by Joyce Grant
“This is to improve my pop-time,” explained Sebastian.
“What’s that?” asked Miguel, panting.
“As soon as I catch the ball, I need to be able to jump up and throw it to the player on base. This helps me be more explosive. It’s called plyometrics!”
The boys worked hard for forty-five minutes, until the coach blew his whistle.
“Okay! Good work today!” He turned to Sebastian. “Great job.” He thumped Sebastian on his sweat-soaked back. “You’re going to be fierce this season.”
Sebastian’s face was red and blotchy. “I’m not as fast as Miguel,” he said.
“Not yet,” said the coach. “But you will be.”
It was clear from the boys’ faces that neither of them really believed that.
“He will,” the coach said again. “I’ve seen it a million times. It’s just a different running style. Sebastian, you’ve got long legs. Miguel’s centre of gravity is closer to the ground, so he runs differently. You’ll catch up to him. You’ll see.”
They put away the cones and hurdles until the bell rang to start class.
“So,” said Sebastian as they were leaving. “You want to get something to eat after school?”
Miguel thought about the appointment he had with his mother that afternoon to see Mr. Raymond, their lawyer.
“I can’t,” he said. He saw Sebastian’s face fall.
“Right,” said Sebastian.
Sebastian turned away before Miguel could respond.
“I’ve got to get to class,” snapped Sebastian. He strode out of the gym.
7
Stomach Ache
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Estrada in Spanish. She squinted at the paper on the oak desk in front of her.
“Well, Mrs. Estrada, there are still some papers that need to be filed to complete your sponsorship of your husband from El Salvador . . .”
Mrs. Estrada looked from Mr. Raymond to Miguel as he translated the lawyer’s words. “What papers?” she asked her son.
“They’re saying that Dad’s application to come to Canada isn’t complete,” Miguel told his mother in Spanish. “There was a mix-up with some of the papers we filed.”
Miguel saw his mother’s eyes cloud with worry.
“Nothing serious,” Miguel added quickly. “I just need to redo a couple of forms. And then you’ll need to sign them.”
Mr. Raymond waited patiently while the two spoke in Spanish. He nodded and said, “That’s right.”
Miguel’s mother tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Miguel took one of the glasses on the tray in front of him and poured his mother a glass of water. He slid it over to her.
“Ask him how soon we can refile the papers,” Miguel’s mother urged, in Spanish.
Miguel repeated the question in English.
“Fairly quickly,” said Mr. Raymond. “We are going to make sure it happens as fast as possible. A few weeks at the most.”
Miguel’s mother tugged at her hair again. She took a long drink of water.
“Okay, thank you,” she said in English. She stood and held out her hand to the lawyer. “You do understand that it is . . . urgent?”
“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Raymond said.
Miguel and his mother had explained that life in El Salvador had become much more dangerous for Mr. Estrada. The bakery he ran had attracted the attention of a dangerous gang. Three of them had come by. They said that if they weren’t given a large sum of money, “something bad might happen” to the bakery. It was their family’s main source of income.
Something bad, thought Miguel, like an “accidental” fire. That’s what had happened to his aunt’s tailor shop. She had run out of money to pay the gangs. The next week, her precious sewing machines and fabrics had gone up in flames.
“The sooner we can get him out of El Salvador and away from those . . .” Miguel’s mother looked at him.
“Tell your mom to try not to worry too much,” Mr. Raymond said to Miguel. His eyes were kind. “Your dad will be here before you know it.”
Outside the lawyer’s office, Miguel’s mother turned to him. “I thought we had already filed all the papers!” she said in Spanish.
“It might have been my fault,” said Miguel. He put one hand on his stomach. “Maybe I messed up the English.”
“Oh, Miguel.” She dropped her bag on the ground and reached for him. Pulling him into a tight hug she said, “You did nothing wrong.”
“You don’t know that,” said Miguel. “I should ask Mr. Raymond. Maybe it’s my fault that Daddy isn’t here already.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly. “You’ve been so helpful! I don’t know what we would have done without you.” She zipped up his jacket and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she told her son. “We will get our family together again. We will do whatever it takes.” Then she smiled. “Now, how about a freezie?” She gestured toward the corner store.
Miguel managed a feeble smile. “Sounds good,” he said.
Miguel’s mother put her arm around him and pulled him close. “It will work out,” she said softly. “Don’t worry. Now let’s get Claudia from Alejandro’s. I’ll make us a nice dinner. Maybe we’ll Skype Daddy tonight.”
But Miguel did worry. Unless they could bring his father to Canada soon, something terrible might happen. They had left him in El Salvador three years before. Since then, all they talked about was getting everyone back together again.
Recently, the violence had become worse in their old neighbourhood. Miguel’s father had always given the gang protection money. “Protection against themselves,” Miguel’s mother had explained to him. “But lately they have been demanding more. More money than we could ever afford. We had some money in our savings, but now it is nearly all gone.”
Miguel pictured his father in El Salvador. He loved his father. Once, he had loved his home there. But their part of town had become different — scarier. Too scary for him and Claudia. And now, it looked like it was getting too dangerous for their father, too.
Miguel was still worried that night, when he was supposed to be sleeping. And he worried as soon as he opened his eyes the next morning and his happy baseball dreams faded away.
“Ow!”
Miguel’s stomach felt like it was on fire. He clutched it. He swung his legs out over the bed and put his feet on the floor. He tried to stand up, but he couldn’t.
“Ow!” he moaned again. He leaned forward and dug his clenched fist into his stomach. He rocked back and forth.
He’d had the stomach ache before. He tried to think of something nice. A baseball game. Hitting a home run. But for every nice thought, a bad thought came too. He perched on the edge of his bed and waited for the pain to pass.
8
Trash Talk
“It’s been three in a row,” said Tami. She grunted as she caught Jock’s throw.
Jock, their best player, had finally come back from his trip. He’d been in the United States to visit some of his old friends.
“Four,” Jock said.
“Three! It’s been three!”
The Blues were warming up on the home side of the big diamond. They were about to face their toughest rivals, the Parkhill Pirates. They were arguing over how many times in a row they’d beaten the team.
“Look, there was the game where Gnash got tagged out,” said Tami.
She was talking about a game against the Pirates the season before. The Blues had faked out their opponents by letting Gnash get tagged out on purpose. As the Pirates celebrated their “win,” Jock had quietly sped past them all to steal home and score the winning run.
“Uh, yeah, Tami. I kinda remember that game,” said Jock, smiling.
“And then there was the one two weeks ago with that crazy overthrow to third.”
>
“Right.”
“And after that, the game when their outfielders —” Tami suddenly started laughing. She bent over and propped her hands on her knees. She was still bent over, laughing, when Jock threw a rocket intended for her glove. It went whizzing by her. The ball clattered noisily against the metal fence.
That only made Tami laugh harder. She stood up and wiped tears of laughter from her cheeks. She tried to speak. “. . . collided . . .”
“Oh, man,” said Jock, starting to chuckle. Now he understood what was so funny.
“They collided! Crashed right into each other!” Tami could barely get the words out.
“Yeah,” laughed Jock. “That was a bit of a problem for them.”
“And then the ball . . . just . . . fell . . . in between them!” Tami wiped her eyes again.
“Hey, I’m not normally one to trash talk another team,” said Jock. “But even the Pirates would have to admit — that was a really awful play!”
There was no love lost between Jock and the Pirates. When they had found out Jock was gay, many of the Pirates — especially Stretch, the Pirates’ first baseman — taunted and bullied him. Jock and Gnash had managed to get away from the bullies before anyone got hurt. Even a written apology by the Pirates and their coach hadn’t eased tensions between the teams.
“Hey, don’t be too hard on ’em,” said Gnash. “Maybe the sun was in their eyes.”
“That must be it,” said Tami. She picked up the ball and threw it back to Jock.
“You think I should lend them my sunglasses for today’s game?” asked Gnash, laughing.
“Let’s just warm up, eh?” said Miguel. Why does everyone always seem to have time for jokes? he wondered.
The teammates threw the ball back and forth, still giggling.
“Hey, Miguel, you okay?” asked Tami. “You look like you haven’t slept in four days.”
“I’m fine,” said Miguel tersely.
“We’re talking about the last game we played against the Pirates,” said Jock.
“I know. When Stretch broke his foot?” said Miguel. “Hilarious — a real riot.”
“Hey!” said Jock. “See? That’s four games we won!”
“No,” said Tami. “Remember? How did Stretch break his foot?”
“Oh yeah,” said Jock, his smile fading. “Tripping over those idiots in the outfield.”
“Yeah, trying to get the ball,” said Tami. “That was the same game.”
“To be fair, we didn’t find out about his foot until the next day,” said Raj.
“Hey,” said Tami. “Remember the Instagram pictures he posted of his gross, swollen, blue foot?”
“Yeah. He’s such a delightful person,” said Raj.
“I wonder if he’ll be here today,” said Tami.
“Who cares?” said Gnash. “The guy’s a jerk.”
Jock’s teammates had rallied to his defence when the Pirates were being mean to him. They didn’t like one of their own being bullied — even if they had done some of the bullying themselves at first. But that was before they’d gotten to know Jock. Before they had learned more about what it meant to be gay.
They broke off their talk when they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel in the parking lot. A dozen big, black SUVs pulled up, one after the other. Car doors opened and the Parkhill Pirates spilled out, a sea of bright white uniforms.
“Speak of the devil,” said Gnash.
Stretch was being helped out of the car by his parents. They handed him a pair of shiny silver crutches. Stretch limped along the sidewalk at the top of the steep hill. He looked down into the Pits.
“C’mon, jump! We’ll catch you!” shouted Sebastian with a big grin. He was holding out his arms as if he expected Stretch to leap into them.
Sebastian can turn anything into a joke, thought Miguel.
* * *
“You look tired,” said Sebastian to Miguel. The two boys were standing with Coach Coop at home plate. They waited as the umpire finished explaining the ground rules.
Ben, the tall, friendly home-plate umpire, pointed to a hole in the fence. “Anything along the fence line is in play,” he said. “If a ball gets stuck under the outfield fence, put your hands up and we’ll call it a dead ball. But if you reach in to get the ball, we’ll assume it’s in play.”
“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” said Miguel, answering Sebastian’s comment.
“What, because of our workout? It wasn’t so hard,” said Sebastian.
“Oh, and please tell your on-deck batters to get any balls that go to the backstop if there’s nobody on. The backstop is a lot bigger on this diamond,” said Ben.
The boys didn’t bother listening. They’d played in Christie Pits for so many years they knew every inch of every diamond.
“Hey, are you looking forward to the big trip?” asked Sebastian.
“Uh,” said Miguel, looking down at the ground.
“Oh no,” said Sebastian. “Don’t tell me. You’re not going.”
“I’ve got to . . .” said Miguel.
“Work. I know. That’s a handy excuse.”
“Sebastian . . .” Miguel began.
“They’re wrapping up,” Sebastian cut him off. “You’d better get out there.”
“Thanks, Blue,” said Coach Coop, shaking the umpire’s hand.
“Have a good game,” said Ben. He took his position behind Sebastian at the plate.
Miguel turned and jogged to his spot at second.
On the mound, Jock was throwing warm-up pitches to Sebastian. For once, Sebastian wasn’t laughing or making smart remarks.
“Second base, coming down!” Sebastian yelled. He fired the ball toward Miguel. The throw was high, and Miguel had to jump to catch it. He managed to get it. But his throw back to Sebastian missed the catcher’s mitt by a mile.
Sebastian ripped off his mask and threw it on the ground. He sprinted to the backstop to fetch the ball. Even from second base, Miguel could hear him complaining about the throw.
Sebastian tossed the ball to Ben and took his place behind the plate.
The young umpire brought his own mask down over his face. He crouched behind Sebastian.
“Play ball!”
9
Rough Day
“Look at them!” yelled Stretch from the bench in the visitor dugout. His crutches were propped beside him. They tripped his teammates as they tried to edge past to go up to bat. “They can’t even catch the ball! We’re gonna kill ’em! Goooo Pirates!”
Miguel saw Jock shoot a look at the visitor dugout. He watched the pitcher adjust his front foot so it was pointing straight forward. Then Jock drew the ball back and launched it at the plate. Straight and hard.
“Strike!” the umpire yelled, his fist in the air.
The Pirate at the plate, a tall right-hander named Katie, glared at Jock. She stepped back into the batter’s box and loaded up for the second pitch.
“Strike!” said the umpire after Jock’s second pitch.
The third pitch came in low and inside. Katie swung hard at it. Her bat caught a piece of the ball, sending it soaring up into the air. Sebastian stood up and snatched off his mask. He looked skyward, holding up his glove. The ball fell into it with a soft thunk.
“That’s a catch!” said the umpire.
Jock strode off the mound to the dugout. Miguel gave him a high-five. “And that’s how you do that, my friend,” he said.
“The best way to answer jerks like the Pirates,” said Jock, “is on the field. Beat them on the field.”
Miguel sat down beside Jock and Raj on the bench. Stretch was still yapping loudly in the visitor dugout.
“Guys like Stretch have bugged me my whole life,” said Jock.
“Yeah,” said Raj.
�
�Ya can’t change them. And anyway, that’s not our job. Our job is to keep moving forward, in spite of the Stretches in this world. And focus on our own dreams.”
Miguel thought about Jock’s words. “But what if it’s not just one guy?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Raj.
“What if it’s a whole bunch of guys?” asked Miguel.
“There’s a bunch of guys bullying you?” asked Jock.
“Never mind,” said Miguel. He got up and grabbed his bat. He walked out of the dugout.
* * *
The more Miguel thought about Jock’s words, the more they made sense to him. He and his family were being bullied. Not by one person, but by a whole lot of people — the gangs. But it was more than that. Sometimes it felt like there was a whole system holding them back, stopping his father from getting out of El Salvador.
What had his parents ever done wrong? They were hard-working people. They were a close-knit family that wanted nothing more than a shot at a better life. Why was this happening to them?
Miguel could feel his stomach tighten. He tried to ignore it as he took his place at the plate. Waiting for his pitch, he could hear Stretch’s nasal chirp cutting through all the other sounds of the ballpark.
“Heeeeeey, battah! Battah-battah-battah!”
Miguel swung hard at the first pitch. He missed the ball. The force of his swing brought him around in a circle. He let go of the bat with one hand. It swung around in a wide arc, nearly hitting the fence.
Miguel stepped into the box again. He watched the pitcher move the ball around in his hands. He lined up two of his fingers with the red seams on the ball. Miguel knew that meant a fastball was coming. When it came, he was ready for it.
“Comes in fast, goes out fast,” he said under his breath. He watched the ball leave the pitcher’s hand. It came directly toward him. He kept watching the ball until his bat made contact with it, smashing into it with a loud crack.
The ball flew off to his left, near the Pirates’ third-base player. Miguel took off for first base. He flew down the baseline. He touched first base and rounded for second.
