Hometown Heroes
Page 16
is quiet. Q is the first to speak up. “It’s okay, Coach. The redneck just got under your skin. Mine, too. Thanks for having my back out there.”
Bob looks over his team. He is learning as much from them as he hopes they are from him. “Okay, guys. Thanks. And one more thing. The scoreboard says we lost this game, but you guys played better than ever. I’ve seen tons of improvement just in the last couple of weeks. Don’t let this game throw you. Even though they’re a bunch of redneck jerks, they know how to play ball… they’ve obviously been playing a long time.”
Kepler walks up behind Bob. “You guys ready to hit the road?”
“Yeah,” Bob says. He steps back and lets the Bandits come out of the dugout. He and Kepler follow them to the vans.
“Let’s stop at Marion’s on the way back,” Kepler says. “My turn to buy the pizza.”
---
Security Forces Headquarters - Break Room
Paul, the rent-a-cop, stands at the paper scoreboard in the otherwise empty break room. He picks up a marker and puts a big L on the fourth line. He smiles smugly, then turns and leaves.
---
Bandits Baseball Field
Bob waits at their bench for the Bandits to arrive. He is concerned they might not show. The game against the Badgers was a tough loss. That, plus the incessant insulting rants from Smith weighed heavily on Bob. He needn’t have worried.
Ramiro shows up first, wearing his jersey instead of his usual practice T-shirt. He turns his back to Bob.
“Check it out, Coach,” Ramiro says.
The word MEXICO is stitched onto his jersey just below his name.
“What’s that for?” Bob asks.
“Those rednecks,” Ramiro says. “They were making fun of us. They don’t understand... we’re proud of where we’re from.”
JJ strolls up.
“Show the coach, JJ,” Ramiro says.
JJ turns. KENYA is stitched onto his jersey.
“I thought you were born in Philly?” Bob asks.
“I was,” JJ answers. “Ancestry-dot-com, bro. I got legacy tying me to Kenya.”
“Nice,” Bob says. “You all did this?”
“Every one of us,” JJ says.
When the rest of the team arrives, Bob has Ramiro run them through some warm-up drills. Then they take the field for some batting practice.
Q grabs a helmet and bat.
At the pitcher's mound, Bob holds the ball in his left hand. “Just the two fingers, like this. Got it?” Bob shows Aja how to grip a curve ball.
“Yes,” Aja says.
Bob tosses Aja the ball. “Give it a shot.”
Aja toes the rubber, starts into his gawky windup. He launches it... hard... right for the plate.
Q eyes the pitch and thinks he has it nailed. He goes into his swing, but the ball breaks steeply outside and Q gets air.
Q steps back out of the batter’s box. “Shit, Aja. Helluva’ curve.”
“Language, Q. Take a lap.”
“Awe, come on Coach,” Q says.
“You know the rules. Hit it!”
Q drops the bat and starts down the dirt outside the first base line toward right field.
An older man wearing full Arab garb, including a headdress and sunglasses, approaches from the bench near first base. He stops outside the baseline and waves. “Aja!”
The team stops to check out the stranger wearing the unusual clothes.
“I will wait here,” the man shouts to Aja.
Bob drops the ball he’s holding. He gets light-headed. In his mind, he’s back in the humvee, back in Afghanistan. Johnny sits beside him, pointing at an insurgent on top of a building. Bob follows where Johnny is pointing, sees the Afghan, full Arab garb, headdress, sunglasses.
The bomb explodes beneath their truck. Johnny is engulfed in flame. He falls away. Everything goes dark… When he regains consciousness, Bob finds himself in a helicopter. Wind whips into the helo’s open side door. The door gunner pounds the area with automatic fire. Casings cascade down onto the metal floor deck of the helo, dropping around Bob’s severely injured body.
A figure above him, a flight medic, holds an IV bag. Bob watches him mouth words over the ringing in his ears. “Hang on, buddy. Hospital’s only a few minutes out.”
The aircraft bumps in the air, the medic reaching over to grab a cargo net to keep his balance. Everything goes dark again.
When he wakes again, Bob is in the field hospital. Overhead lights fly by as they rush his gurney down the hall, a nurse on one side and the medic on the other. The gurney takes a sharp turn and a pair of large doors bang open.
The nurse pulls down her face mask. He can barely make out her words over the ringing in his ears: “It's okay, Sergeant. We're going to take good care of you.”
Bright surgery overhead lights fade to darkness.
When he wakes again, there is bright sun overhead, then a face. The young Afghan ballplayer. He's holding a ball glove. The Afghan's face turns very sad. He tucks the ball glove into the gurney next to Bob.
The glove fades in and out. When it comes into focus again, Bob is in the hospital room in Germany. He tries to reach for the glove, but realizes he has no arm. He screams, grabs the ball glove with his left hand, and throws it at the TV. The glove seems to fly in slow motion. Bob feels someone shaking his shoulder.
“Coach?” Aja says. “Coach, are you okay?”
Startled, Bob swings out with a left hook.
Aja easily dodges Bob’s fist.
The Arab man makes a mad dash for the pitcher’s mound. “Stop!”
JJ runs over from first base. “Coach! Coach, snap out of it!”
The Arab reaches the mound and steps between Bob and Aja. He pushes Aja back, extending his other arm toward Bob, using his body to effectively protect Aja.
JJ does the same to protect Bob. He steps between them, facing the Arab. “It's okay, man. No problem.”
Bob shakes his head. Though it’s still fuzzy, he has a sense of what just happened. “What the...?” He looks past the Arab at Aja. “I'm sorry, Aja.”
“Why did you strike at my son?” the Arab asks.
“It was a reflex. I'm sorry,” Bob says.
Aja puts his hand on his dad’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Father. This is our coach. He has flashbacks. From the war. Coach, this is my father, Kourash.”
Kourash turns his attention from Aja back to Bob, studying him. Finally, he nods and extends his left hand to shake.
Bob looks at Kourash's hand. He doesn't move at first, then finally reaches forward and takes Kourash’s grip and shakes.
When they release, Kourash puts his hand to his heart, nods. “I understand. We all have the nightmares.”
Bob nods.
Kourash turns back to his son. “I’ll be over here,” he says, pointing at the fence by first base. He wanders back over to the sideline. Kourash spends the remainder of the practice watching closely from the sidelines.
---
The remainder of the practice goes without event. Bob continues to help Aja develop his curveball, and the rest of the team practice their fielding and batting skills. They practice almost until sunset. Finally, darkness overtakes them.
The Bandits leave the field. They are tired, but Bob is grateful they still maintain a winning spirit, even after the fiasco with the Badgers. Perhaps these kids have lived with that kind of discrimination and hatred all their lives, something Bob never had to face.
Bob spots Ramiro leaving with the rest of the team, carrying his bag of equipment with him.
“Hey, Ramiro...”
Ramiro looks back at Bob. “Later, guys,” Ramiro tells the others, then turns and trots back to the field. ”‘Sup, Coach?”
“I need a target,” Bob says.
Ramiro smiles. “I’m ready.” He puts his glove on and starts back toward home plate.
“Not here,” Bob says. “Let’s go for a ride.”
---
Bandits Baseball Field
Mayday works the scoreboard, hanging the numbers by hand. Top of the eighth inning. Bandits are up six to two.
Aja is pitching. He winds up and fires a hot one.
The batter swings. Nothing.
“That’s three,” the umpire says. “You're out!”
The Bandits come in from the outfield.
“You're up, Ramiro,” Bob says.
Ramiro plops down on the bench, unclipping his shin guards.
Bob pats him on the back. “Don’t swing for the fence, just get on base. Q's behind you, he'll bring you in.”
Ramiro looks sideways at Q. “Q? Q can't hit.”
“Can't hit?” Q says. “You just watch me!“
Ramiro grabs his bat and steps over to the batters’ circle. He takes a couple of practice swings while the opposing pitcher warms up.
Bob stares out at the crowd. He waves at Julie and her daughter, sitting with a very small group in lawn chairs near the fence.
The umpire waves Ramiro over. “Let’s play ball!”
Ramiro steps into the batter’s box. He eyes the opposing pitcher.
The pitcher winds up. Throws.
Ramiro lets it go by.
“Ball one!”
Bob and the team encourage Ramiro from the dugout. “Good eye, Ramiro,” Bob shouts. “Way to watch it.”
A car slides to a stop in the gravel parking area near the Bandits' dugout. An older Hispanic woman climbs out, leaving the car running in the middle of the parking lot. She runs toward the bench, but spots Ramiro at bat and changes course toward the backstop. She grabs the fence wire. “Ramiro! Ramiro!” Tears stream down the face.
Ramiro sees her, too, and immediately steps out of the batter's box. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
The umpire stops the pitch. “What gives, batter?”
“The police came with their papers,” Ramiro’s mom says. “We're being deported. I don't