base. He lifts his bat, ready to go.

He is a lefty, like me.

Jordan's mask of calm indifference slips for a moment while she adjusts her stance. Before she pulls her arm back, she bites the corner of her lip, and I can tell she isn't sure about this Sebastian. She fires off a fastball—faster than any ball she's ever sent my way.

Sebastian may be a southpaw like me, but unlike me, he can hit. He sends Jordan's fastball over everyone's head, where no infielder can reach it. The outfielders scramble below the ball's path as it traces an arc before falling back to earth in an empty patch of field. By the time someone snatches it up, Sebastian is already rounding third base and heading home. His foot lands on home plate in a spectacular cloud of dirt. No one even tried to throw the ball to Akash, and he takes off his catcher's mask, shaking his head.

Jordan has her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed under the shadow of her cap.

I'm up next. Even though Jordan strikes me out as usual, I can tell it doesn't make her feel any better.

We practice until the sun sets and the lights go on, the sky a glowing orange that fades to purple.

I walk to the dugout to get my bag.

Henry points his chin in Jordan's direction as she marches off toward the parking lot. “Did you guys see what happened out there?”

Akash's eyes grow wide. “Man, she totally choked!”

Henry's laugh is mean. “It finally took a lefty to show her she's not perfect.”

I don't mention that I'm a lefty and she strikes me out all the time.

Henry smirks. “What a show-off.”

I start to say that Jordan isn't showing off—she really is that good. But then Henry gives me a friendship shoulderpunch and says, “You could outpitch her any day.”

I give him a friendship shoulder-punch back. And leave it at that.

 Fifteen

“
W
hat are you going to be for Halloween?” Jalaal rummages through his drawer for clean socks. He doesn't find any.

I sit on my bed, passing a baseball from one hand to the other. “I have my cricket uniform. But I cannot wear that.”

“Why not?” Jalaal asks, holding his hand out for the ball. I toss it to him, and he sends it back.

“We have to dress like a book character for the school Halloween parade and carry the book with us.” I throw the ball back a little too hard, and Jalaal has to lean into the catch.

“I remember doing that. It's crazy that you can't just wear whatever you want.” He strides over to his bookshelf and runs a finger over the book spines. He shakes his head. “I can't think of one story about a cricket-playing kid.”

I picture my bookshelf back home and wish I'd brought one of my cricket books.

Jalaal's phone beeps. He glances at it and grins. “I've got an idea.”

Ten minutes later we walk into the public library. I thought public libraries were for scholars and studying and grown-ups. Not this one. Big, orange vegetables that Jalaal calls pumpkins sit on a table surrounded by fake spiders, a web, and books with mostly orange or black covers. A banner hanging from the ceiling says, “Scare up a good book!” A gray, rock-looking piece of foam with a rounded top reads:

R.I.P.
Read in Peace

Jalaal heads straight for a computer. He types and clicks. “Cricket . . . there has to be something here.”

“How about a book about Omar Khan?” I offer.

Jalaal shakes his head. “Nothing.” He keeps typing.

How can a library not have a book about the world's greatest cricket player?

“There's one!” Jalaal looks triumphant. “Seven ninety-six point three five eight.”

“What?” I ask.

“This way,” he says, repeating the number under his breath.

I follow him past babies chewing on books and tables of grown-ups and kids reading and doing homework. Jalaal glances at the signs at the end of each shelf until he stops, turns, and pulls a book from up high.

“This is the only one I could find.” He hands me a book called
Learn to Play Cricket
with a photo of a cricket ball on the cover.

“Thank you, Jalaal.” I flip through the pages and smile.This is stuff I know, but it is perfect for the Halloween parade.

“No problem, little buddy.”

Jalaal's phone beeps again, and his texting thumbs fly over the screen. When he looks up, a grin spreads across his face. I follow his gaze to where Olivia sits at a table with a stack of books. She waves us over, but before I take a step, Jalaal puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Bilal, why don't you see if there are any other books you might like? I'll meet you back here in five minutes.”

I get it—I'm not a little kid anymore. I can tell Jalaal likes Olivia, and I can also tell Auntie doesn't want Jalaal to have a girlfriend. I heard them arguing one time when Auntie said Jalaal is too young, and Jalaal said he is not too young to have a girl for a friend. Being seventeen sounds complicated.