“That’s an awful long way to go to church,” Michiko mused.
“Well,” Kiko said, “we will all have to go somewhere.”
Just then the wooden door opened and the crowd began to disperse. Most of them were speaking Japanese, which made it difficult for Michiko to understand. Whatever it was that they were discussing, it seemed important. Many walked with arms linked, deep in conversation. The crowd moved slowly toward their homes, replacing the sounds of the crickets.
“You won’t have to walk back,” Sadie announced as she left the building. “The truck was only half full. You can hitch a ride with us.” She took Michiko’s hand, beckoned to Sam, and pointed to the truck.
“Did you find it interesting?” asked Michiko.
“I’m not sure that is the correct word,” Sadie responded.
Michiko looked up at her aunt. Usually Sadie insisted Michiko know all about what was going on with their lives. When Michiko’s mother tried to cover the truth of their move, Sadie made sure Michiko understood it wasn’t just a holiday. Why was she being so secretive now?
Her father sat in the back of the truck with his head resting on the canvas side with his eyes closed. She knew what his answer would be if she asked him.
“Adult business,” he would say. “You stick to kid business.”
Chapter Eight
HOME RUN
Mr. Katsumoto took the class to the vacant lot for their first baseball lesson. He pulled a white cap from his back pocket and shoved it down on his head. A large white A was embroidered above the bright-red brim. One of the boys whispered, “Asahi,” and they all grinned.
Baseball was all they talked about.
Michiko had never even held a bat.
At first they stood in a circle and Mr. Katsumoto tossed the ball to each of them in turn. “Easy does it,” he coached them. “Just toss it back.” He threw the ball with a round, smooth motion. It reminded Michiko of the way her Uncle Ted cast his fishing rod, only upside down.
When the ball came Michiko’s way, she almost closed her eyes. But she caught it with both hands and smiled. The ball was a lot harder and heavier than it looked.
Mr. Katsumoto picked up the bat. “I’m going to teach you a game called Seven Up,” he explained. “For every ball you catch in the air, you get three points. If it hits the ground and bounces, you get two points. If you pick it up from the ground you get one point.”
The boys scrambled for position. Michiko realized this must have been what they were playing in the orchard.
He tossed the ball in the air and hit it toward them. “First one to get seven points becomes the next batter.”
It didn’t take long for Raymond to become batter. He caught two fly balls and a bouncer. He strutted up to the bat and clutched it with pride.
Michiko watched Kiko dart about the field, determined to be just as good. But when she shoved one of her classmates out of the way to catch the ball, Mr. Katsumoto whistled and shook his finger at her.
A louder whistle sounded in the distance. The train rumbled along the mountain, its massive headlight gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
“There’s our signal to stop,” Mr. Katsumoto called out. “School’s out for the day.”
The boys and girls raced back to the Hardware Store School to retrieve their belongings.
“Can’t we play a little while longer?” Michiko asked. “Kiko is going to wait for the truck and I only have to walk down the street.”
“Sure,” Mr. Katsumoto replied. “I’ll pick up my equipment on my way out.”
“You hit,” Michiko told Kiko, handing her the bat.
Kiko propped the bat over her shoulder. Michiko tossed the ball across the plate. Kiko swung before the ball arrived, lost her balance, and staggered. The ball dropped behind her. She turned and picked up the ball. “It’s too hard with only two people,” she complained.
“There’s Clarence,” Michiko said seeing him walk up from the tracks. “He can play with us.” She waved him over.
“What a nice day,” Clarence said sauntering toward them. “We should be fishing.”
It was true. On such a glorious July day everyone should be fishing. But the Japanese children had missed one whole year of school and they had to make it up.
“We need another person,” Michiko told him.
“Want to go fishing tomorrow?” Clarence asked.
Fishing when they should be in school? As pleasant as it sounded, it meant skipping. Michiko couldn’t imagine doing anything that reckless. “Wouldn’t Mr. Katsumoto get mad?”
“We could be sick for the day,” Kiko said, clearly in favour of the idea.
“We couldn’t bring our fishing rods to school.” Michiko protested.
“I got a couple stashed for a day just like this,” Clarence said. “Think about it.”
Michiko tossed the ball again. This time Kiko hit it. The ball hit the ground at Clarence’s feet and rolled though the grass. Clarence picked it up.
“Come on, Clarence,” Michiko said, “play with us.” She handed him the bat just as the security truck pulled up in front of the General Store.
Michiko sent a slow easy ball across the plate.
Clarence swung hard at the ball floating toward him, but nothing happened.
“Stee-rike one,” Mr. Hayashi called out. He had come out of the Mounted Police Station just in time to see it. “You gotta keep your eye on the ball.”
Clarence grinned. He beckoned Michiko to toss him the ball again and took the stance of a hitter. The ball came slow and low. Clarence swung hard. There was a loud crack. The ball ricocheted off the corner post of the station, landed on the roof of the truck, and bounced into the road.
Mr. Hayashi jumped into the road and retrieved it.
“Nice,” Mr. Katsumoto called as he walked toward them. “We’ll have to sign you up.”
Mr. Hayashi tossed the ball to Mr. Katsumoto. Michiko and Kiko watched in anticipation as their teacher moved to the pitcher’s mound. He stepped back, swung his arm as he took a step forward, and the ball left his hand. He threw hard and flat.
Clarence swung and the bat cracked for a second time.
The ball whistled past Michiko’s ear and rose straight out over the road.
Clarence looked at the bat in surprise. “Holy mackerel,” he murmured.
Everyone watched the ball disappear into the clouds before it sank into the lake.
“That one’s gone for good,” Mr. Katsumoto said, shielding his eyes with his hands.
“I’m really sorry,” Clarence murmured. “I’ll get you a new ball.”
Mr. Katsumoto looked at him and laughed. “Not until you run the bases,” he told him. “If you don’t do that, you’re out.”
Clarence dropped the bat and ran around the thin, worn line that connected the four patches of dirt. As he headed for home he looked up and grinned.
Michiko jumped up and down clapping her hands. Mr. Hayashi pounded the side of his truck door. Mr. Katsumoto walked over and offered Clarence his hand.
“You must play a lot,” he said to him with a grin.
“Nope,” Clarence replied. “I think it was beginner’s luck.”
“Well, if you are a beginner,” the baseball player said as he clapped his hand on Clarence’s shoulder, “I expect to see you here practising with the rest of us.”
“Would you?” Michiko asked.
Kiko pushed herself in between them. “He’s not Japanese,” she said in a peculiar voice.
Michiko turned to her in surprise. “What does that matter?’ she asked.
“It doesn’t,” Mr. Katsumoto said in a low voice. He turned to Kiko. “No haiseki in baseball,” he said in a firm way. Kiko dropped her head, turned, and ran to the truck.
“What did he mean?” Clarence asked.
“Mr. Katsumoto just wants Kiko to be a good sport,” Michiko said. It was something told to her as long as she could remember. She was never to do anything to make troub
le. Troublemakers shame a family.
That night Michiko told her father about playing baseball after school. “You should see Clarence hit,” she bragged, “even Mr. Hayashi was surprised.”
“You remember that squeeze play when the Asahi won the Terminal Championship?” her father asked Geechan. He took Geechan’s chopsticks along with his and made a diamond shape on the table. The salt and pepper shakers became pitcher and batter.
“Here we go again,” her mother said with a smile, “another moment in baseball history.”
Geechan looked at Michiko. “Your father could have been Asahi,” he told her. “They scout him.”
“You could have played baseball?” Michiko repeated in surprise. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was on the road,” was her father’s reply. “I needed the job for my family.”
The next afternoon when Clarence joined them on the field, the man from the General Store brought a chair outside to watch. Mr. Hayashi drove the truck in early. Even the Mountie on duty stuck his head out the door once or twice.
When Sam showed up, Clarence handed him the bat. He smiled and rolled up his sleeves.
Kiko dropped to the sidelines. “The adults are taking over,” she complained.
“I’ve got an idea,” Michiko whispered. “Our class should challenge them.”
“You mean like a real game?” Kiko asked in astonishment.
“You could even report on it for your father’s newspaper,” Mihiko suggested.
Mr. Katsumoto liked the idea a lot. He invited Mr. Sagara and Mr. Hayashi to be on the team. Michiko suggested her father and Uncle Ted.
“What will be the name of your team?” Mr. Katsumoto asked Kiko.
Kiko looked at Michiko and shrugged.
“I know,” Michiko said. “We can be the Main Street Team.”
“That makes us the Orchard Team,” Mr. Katsumoto responded.
The class practised after school and chose their best players.
The adults practised after dinner.
Geechan coached them all.
Chapter Nine
THE GAME
Michiko’s mother stuffed rice bags with newspaper for the bases. Ted erected a small wooden platform. On it he put three chairs and a small table. His carpentry business made all the chairs and tables for the people in the orchard.
The news had spread. Everyone was coming to watch the game.
Clarence and Michiko waited on the edge of the platform for the rest of the team to arrive. She noticed the little scars that marked his bare white knees. Close to him, Michiko could smell Clarence’s body. He had a woody smell, like a fireplace. It was not a bad smell, but a definite one. She knew her grandfather smelled of fish and soap and her mother of warm sweet baking. She guessed every person had a smell and wondered what hers might be.
Somewhere a cicada buzzed. Clarence looked at the clear cloudless sky. “Perfect day for baseball,” he said.
“Are you the boy who hit the ball into the lake?” a small Japanese man asked Clarence.
Clarence looked up in surprise and nodded.
“You can’t play without a glove,” the man said. He held out a baseball glove with fingers stitched and tied several times. “It’s good and solid,” he said, smacking the old leather mitt with his fist.
Clarence reached out to touch the smooth walnut brown leather.
“I polish it with oil once a week,” the man told him. “It’s old like me, but a classic.” He handed Clarence the glove. “Can’t play ball without a glove,” he repeated, walking away to join the gathering crowd.
Clarence stared up at the man in disbelief. Then he put the glove to his face, closed his eyes, and drank in the smell of leather.
Fine clouds of dust rolled up behind the wheels of an old lumber truck. Several men jumped out and unloaded chairs for those who needed to sit.
Behind it came the Security Commission truck. Kiko waved from the front as the rest of their team emptied out of the back. Then it turned around.
“I bet he’s going back for more people,” Clarence said miserably.
“Of course,” Michiko squealed, circling her arms in the air. “This is going to be big.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Morrison is going to come,” Clarence said. No sooner had he spoken than Bert’s familiar green pickup truck rounded the corner.
“Yoo-hoo,” their stout friend called out from the window, waving the tip of her knitted shawl. Mrs. Morrison’s rocking chair bounced about the truck bed as Bert pulled on to the field.
Sadie, waving madly, pointed to the truck. Michiko watched her family join Mrs. Morrison in the back. Geechan stumbled getting up, but her mother caught his arm.
Bert ambled off to the crowd of townsfolk gathering nearby.
“Good luck,” Michiko whispered to Clarence. Kiko beckoned, paper and pencil in hand.
As Michiko headed toward the truck, two boys from her school were walking beside her. She couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.
“He can’t just push us around like that,” the small one complained.
The bigger boy got in front of him and took hold of him by the shoulder. “Listen,” he said, giving the small boy a shake, “you should have just kept quiet.”
“All I said was he never played baseball,” the small boy grumbled.
“That George kid doesn’t want to have anything to do with us,” the bigger boy explained. “You should have walked away.”
“All I said was the truth,” the small boy protested in anger. “You can tell by the way he threw the ball into the bushes he’d never played baseball. What’s wrong with telling the truth?”
“That’s why he shoved you in the dirt. You can’t make fun of hakujin.”
“George …” Michiko repeated. “Excuse me,” she said, turning to the boys, “was it George King? Was he the boy you had a problem with?”
“All I know is his first name is George,” the bigger boy said. “He hates Japanese.”
“He knocked me down when I tried to get my ball back,” the little boy complained. “He said it was his ball, because it was on his property and his family owned the whole town.”
“I tried to make him give it back,” his older brother said. “He shoved me too.”
Michiko nodded in sympathy as a roar went up from the crowd. Kaz Katsumoto had mounted the platform. The boys and Michiko rushed to watch the game.
Mr. Hayashi picked up the megaphone and welcomed the crowd. Mr. Katsumoto and Raymond, their team captain, flipped a coin. Everyone took their places. As she settled herself in the back of the truck, Michiko refused to think about George anymore.
“Stepping up to the plate is Kobe Arai,” the announcer called out. “Pitching for the adult team is Kaz Katsumoto, known to many as the ‘Man with the Golden Arm.’”
“I didn’t know that,” Kiko exclaimed, writing rapidly. Then she put the end of the pencil in her mouth and chewed it nervously as she watched.
Kaz Katsumoto rolled the ball in his fingers. Then he readied himself, reared back, and fired the ball toward the plate. SAAAWAAK was all they heard. The ball hit the catcher’s glove right in the centre of the pocket.
“Stee-rike one,” the umpire called out.
“Here comes the pitch,” the announcer told the crowd. “Arai swings. Ladies and gentlemen, kiss it goodbye.”
The crowd whooped, whistled, and clapped as Kobe ran home.
“First ball to find its way into the lake,” the announcer commented.
“The second ball into the lake,” Michiko said smugly. “Clarence’s was first.”
“Clarence the Red is a hard hitter and a skilled outfielder,” the announcer said.
Clarence shot a nervous look at the crowd.
“Clare-ence, Clare-ence,” the kids from town shouted from the roof of the General Store.
“Hi, Clarence,” Hiro’s small voice called out. The crowd chuckled.
Clarence raised his eyes to the sky and then faced
the pitcher.
Michiko glanced at Geechan. “He looks scared,” she said. Her grandfather patted her shoulder, keeping his eyes on the boy.
From a full windup, Mr. Katsumoto shot one across the plate. Clarence watched it go past for a called strike.
The next pitch flew across his knees for strike two. The third pitch whizzed in like an arrow. It looked slightly high, but Clarence swung.
“You’re out!” said the umpire.
A huge sigh came from the crowd.
Clarence slung his bat in despair.
Michiko watched him walk back to the bench, head bowed. “He feels bad,” she said.
“What do you expect?” Kiko said. She bent her head and wrote with fury. “He’s playing against Asahi!”
Michiko saw Raymond put his hand on Clarence’s shoulder and speak. Clarence nodded, even though he seemed occupied with the webbing on his glove.
Raymond went to bat. He managed a pop fly but the fielder caught it.
“They’re pulling down balls like bees to honey,” Kiko commented in Japanese as she wrote. Geechan nodded and smiled.
The adults went up to bat.
“Here’s a man that followed the dream of every young boy. He wore the Asahi uniform at the age of nine.” The announcer introduced Kaz Katsumoto. “Katsumoto started out as a Clover, became a Beaver, worked his way through the Athletics, and is here today as Asahi.”
Kiko wrote as quickly as she could.
Kaz Katsumoto went to bat. He smashed the first pitch deep to the left field where it ricocheted off the front of the General Store. The boys from the orchard, lining the field, yelled and cheered as Kaz Katsumoto made his way home.
Michiko watched the baseball streak toward her Uncle Ted. It dropped into the catcher’s glove. “Stee-rike one,” the umpire called out. The next pitch was faster. Ted didn’t look at anyone else except the pitcher. The ball smacked into the catcher’s glove.
“Stee-rike two,” was the call.
On the third pitch Ted hit it up the middle. The pitcher dove but missed the ball. When he finally threw it to first the baseman caught it with a loud plop, but too late to tag the runner.
Cherry Blossom Winter Page 4
