The Death of Baseball

by Orlando Ortega-Medina

  Tomoko catches sight of herself in the bleachers looking young and attractive, the only person sitting impassively, a serene smile gracing her perfectly made-up face. The image sets her crying again, and she reaches for a box of tissues on the coffee table. Settling back to watch the rest of the movie, she senses someone approach from behind. A moment later, she feels a large hand come to rest on her shoulder.

  * * *

  Koba approaches Klein in the mess hall and places his hand on his shoulder. Klein looks up and smiles at Koba, then scoots to one side to make room for him at the half-empty table.

  “Where’d they take you this morning?” Koba dips a piece of buttered toast in his coffee.

  “They assigned me to early-morning garbage detail.”

  Koba pantomimes putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger and munches on his toast.

  “I agree.” Klein takes a sip of coffee. “Thanks again for what you did last night.”

  Koba shakes his head. “Any trouble they give you just let me know.”

  “Thanks—” Klein looks up as a large group of inmates parades past the table, his cup poised in mid-air. Once they pass, he exhales loudly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Koba smiles tightly and shakes his head again.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Klein raises his eyebrows at Koba. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No.” Koba looks around at the bustling mess hall as a new shift of inmates files in. “It’s just been so long.”

  “So long? What do you mean? Oh, I’m sorry, I’m prying. I do that sometimes. Never mind.”

  Koba looks down at the table and closes his eyes for a moment, then grits his teeth and squeezes out the word: “Kimitake.” He lets out a long breath, then opens moist eyes and looks directly at Klein. “My name’s Kimitake Koba.”

  Klein opens his eyes wide. “Oh, I understand…” He leans toward Koba and whispers, “I’m not so crazy about my name either.”

  The other inmates look in their direction as Koba’s laughter rings through the mess hall.

  Later that morning, Koba opens the door to the library and ushers Klein inside, closing the door behind them. Klein steps up to the circulation desk and looks around, a broad smile breaking out on his face.

  “Welcome to my sanctuary,” Koba says.

  “Where’s the librarian?” Klein whispers.

  “That’s just it,” Koba says loudly, his voice echoing off the walls. “There is no librarian.” He walks up to a stack, pulls out a book and hands it to Klein. “This one’s by Karl Jung. In English, of course.”

  Klein holds up his palm and wanders around the stacks.

  “Look, they have a whole section on religion.” He pulls a book from the shelf and turns it over in his hand.”

  “I know. They have books here on everything.”

  Klein takes the book to one of the tables and sits down. Koba disappears behind the circulation desk, then emerges a moment later with a spiral notebook and a pen. He joins Klein at the table and starts to write.

  “What’s that?”

  Koba looks up at him. “Huh?”

  Klein points at the notebook.

  “Oh.” Koba passes his fingers over the page. “I’m writing my memoirs. Why?”

  Klein shrugs. “I don’t know… just curious.”

  Koba nods and returns to writing in his notebook.

  “I’d be interested in reading it.”

  Koba looks up at him for a moment, then flips through the notebook and slides it across to Klein. “You can read this bit.” He circles a passage with his finger. Klein picks up the notebook and reads:

  You know me as Clyde, the son of Tomoko and Yoshiro Koba. But my actual birth name is Kimitake, after Momma’s favourite brother, a failed kamikaze pilot who ran out of fuel somewhere over the Pacific and nose-dived his Zero-model combat plane into the ocean before he could reach Pearl Harbor. Clyde is the so-called “American name” my father stuck me with early on so that people wouldn’t look down on me for being Japanese. The irony is that no parent in his right mind in the 1960s would have dared saddle his kid with the name Clyde, at least not in Los Angeles. Thanks to my father’s stupid decision, kids everywhere taunted me to no end. I soon came to hate the sound of my name, American or not. To make matters worse, Momma couldn’t pronounce the name Clyde and called me Ku-rai-do instead. It was the best she could do, English being her second language.

  Klein hands back the notebook to Koba and nods.

  “I’ve never shared that with anyone.”

  “Thanks, I’m honoured.”

  Koba closes the notebook.

  “So, why me?” asks Klein.

  “I don’t know. It felt right at the moment.” Koba looks directly at Klein. “Don’t make me regret it, please.”

  “No, don’t worry. You can trust me.”

  “We’ll see. Trust doesn’t come easily for me.” He places his notebook to one side, then grabs the Jung book and opens it up to a marked page.

  “It’s not true, you know,” Klein says.

  Koba looks up from the book. “What’s not true?”

  “That I’m a child molester.”

  Koba places the book face down on the table.

  “I don’t care if you are.”

  “But I’m not. I mean, technically I am. But—”

  “You’re a technical child molester?”

  Klein claws off his glasses. “A joke? I’m about to bare my soul to you, and you make a joke?”

  Koba squeezes his arm. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

  Klein shakes his head and puts his glasses back on. “I was on a flight from New York to LA, going to a religious conference.”

  “A religious conference?”

  “No jokes, remember?”

  “I wasn’t going to make a joke! Jeez…”

  “Anyway, I was sitting next to this person who seemed to be coming on to me.”

  “Was this person male or female?”

  “That’s not important. What matters is that I thought they were over eighteen. I swear, they looked like they were at least twenty.”

  Koba looks down and fiddles with his wristband.

  “I followed the person to the lavatory. We had sex. Safe sex. I didn’t force them or anything. Everything was mutual.”

  Koba looks up at Klein, a hurt look clouding his face.

  “The feds were waiting for me at LAX when we landed.”

  “Albert, are you afraid of me?”

  “Afraid of you? God, no. Where did that come from?”

  “Why won’t you tell me whether it was a male or a female?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter. If you want me to trust you, you have to trust me.”

  “But, I’m… No! You’ll get the wrong idea.”

  “If I was going to get the wrong idea, I would’ve gotten it already. Believe me.”

  “All right, okay, yes, it was a male. But I’m not gay.”

  Koba looks down for a beat, then puts his hand on Klein’s shoulder. A look of utter panic comes over Klein as the blood drains from his face.

  “I’m not,” Klein says.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not. I can’t be.” He slaps the table. “It’s wrong.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It is! The Bible says it’s wrong. My religion says it’s wrong.”

  “But you’re attracted to guys?”

  “Look, Kim, I was raised in a very sheltered, religious environment. I wasn’t allowed to be around girls, at least not by myself.”

  “And all your friends were boys, right?

  “Exactly.”

  “Boys who were also raised in sheltered, religious homes…”

  “Yes, right. So all this is a phase I’ll grow out of eventually.”

  “Uh huh… And how many of those other boys have turned out to be g
ay?”

  “Not one. They’re all married now.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “What are you saying? That you think I’m—”

  “What I think is that you’re going to have to accept yourself no matter how hard it is for you. Otherwise, you’re going to spend however long you have on this planet going through major grief. Believe me, I know.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not gay.”

  Koba stares meaningfully into Klein’s eyes.

  “Are you?”

  “Albert…”

  “What?”

  Koba pushes his notebook across the table to Klein.

  “Have I got a story to tell you.”

  * * *

  Koba and Klein sit with their backs against the wall of their blockhouse. A group of inmates walks past them carrying baseball equipment. Bleeker stops in front of them holding a catcher’s glove.

  “Hey, guys.”

  “Yeah?” Koba looks up at Bleeker, shading his eyes from the noonday sun with his hand.

  “Hi, Bleek,” Klein says.

  Bleeker ignores him and speaks to Koba. “The warden approved our team request. They’re going to let us play.”

  “I can see that.” Koba smiles at him. “Congratulations.”

  “Come on, then.”

  “No thanks, we’ll pass.”

  “Come on, damn it,” Bleeker says, returning the smile. “Recapture your childhood.”

  Koba waves him off. “Nah, that’s all gone. As you Christians say, ‘I’ve put away childish things’.”

  Bleeker shrugs. “I’m no Christian.”

  “We’re waiting for chorale rehearsal to start. Thanks anyway.”

  Bleeker nods at Koba and sprints after the other inmates, who are busy marking off the bases.

  Thirty minutes later, Koba and Klein stroll into the reception centre, which is doubling as a rehearsal hall. They walk toward the platforms set up at the far end of the room where a dozen other inmates are jostling for position while the accompanist warms up on the piano with an ascending series of major scales. Just as Koba finds his place on the top platform in the baritone section, a runner bursts into the room and calls out his name.

  “Visitor,” the runner says, waving a slip of blue paper.

  Klein exchanges a glance with Koba, who pats him on the shoulder. He steps off the platform and follows the runner out of the room and across the vast yard in the direction of the visitor centre. They wind their way through a maze of long, featureless corridors and sally ports that clang shut behind them. They eventually emerge into a large antechamber lined with low wooden benches ranged along the walls and coloured lines painted on the floor. A polarised glass panel takes up the upper half of the far wall. Koba can just make out the movement of persons behind the glass.

  Runner, take a seat! comes a voice out of the loudspeaker.

  The runner hands Koba the slip of paper and sits on the stool reserved for him. Moments later, a visitation marshal steps out of the control room and approaches Koba. He holds out his hand, and Koba hands him the slip of paper, which the marshal reads and compares with the number on Koba’s wristband.

  “All right.” The marshal folds the slip and stuffs it into his shirt pocket. He snaps his fingers at Koba. “Off with those.”

  Koba drops his jumpsuit to the floor while the marshal pulls on a pair of latex gloves. He spends the next several minutes conducting a thorough body cavity search of Koba. Once he’s satisfied that Koba’s clean, he steps away from him and nods curtly, pulling off the gloves.

  “Pull those up. Your visitor’s in room three. Follow the blue line.”

  Koba buttons up his jumpsuit and watches the marshal return to the control booth, then winks at the runner and follows the blue line around the corner to a door labelled Room 3, where he waits outside for a few seconds. A loud buzzer echoes through the hallway and the heavy metal door makes a loud clicking sound. Koba leans on it and pushes into the room. Tomoko is sitting alone at a table, dressed in a white summer dress, a delicate blue cardigan embroidered with little red cherries, and a necklace of natural pearls with a matching set of earrings. She sits up and looks at her son with loving, tear-filled eyes as he leans heavily against the door to close it and takes a seat across from her.

  “Hello, Momma.” Koba slides his hand across the table at her.

  Tomoko hesitates a moment, then places both her hands on his. Koba tries not to react, but his face trembles slightly at the contact, the weight of his mother’s hands, the coolness of her skin, a sense of love transmitted.

  “Your father’s disappeared,” she says after a few quiet moments. “Months ago.”

  Koba looks down and nods.

  “I know… I got your letters.”

  Neither of them says anything in the silence that lingers.

  “How’s that for you, Momma?” Koba says finally, his voice barely a whisper.

  Tomoko shrugs and looks to one side. “I’m getting used to it, I suppose. Sam Higashi’s taken over active management of the garage and sends me Yoshi’s share of the profits. So thank God for that.”

  Koba glances up at the ceiling for a moment, then looks back at his mother and nods.

  “Why didn’t you answer my letters?” Tomoko asks.

  “Because I’m bad,” Koba says quietly.

  “Don’t say that.”

  Koba looks up at her. “Why not?”

  Tomoko squeezes his hands. “You were always a good son.”

  “A good son… and a bad daughter.”

  Tomoko looks into Koba’s eyes, and he turns his head away. She squeezes his hand again, this time more forcefully.

  “A good son, and a wonderful daughter.”

  Koba smiles a bit and looks back at his mother. His eyes are moist with emotion.

  A half hour later, Koba re-enters the waiting area and sees that the runner’s stool is empty.

  Take a seat on the bench until the runner gets back! calls the voice from the loudspeaker.

  Koba nods vaguely at the darkened glass window, sits on the wooden bench, and lets out a loud sigh. After a few moments, he lifts his gaze at a mirror on the opposite wall. The instinct to avert his eyes kicks in, developed over months of conscious avoiding of his reflection to keep from seeing her. This time, however, he forces himself to gaze directly into the mirror. But Marilyn is gone. Instead, he finds himself staring at his own handsome reflection for the first time in a decade. He stands and moves to the mirror, his eyes wide with wonder, and reaches out his hand.

  Hey, you! Sit the fuck down!

  Koba smiles at his reflection and returns to his place on the bench.

  After a few minutes, the runner returns and escorts Koba back to the auditorium where the choir is powering through the last series of Hallelujahs from Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. Koba jogs to the platform and takes his place next to Klein in the baritone section. Klein takes his hand, and together they belt out the final Hallelujah.

  GLOSSARY

  Abba

  Father (Heb.)

  Achi

  My brother (Heb.)

  Adafina

  Sabbath Stew (Ladino)

  Ades

  Great Synagogue Ades of the Glorious Aleppo Community, located in Jerusalem’s Nachlaot neighbourhood

  Adonai

  Lord (Heb.)

  “Al Bostah”

  Song title: “The Bus” (Arab.)

  Aieki

  Semen (Jap.)

  Amidah

  Central prayer of the Jewish liturgy

  Arvit

  Evening prayer (Heb.)

  Baklava

  A rich, sweet dessert pastry made of layers of filo filled with chopped nuts and held together with honey (Turk.)

  Balagan

  Fiasco (Heb. From Russ.)

  Bar Mitzvah

  Jewish coming of age ceremony; lit. Son of the Commandment (Heb.)

  Baruch Hashem

  Thank God;
lit. Blessed be the name (Heb.)

  Ben-zona

  Son of a whore (Heb.)

  Bima

  The raised platform in a synagogue from which the Torah is read and services led (Heb.)

  Buzuq

  A long-necked fretted lute (Arab.)

  Caravanserai

  A roadside inn (Pers.)

  Chag

  Festival (Heb.)

  Challah; Challot

  A special bread in Jewish cuisine, usually braided and typically eaten on the Sabbath and other major Jewish holidays (Heb.)

  Chaver

  Friend (Heb.)

  Chinchin

  Child’s word for Penis (Jap.)

  Chippie

  California Highway Patrol (CHP) motorcycle officer (Slang)

  Cholo; Cholos

  Member(s) of a Mexican street gang (Span.)

  Esnoga

  Synagogue (Ladino)

  Ful

  A dish of cooked fava beans (Heb. From Arab.)

  Gever

  Man (Heb. Slang)

  Gulliver

  Head (Nadsat from Russ.)

  Hakujin

  A white person (Jap.)

  Hashem

  God; lit. The Name (Heb.)

  Havdalah

  A Jewish religious ceremony marking the end of the Sabbath; lit. Separation (Heb.)

  Hazzan

  Cantor; prayer leader (Heb.)

  Homes

  Friend; from “Homeboy” (Mex.-Am. Slang)

  Ima

  Mum; Mom (Heb.)

  Jigoku

  Hell (Jap.)

  Karma

  Universal principal of cause and effect (Sansk.)

  Kiddush

  Literally, “sanctification”; is a blessing recited over wine or grape juice to sanctify the Shabbat and Jewish holidays (Heb.)