Kyle sticks out his hand and says, “Good to meet you, Bilal.” He narrows his eyes. “Wow, nice shiner.”
“Thank you,” I say, wishing I knew what a shiner is.
Coach Matt adjusts his cap. “Bilal is Jalaal’s cousin. Just got here from Pakistan.”
“Right.” Kyle nods. “Jalaal told us you were coming. We play together on the high school team. You play baseball in Pakistan?”
“No, it is my first time.”
I don’t tell Kyle this is actually my second time; Black-Eye Day doesn’t count.
“Okay, Mad Dogs!” Coach Matt claps his hands and rubs them together. “Have a seat, gentlemen!”
But when I look around, there are no seats. Tennis shoes squeak on shiny wood as the boys gather closer and sit on the floor. I sit, too.
“First of all, Mad Dogs, welcome to baseball camp!” Coach Matt sounds very excited about this day. The other boys clap and yell things like “Yeah!” and “Woo!” and pump their fists in the air. I pretend to be happy, too. I even yell, “Yeah!” like the others, but secretly I am praying I will get through the day without another black eye.
Coach Matt continues. “I remember most of you from last year’s camp and the regular season. We’ve got a few new faces this time, so let’s go around and introduce ourselves. Give us your name and the position you like to play best.”
I stare at Coach Matt. He talks too fast for me to understand all of his words. He points to one boy and asks him to stand.
“Jake, second base.”
The next boy stands and says, “Akash, catcher.”
They are saying their names. That much I know. And of course I know catcher is a position in baseball. One I will never play.
The boys continue to stand, one by one:
“Carlos, second base.”
“Jack, shortstop.”
“Aiden, left field.”
And it goes on this way until it is my turn.
“Bilal,” I say, and now I need to pick a position.
In cricket I play the gully position most, but I didn’t hear anyone say this one, so I don’t think it is a baseball word. I try to think of what the boy next to me just said.
“Um, third base?” I sit down quickly and hope third base is something like the gully position.
“Great!” Coach Matt nods. “Okay, Mad Dogs, here’s how we’ll run the day.”
I figured there would be running, which I don’t mind. But as Coach Matt talks and talks, I only understand a few of his words. How can this be? I can speak English. But Coach Matt’s American English does not sound the same as the English I learned from Madam Sughra last year. The other kids laugh at some things Coach Matt says. I laugh along, too, so no one will suspect that I do not understand the jokes.
All at once the boys scramble to their feet and head outside with their bags slung over their shoulders. I am the last to follow.
We skirt around an asphalt-covered area where other kids are gathered, listening to a coach who is the tallest man I have ever seen. Coach Matt leads us up some concrete steps with dry grass poking through cracks. It is hard to grow grass in Karachi, but here grass grows all over the place.
At the top of the steps is a field so green it hurts my eyes. I watch the other kids so I’ll know what to do. They dig into their bags and pull out their gloves before flinging their bags onto the bottom bench of the shiny metal bleachers. I do the same, then jog out to where Coach Matt and Kyle are waiting.
After showing us some throws, the coaches pair us up for practice.
Coach Matt waves a kid over. “Akash, this is Bilal. He’s from Pakistan. Isn’t that where you’re from?”
Akash shakes his head. “I’m from here.” He shrugs. “My parents are from India.”
“Close enough, right?” Coach Matt says. He pats Akash on the shoulder and walks away to pair up more kids.
India and Pakistan are close—they are right next to each other—but for some reason Akash does not look happy about Coach Matt’s words.
I pull on my glove. “You move here from India?”
Akash shakes his head. “Never been.”
I stare at him. “Never?”
He stares back, like a challenge. “Nope.” And he goes back to tossing the ball and catching it in his glove.
I want to ask him what it’s like to be from a different country than his parents, but I do not know him well enough to ask such a question. Plus he doesn’t look like he wants to talk. Maybe if we become the kind of friends who punch each other’s shoulders and call each other by nicknames, then I will ask him this question.
Akash backs up a few steps. “Ready?” He holds up the ball like the point of a question mark, and I nod even though I am not ready, even though I will never be ready. I glance around to be sure no one is behind me if—when—I miss the ball.
I give my glove a few punches with my left fist like I’ve seen the other boys do.
Akash pulls his arm back and lifts one knee. He lets the ball fly, and I jump for it.The ball hits my glove near the thumb, then skips over the edge and drops behind me. I scoop up the ball. When I turn back, I think I see Akash rolling his eyes.
Looking around at the others, I can tell I am the worst player out here. I must have been terrible at cricket when I first learned, but that was too many years ago to remember. Back then I wasn’t the only one learning to play, so we were all bad at cricket together. But when I think about it, even Omar Khan, the greatest cricket player in the history of the world, wasn’t born knowing how to play cricket. He had to start somewhere, and I guess now I do, too. With baseball.
Akash punches his glove, waiting for me to throw the ball. I know now that I am supposed to pitch the ball, not bowl it as I did in cricket. Eyeing Akash’s glove, I pull back my arm and take a step as I let the ball fly. Akash barely has to move, because the ball finds its way right where I told it to go—into the soft leather center of his glove.
Akash stands up straight and pushes his hat back. “Man! Nice one, Bilal.”
The compliment fills my chest. “Thank you.”
Now it’s his turn to throw, but as soon as Akash lets the ball go, I have an idea—a lightning-quick thought. I whip off my glove and let it drop to the ground as I reach up, a little to the left, and snatch the ball out of the air.
Akash shakes his head and grins. “I cannot believe you caught that.”
I smile even though my hand stings.
He points at the glove lying at my feet. “You’re not gonna use that?”
I shake my head. “I catch better without it.”
“You play baseball in Pakistan?” Akash asks.
I lift the brim of my cap a centimeter. “No—cricket.”
Akash nods. “My dad’s played before.”
A spark of hope flickers in my chest. “Here in America?”
“Nah. Back in India.”
The spark snuffs itself out.
We toss the ball back and forth some more until Coach Matt yells, “Okay, Mad Dogs! Now that you’re warmed up, let’s try a throw-off. We’re going to get some baseline info so we can track your progress from now through the end of camp.”
Akash must see confusion on my face, because he jogs over and explains what throw-off means. I don’t understand all of his words—he talks fast like Coach Matt—but I understand when Akash points to two targets hanging from a fence.
“You’ll be good at this,” Akash says.
“I don’t know.” I try to sound like it doesn’t matter. But it will matter if I make a fool of myself in front of everyone.
We form two lines across from the two targets.
“Okay, Mad Dogs! Remember what I said about sportsmanship.”
I have no idea whatsportsmanship means, never mind what he said about it.
“We’re here to support each other—boost each other’s spirits. We’re here to have fun, and to learn to play ball. Let me hear you now, Mad Dogs—we’re here to have fun and to . . .”
“Play ball!” everyone shouts. Everyone except me, because I did not know I was supposed to yell these words.
The first boy in each line stands behind a rope, and when Coach Matt blows a whistle, they each launch a baseball at the target. One ball misses, and the other smacks the top.
Coach Matt writes something on a clipboard. “Nice effort, Andy and Carter! Next up!”
The boy whose ball hit the target jogs to the end of his line, but the boy who missed goes off to the side to watch.
Two other boys step up to the rope, and Coach Matt blows his whistle again. As more players take their turns, I figure out that whoever hits the target goes back in line for another turn. Those who miss gather on the side to yell good things to the boys who are still in.
My turn comes up, and I hit the target easily, just to the right of the center. When all of us have had a turn, Coach Matt and Kyle move the rope back about a meter, so now we’re farther away from the targets.
I make it through the next round, and the round after that, until the rope puts us twice as far from the target as when we started. Only two of us are left. Akash yells, “That’s it, Bilal! You got this!”
The rest of the boys clap and hoot, some yell my name, and others yell the name Jordan. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and it’s like I’m back home on the cricket pitch. I breathe, open my eyes, and turn my attention to the target.
Coach Matt’s whistle pierces the air. I draw my arm back and then let the baseball fly. Jordan’s baseball thwacks the center of the target a split second before my ball lands—too far to the right.
The boys erupt into cheers.
I decide second place is okay. For now.
I turn to congratulate Jordan, but he is already surrounded by some of the other kids.
“Nice, Bilal!” Akash calls, and the others head toward me, their hands ready for high fives. It is when they leave Jordan behind to congratulate me that I realize Jordan is not a “he” at all.
Jordan is a girl.
Six
W e’ve only been home from camp twenty minutes when I find Jalaal out on the porch, slumped on the front step like a half-empty sack of rice. He passes a baseball from one hand to the other, elbows propped on his knees. He’s not watching the ball, though; he is staring at the driveway of the house next door, like he’s hoping it will notice him.
“Salaam, Jalaal,” I say, and sit down. He looks like he could use a buddy.
“Hey, Bilal.” His eyes don’t leave the driveway, and his hands don’t stop passing that ball back and forth, back and forth.
“Do you want to play catch?” This is brave of me to offer, considering. But it might make Jalaal feel better, and maybe it would help me forget about losing to a girl today.
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Too hot.”
Jalaal hands me the ball, and I continue his back-and-forth ritual. It is kind of relaxing. “What are you doing out here?”
Jalaal sighs. “Just hanging.”
He says this in English, and although it doesn’t look like he’s hanging on to anything, I nod anyway. Sometimes men don’t need to explain everything. It makes me think of Baba and my uncles, who can sit outside the tea shop down the street and not say anything for ten minutes—they just sip and look out at the sea.
Jalaal finally looks at me. “So what’d you think of your first day of camp?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Jalaal loves baseball, and I can tell he wants me to love it, too. I decide to answer his question with a question. “Do girls play baseball?”
At first he looks confused, then he nods. “Right, that girl—what’s her name again? Jen? Jessie?”
“Jordan. Like the country.”
He snaps his fingers. “That’s it—Jordan. She’s Coach Matt’s niece. She and her mom just moved here—from Illinois, I think. Or maybe Iowa.”
I’ve never heard of either of those cities.
Jalaal shrugs. “She’ll probably join a softball team in the fall, but it was too late to sign up for a summer camp. Coach said he’d let her play.”
I’ve never heard of softball. If the ball is soft, it must not be a batting game.
Before I can ask Jalaal anything else about Jordan, the yellow car with the white flower hubcaps pulls into the driveway next door.
Jalaal pops up to his feet so fast he startles me, and I drop the ball. But he doesn’t even notice because he’s already halfway across the lawn, jogging toward the neighbor’s driveway.
A girl steps out of the car, and her hair is as orange as a kinnoo fruit. I’ve seen pictures of people with this kind of hair, but now that I see it in real life, I cannot stop staring. Her hair is curly and falls down her back.The minute she turns and sees Jalaal, her whole face breaks into a smile.
Jalaal isn’t even acting like himself. Not that I have known him very long, but the way he is standing, with his arms folded, anyone can see he is nervous. But a happy nervous, with a lopsided grin. I run to catch up.
“Bilal, this is Olivia. Olivia—my cousin Bilal.”Jalaal’s cheeks look flushed. It makes me want to hand him a glass of water.
“It is nice to meet you, Olivia.”
She smiles a Bollywood movie-star smile with those straight, white teeth, and I notice tiny brown spots sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.
She holds her hand out. “Welcome to America, Bilal.”
I’ve never shaken a girl’s hand before. When I look at Jalaal, he nods in her direction, so I reach out my hand. She has a strong handshake. Her khaki shorts have smudges of dirt, and her dark green T-shirt says “The Other Side Nursery: Where the grass is always greener!” I don’t stare at her dirty clothes, because maybe she feels embarrassed. Olivia pulls her hair back, twists it up, then takes a brown plastic clip from the end of her sleeve and sticks it in her hair. With all that hair up and away from her face, her skin reminds me of a marble statue—pale and smooth. Except for those tiny flecks of brown.
Jalaal stands there, transfixed, but Olivia doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s way too humid today. I must look like a lion.” She smooths a stray curl behind her ear, but it springs back into place.
Jalaal laughs and shakes his head. “You look great.”
Olivia smiles and punches him in the shoulder. I know this means they’re friends, but even I can tell they aren’t the kind of friends like Jalaal and Kyle, or like me and Mudassar back home.
“Jalaal!” Auntie’s voice carries across the lawn from our driveway, where she stands beside the minivan.
“Coming!” he calls over his shoulder, and his smile slides right off his face.
Olivia looks at me and says, “It was nice to meet you, Bilal. I’ll see you around.”
“Good-bye, Olivia.” I wave, then race to the driveway where Auntie waits, holding a bag of groceries. Her eyes narrow as she watches Jalaal stride across the grass toward us. All the light has gone out of his face.
Auntie hands Jalaal a bag, her eyes on his the whole time. He spins around with the groceries and heads inside.
“I can take some, Auntie.”
She touches my cheek, finally looking away from Jalaal. “Thank you, Bilal, but I can get these last two bags.” She nods toward the open door of the minivan. “Why don’t you wake your sister and bring her in out of this heat.”
I peek into the van to find Hira fast asleep, her head back and her mouth open. In one hand she clutches a paper bag. Around her wrist is a bracelet woven from colorful threads. I tap her arm gently and her eyes fly open.
“Are we home?”
She tries to push herself off the seat before remembering she is still wearing her seat belt. I unbuckle it for her and she reaches into the bag.
“Look what I made at camp!”
She pulls out a bookmark made from yellow flowers pressed between two strips of clear plastic. Some of the petals are wrinkled and one is torn, but I can tell she worked hard on it.
“Nice, Hira.”
She takes my
hand and leaps from the van. “It’s for you!” She thrusts the bookmark at me. “The flowers are called buttercups.” This last word she says in English, and we laugh that a flower is named after butter.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather give this to Ammi or Auntie?”
Hira seems to consider this. “I can make more tomorrow. This one is for you.”
“Thank you, Hira.” I smile, but silently vow never to be seen with a buttercup bookmark outside this house.
As we head up the driveway, Hira asks, “What did you make at baseball camp?”
I shake my head. “You don’t make anything at baseball camp—you play baseball.”
“Oh.” Hira frowns. “Was it fun?”
I think about coming in second place in the throwing contest, which was fun up until the part where I found out that a girl beat me. I shrug. “Some of it was fun, I guess.”
We get to the shade of the porch, and Hira heads straight for the swing. She settles herself onto the bench seat and holds up her wrist. “This is a friendship bracelet. I can teach you how to make one—it’s easy.”
Hira’s feet can’t quite reach the floor, so I push the swing with the toe of my sneaker while she describes in detail how to make a friendship bracelet. She says some of the words in English, like thread and weave.
I give the swing another push. “Did you understand everything at camp today?”
Hira looks up from her bracelet and shakes her head. “But I watched. And one girl speaks Urdu, so she helped me.”
I wish someone at baseball camp spoke Urdu besides Jalaal, who doesn’t even work with my group.
Ammi opens the front door and pokes her head out. “I want to hear all about your day.” She smiles. “Your auntie just finished making cookies with chocolate bits.They are delicious. Tidy up your rooms and then it will be time for tea.”
Hira frowns. “Ammi, do I have to clean my room now? Can’t I do it later?”
Ammi kneels in front of Hira and pats her knee. “Baytee, this is not our home. We must always be respectful and show our thanks to Uncle and Auntie. They are very kind to take us in until Baba can get here and we can look for a home of our own.”
A Long Pitch Home Page 4
