“So what are you, then?” Teah asks.
I point to my book’s cover. “This.”
Half the class laughs, and I remember now that my book’s cover does not have a picture of a player, just a ball.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Mrs. Wu’s voice carries a warning.
I swallow. “In Pakistan I play cricket.”
Mrs. Wu smiles. “And that handsome uniform must be your team uniform.”
There are no snickers this time, but I can tell Jackson wants to laugh by the way he’s gnawing on his lip. I wish Mrs. Wu hadn’t said “handsome.”
“Yes, this is my team uniform. But in America now I play baseball.”
Dylan raises his hand but doesn’t wait for Mrs. Wu to call on him. “How do you play cricket?”
“It has many rules,” I say, because where would I even begin? I hold up my book. “You can read to know the rules.” I smile.
Dylan shrugs like he has already decided he is not going to learn about cricket.
Someone else says, “Man, those are some tall shin guards.” No one laughs, but I see the nudges and grins and whispering lips. I look at my leg guards sticking up past my knees. Tall? Tall compared to what? We don’t wear shin guards in baseball, so I don’t know what other kind there is. I’m already outgrowing these pads from last year, so I’ll need a bigger size this season. Or I would have, if we’d stayed in Pakistan.
Madi raises her hand. “I’ve seen cricket.” She holds up her book, called Doctor Who: Character Encyclopedia. “I saw it on Doctor Who this one time.”
A few kids nod, like Madi’s statement now proves cricket really is a game and not something I made up.
The rest of the kids say what their costumes are, but I’m not listening. I’m wishing I could change out of this uniform that everyone thinks is weird. The parade isn’t much better. Everyone in the entire school sits outside on the grass. Classes take turns parading around in a circle so everyone can see their books and their costumes. When our class’s turn comes, kids peer at my book, trying to figure out what I am. The only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m some alien is Mr. Jacobs. He gives me a high five as I walk by and says, “Cricket, huh? Nice, Bilal!”
But it’s not nice—it’s different.
The worst part is there’s no time to change before the buses arrive, so I have to ride home in my uniform. Why does it have to be white and so bright? I don’t know if people are still staring at me or not, because I lean my head against the window and watch the houses stream by all the way to my stop.
When I get off the bus, Jordan is waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“I like your costume.” She falls into step beside me.
“Thank you.” I glance over to see if she’s making fun of me.
She shrugs. “It’s unique. No one else had on a cricket uniform.”
“I know.” I sigh. “Only me.”
“That’s what makes it cool.”
She is not making fun of me after all. I always thought Jordan hated being the only girl on our baseball team, but maybe she doesn’t mind being different; maybe different is just a part of who she is.
I still don’t know what her costume is supposed to be, so I make a guess. “Are you a present?”
Jordan looks at me funny. “A present?”
I point to the roll of masking tape around her wrist. “The tape is maybe for the wrapping paper? And the bow on your T-shirt?”
She grins. “The tape is something the characters use in the book—they act things out in this space that their teacher tapes on the floor.”
I nod; Jordan already said this in class. But I still do not understand.
Jordan points to her shirt. “People tie yellow ribbons around trees when they’re waiting for a solider they love to come home.”
When we reach Jordan’s house, now I understand why the tree trunk in her front yard is circled with a wide yellow ribbon.
She shrugs her backpack off her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll see you around tonight trick-or-treating.”
And with that, she heads inside.
Once I get home, I hang up my cricket uniform in the back of my closet. Since the Phoenixes don’t have real uniforms, Jalaal digs through a basement box and finds a musty-smelling Cardinals uniform that he wore when he was ten.
Trick-or-treating is not as fun as I thought it would be. Akash and Henry invited me to go with them, but when Ammi and Auntie insisted they go with us, I told the guys to go on ahead. Yes, I am getting a lot of free candy. But I am the only fifth grader who is stuck trick-or-treating with his little sister. Other kids from my grade race together from house to house, their parents trailing a few houses behind. Kids my age don’t actually go with their parents.
But Ammi and Auntie don’t seem to understand how trick-or-treating works for big kids.They come with us to every door, pushing the stroller with Humza dressed like a pumpkin. They insist on taking pictures next to the decorations outside every house.
“I don’t need to be in all the pictures, Ammi.”
Hira tugs at my hand. “Yes! You do!”
Auntie laughs. “We’ll send them to your father, and to Daddo, too—she’ll want to see you all dressed up!”
I try not to roll my eyes as I stand behind Hira. Again. Humza decides he wants to walk, so we have to slow our steps while he waddles down the sidewalk, pushing his stroller.
By now I am wishing I had stayed home with Jalaal and Uncle to hand out candy.
Jordan’s house is one of our last stops. This is really Coach Matt’s house, so I expect him to answer. Instead, Jordan’s mom opens the door.
“Trick-or-treat!” Hira shrieks, holding out her bulging sack.
Jordan’s mom laughs and tucks her hair behind one ear. “What a beautiful fairy!” She drops candy into Hira’s bag.
“I am a fairy princess,” Hira clarifies.
Jordan’s mom nods knowingly. “Of course you are. You look beautiful.”
Hira giggles a thank-you and then turns back to me. “Bilal! Come and get some candy!”
So much for pretending I am not with the fairy princess.
Hira scurries down the front step, practically running me over as I approach the door. I hold out my bag, and Jordan’s mom leans forward, peering at my baseball uniform. She smiles and stands up straight. “You play for the Cardinals!” Turning, she calls, “Jordan! Another one of your teammates is here. Come and say hello!”
Jordan’s face appears from around the door, and she breaks into a grin when she sees me. “Hey, Bilal.” She steps out into the porch light.
When she sees my costume, her smile fades. She stands with her hands on her hips. “Where’s your cricket uniform?”
I feel like an imposter wearing a Cardinals uniform, even if it is seven years old. I hold up my baseball glove like that explains everything. “It belongs to Jalaal.”
She peers at the trick-or-treat bag threaded through my bat. “Yeah, but the cricket uniform is different. You’re the only one who has one.”
“Exactly.” Why does she look so disappointed? Why does she even care what my costume is?
Hira tugs at my shirt. “Come on, Bilal!”
I step down off the porch. “I will see you tomorrow.”
Jordan nods. “See you.” And she shuts the door.
I didn’t do anything wrong. So why do I feel so guilty?
Sixteen
The end of the fall baseball season is here, and Baba is not. He missed the whole thing. Or maybe he didn’t miss anything at all, since I didn’t play in a single game.
Today is our team end-of-season party at the Slice of Heaven Pizzeria, with all the Cardinals and the Phoenixes. When Ammi and I walk in, the smell of the pizza brings me back to cricket team pizza parties in Karachi, which makes me miss Baba even more. Lots of other teams are here, including a soccer team with one girl I recognize from school.
Akash waves. “Bilal! Over here!”
Ammi fiddles with he
r dupatta, weaving the ends of the scarf through her fingers. She smiles. “Go on, Bilal. Join your friends.”
It hits me that this is the first time Ammi has been anywhere in America without Auntie or Uncle. Ammi is learning English, but she doesn’t speak it very often.
Henry waves me over to where he stands with Akash and some other kids.
“Hey, Bilal.” Akash leans in, lowering his voice. “We’re talking about who’s gonna get MVP.”
“MVP?”
“Most valuable player,” they say in unison, then look around to see if anyone heard them.
I tune out of their conversation when I look over at Ammi, standing alone and still fingering the ends of her scarf. She moves toward the end of the table and pats a folded napkin, with a fork and knife nested inside, like it’s the most interesting object in the world.
Behind Ammi, Jordan walks into the room with her mom. Jordan sees me, then looks away. I don’t think she’ll come over as long as I’m standing with the guys, so maybe I should go and say hello. I wonder if I could slip away without the guys noticing.
Before I can decide what to do, Coach Matt raises a hand. “Okay, folks!”
We all quiet down.
“First of all, welcome to our end-of-season gathering.”
Coach Pablo nods toward the parents. “Please have a seat.” He waves his hand to the left end of the table and says, “Parents at this end of the table.” Then he waves his hand to the right. “And players at this end.”
All the guys scramble to take a seat, but I am torn. Akash waves me over to a chair next to him, but I keep glancing over at Ammi. She stands back as parents fill in the seats at their half of the table, chatting and laughing with one another. Ammi chooses a chair at the end of the parents’ section near the middle of the table. She exchanges a smile with the lady across from her, but then the lady continues her conversation with someone else. Ammi leans her arm on the back of the empty chair next to her. She looks so alone. I am not the only one who wishes Baba were here.
“Bilal—come on.” Henry jabs his finger at the open seat across from him, the spot next to Akash. I take two steps in that direction, then stop.
“Hold on,” I say. “I need to ask my mom something.”
I slip into the seat next to Ammi, and she looks surprised.
“Bilal, is everything okay?” Ammi frowns and puts her hand over mine. I slip my hand out from under hers, hoping none of the guys saw that.
“I’m fine, Ammi. I just thought I’d sit over here.”
Ammi’s face softens. “Bilal, go sit with your friends. Have fun!” She smoothes her paper placemat.
Henry slides into the seat next to me and waves Akash over, just as Jordan and her mom come to stand behind the seats across from us. “Are these taken?” Jordan’s mom asks.
“Please.” Ammi nods and points an open hand at the chairs. “For you.”
Jordan’s mom smiles and tucks a strip of blonde hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
Henry doesn’t look happy to see Jordan sitting across from us, but he doesn’t say anything.
“See?” I whisper to Ammi in Urdu. “Now I am sitting with friends.”
This seems to satisfy Ammi. She smiles and, thankfully, does not try to pat my hand again.
“Pizza!” someone calls.
“Careful—they’re hot!” a waitress says, placing a raised tray of pizza between Jordan and me. “We’ve got eight pizzas here to start, with more coming out.” She points at the first pizza at the adults’ end of the table. “The first pizza is cheese, then pepperoni, next one’s Hawaiian, then sausage.” Now she points to the other far end of the table. “Same lineup here—we’ve got cheese first”—her hand follows the pizza path toward the middle of the table—“then pepperoni, Hawaiian, and sausage.”
I was hoping one would be a mirch masala pizza, the kind I always used to get. Henry loads up his plate with pepperoni pizza slices, and Akash gets two slices of Hawaiian. Akash takes a bite of the pineapple-and-ham pizza and closes his eyes. “Bilal, you’ve gotta taste this.”
I scan all the pizzas. “I can’t have any with meat. Cheese pizza is fine for me.”
Henry stops, mid-chew. “Why can’t you have meat?”
I’ve never had to explain halal to anyone before. Ammi pauses, setting her fork on the edge of her plate. “Go on,” she whispers in Urdu. “I’ll help you explain if you need me to.”
Now everyone is watching and waiting for my answer.
“Muslims only eat meat that is halal.” I can tell by their faces that my words have not explained anything. “Halal means what we are allowed to eat. We can only eat meat from animals that are killed in a very quick way so the animals suffer not so much.”
One mother puts down her slice of pepperoni pizza and looks at it like she’s not hungry anymore.
Shortstop Ben says, “Sounds kind of like kosher.”
Akash adds, “We don’t eat beef at our house.”
Jordan shakes her head. “I make it a point to always avoid eggplant.”
Second baseman Carlos grabs another piece of pizza. “And I don’t eat any green vegetables.”
Carlos’s mother wags a fork in her son’s direction. “I heard that, Carlos Riccardo Vasquez de la Fuente,” she says, and we all laugh.
Everyone goes back to eating, and Ammi gives me a smile. “Well done, Bilal.”
I look at the guys and Jordan. All of us are actually talking and laughing our way through the rest of our pizza, without worrying about baseball. For the first time, it feels like maybe all of us could be friends.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Coach Pablo stands near a small table filled with trophies and two medals.
Coach Matt joins him. “Hope you all enjoyed the pizza!”
Everyone cheers, including the parents. Even Ammi smiles and calls out, “Very good!”
Coach Pablo puts on tiny reading glasses that I have never seen him wear and unfolds a piece of paper. He clears his throat. “It has been our distinct honor to work with your sons, and daughter”—he smiles at Jordan—“this season.”
Scattered laughter ripples through the room, and Jordan’s cheeks turn a pepperoni color.
Coach Matt nods. “Every one of you has worked your tail off this season, and it shows. The Cardinals had the winningest record this fall since I’ve been coaching, and the developmental team—our Phoenixes—came a long, long way.”
Coach Pablo picks up a trophy. “Okay, players, when I call your name, come on up and claim your well-earned trophy.”
When they get to my name, Ammi’s eyes shine and she claps the loudest. Once everyone has a trophy, two medals remain.
Coach Matt holds up a thick blue ribbon, a medal dangling from the end that glints as it catches the light. “This is the award for the most improved player of the season.”
Murmurs race around the table. For a second I wonder if it could be me, but I don’t think I have improved all that much. Henry has gotten a lot better, and he’s hoping the coaches will move him up to the Cardinals for the spring season. Everyone has improved, though, so I’m not sure who it will be.
Coach Matt waves everyone down to quiet. “I don’t think this will be a big surprise for anyone.” He nods. “This award is going to a player who, before July, had never even touched a baseball or a bat in his life.”
Everyone swivels around and grins at me. My heart fills all the way to the top as I take a shaky breath. Coach Matt gives me a thumbs-up and I give him one back. “This player continues to show up at every practice, at every scrimmage, and gives his best. If he keeps going at this rate, he’ll be unstoppable. Let’s hear it for our very own southpaw . . . Bilal!”
The room erupts into applause, and my legs feel wobbly as I make my way to the awards table. Coach Matt shakes my hand, and I bow my head as he puts the medal around my neck.
Coach Pablo motions for everyone to quiet down. With his hand on my shoulder, he says one more thing. “We’d l
ike to invite Bilal to play with the Cardinals in the spring.”
I am a Cardinal?
I am a Cardinal!
Everyone is on their feet, clapping and hollering just for me. I think of how loudly Daddo would cheer if she were here. Ammi’s eyes brim with tears. I look away from the pride on her face because I know she is thinking what I am thinking, that the only thing that would make this day better is to have Baba here.
As I make my way back to my seat, everyone’s hands are out for high fives, and I slap each one until I reach Ammi, who pulls me into a hug.
Jordan offers her high five over the table. “Way to go, Bilal!” Her grin is contagious, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
It’s a good thing that other lefty, Sebastian, picked some Maryland team over the Cardinals, or I might still be a Phoenix.
Coach Pablo picks up the next medal, and everyone quiets down. “This next one is for our MVP—most valuable player.”
The guys all lean forward in their chairs a centimeter or two. The Cardinals did so well this fall, and there are lots of players who could get this one.
Coach Pablo holds up the medal. “Although this award is called the Most Valuable Player, we want you to know we value each and every one of you.”
Coach Matt nods.
“That said, there is one player who stands out.” Coach Pablo takes a breath. “This player consistently performs well, consistently works hard, and consistently makes a difference on the scoreboard in each and every game.” He smiles. “Please join me in congratulating . . . Jordan!”
Jordan gasps. But instead of looking overjoyed, the color has drained from her face. Everyone claps and some even cheer, but the celebration is nothing compared to mine. No one stands.
Jordan’s mom throws her arms around her. “Oh, honey. I’m so proud. Your dad will be so proud!”
Jordan makes her way to the awards table. The clapping continues, and when she turns, her mom stands. I stand, too, and so do the parents. The rest of the team stands, one by one, but there is no whooping or hollering this time.
When she gets back to the table, I high-five Jordan, but Henry and the other guys don’t.
A Long Pitch Home Page 11
