My Life as a Diamond

by Jenny Manzer

  “Look,” said Hank, tossing the bread into the wire wastebasket by the bench. He made that play at least. Maybe he was better at basketball. “I’m willing to let you be on my crew, but I need to know one thing.”

  I waited. Hank had a crew?

  “Do you like the Texas Rangers?”

  “I detest the Texas Rangers,” I said. Nana Cadman says the key to relationships is honesty. A Texas Ranger pitcher once grabbed a Blue Jays rally towel at a Toronto game and pretended to use it to wipe his butt. Not cool. The Houston Astros were fine. Rangers, nope.

  “Same,” said Hank, satisfied. “We’re the exact same.”

  “We’re not,” I said. “I’m a Blue Jays fan.”

  “That where you’re from, Toronto?”

  “Yep. Thereabouts.”

  “I could tell that you had an accent.”

  I did not have an accent. Or did I? What did a Canadian accent sound like?

  “Listen,” I said. “You can always improve your hitting. You want me to throw you a few?”

  “If you’re not too afraid of my heat.” Hank was grinning. I guess he wanted someone to play with too.

  “I think I’ll be okay,” I said. “Let’s go to my house and get my bat and glove.” It was the first time I had referred to the new place as “my house.”

  On the way Hank chattered away like a junior sportscaster, telling me all about the neighborhood kids and the ball clubs. He launched into a long story about this walk-off home run he had scored at the end of the regular season. I wondered if it really had been a home run he wished he’d scored. It was hard to tell. Tryouts for summer ball were in two days, he said. I got that part loud and clear.

  Sometimes I thought my braid was still there on my back, and I’d feel to make sure it was gone. I liked my short hair. I felt best of all when I was in my baseball gear—long pants, baseball jersey, ballcap and cleats. I had the real deal too, baseball cleats, not the ones for soccer. The spikes on baseball cleats remind me of shark’s teeth.

  “You look ready to play,” my dad said, smiling. He always said that having the right uniform was an important part of baseball.

  He wore a baseball cap too—a battered one with the Chicago Cubs logo. I was okay with it, at least until playoff time, because the Cubs were in a different division than the Jays.

  “I am,” I said. Baseball was all about confidence. You had to believe you could do it, to see yourself completing a play even before it happened. Confidence without swagger. You had to keep them guessing.

  The tryouts were later that day, at a bigger park a few miles outside of Redburn. Hank told me he’d be there, ready to hit the sticks. (His words. I think Hank swallowed a baseball dictionary and just burps this stuff out.)

  Summer ball was supposed to be more relaxed, but it never really was. Everyone would be eyeing up the contenders for the spring league. I wasn’t worried. This was my chance to show the other kids that I could play.

  The phone rang just as we were leaving for the tryouts, which made me jump. Guess I was more nervous than I thought. I was standing in the hall, making sure I had everything packed in my baseball bag.

  “Caspar, phone for you,” called Mom from the living room.

  “Who is it?” I felt bad thinking it, but I hoped it wasn’t my grandma and grandpa Ames, my mom’s parents. My grandma didn’t know why I insisted on dressing like a boy when she sent me all those pretty dresses in the mail. My grandpa, a retired Navy captain, thought baseball was a good way to get some fresh air but otherwise a waste of time. We didn’t visit with them very often. Now that Grandpa was retired they spent a lot of time planning cruises and doing stuff with their church.

  “It’s Nana,” my mom said, appearing in the hallway. “She wants to talk to you.”

  My mom handed me the phone before heading down to the basement, where the dryer was buzzing.

  “Well, hello. Is this Miss Delish?” I heard.

  It was my Nana Cadman, my dad’s mom. She was a smoker once and still had a raspy voice. She’d made me promise never to smoke, and I told her the only thing that would be smoking was the end of my bat, which made her laugh. I liked making her laugh. She was one of my favorite people. And she loved baseball.

  “Na-na,” I scolded. I’d asked her not to call me that anymore. She’d been calling me Miss Delish since I was tiny.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “Old habits die hard.” I could hear her rickety fan whirring in the background. My dad had asked her to move to Redburn too, but she didn’t want to leave all her Toronto friends, especially her bridge group.

  “That’s okay, Nana.” You just had to roll with Nana. We’d all learned that.

  “Did you get the book I sent you?”

  “Yes, I love it.” It was by my bed in my new room: The Biggest Book of Baseball. She’d mailed it so it would be waiting for me at my new address.

  “Just wanted to wish you good luck before the tryouts, sweetie.” Nana sounded sad. She used to come to all my games. I still wished she would change her mind and move to Redburn. I wished Matt would too. There was only the one time he kinda let me down. I found it hard to imagine a world where he wasn’t my friend.

  “It’s just summer ball, Nana.”

  “Show ’em what you’re made of,” she said, ignoring my words. Once Nana got on a roll, she was like someone riding a shopping cart down a hill—safest to let her finish.

  “There are only two seasons, winter and baseball,” she continued. “Bill Veeck said that. You know who he was?”

  “Mrs. Veeck’s son?”

  “No, smarty-pants. He was a ball-club owner. Champion of the little guy.” Nana loved champions of the little guy.

  “Nana, I think I’d better go. Tryouts start in half an hour.”

  “Okay, sunshine. Call me later and tell me how it went. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Nana.”

  After putting down the phone, I picked up one of the photo albums from the pile my mom was organizing. It read Baby’s First Year. My mom liked to make prints of photos. She was old-fashioned that way. She rolled her own piecrusts and read real books too. She said she liked to hold things in her hands. I opened the first page, and there was tiny, rosy-skinned me, wrapped in a flannel towel, a yellow one because they hadn’t known if I would be a boy or a girl. There were photos of me with my mom, my dad, Nana and Granddad Cadman before he died of colon cancer.

  There was a photo of me as a baby, wearing a bib that said Baby’s First Christmas. Grandma Ames, my mom’s mom, was holding me tucked close to her chest, and Grandpa Ames was next to her, his hand on her shoulder. He was smiling like I was the best thing invented since ice cream.

  I hoped that one day they would love me again the way they had when I was a baby.

  “Sure I can’t stay?” asked my dad, standing by our station wagon. He still had his Cubs cap on. He’d worn it forever, through all their losing years. He squinted in the sun, which was strong and warm. Maybe summer would come to rainy Redburn after all.

  “No, Dad, but thanks.” Having him there would make me more nervous. It was only summer ball, but the tryouts were held at a big park with a lot of kids. It seemed airport-busy. At least I knew the people in this town took their baseball seriously.

  “I’ll pick you up at three,” he said again. He’d said that at least four times on the ride there, past all the malls and gas stations and fast-food joints. I scanned the field. Coaches in ballcaps paced around, carrying pylons and buckets of balls. Mothers and fathers chased after little brothers and sisters. Parents and kids were already warming up, playing catch. Typical tryout.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.”

  “Okay, Caspar,” my dad said. I liked hearing him say my new name.

  “Okay,” I said, more to myself than anyone. I tucked in my Red Devils team jersey. I still loved it. It was thin and light and cherry red. Plus, we’d taken the crown, winning our area championships the previous year for our age group. They’d be
the team to beat this summer. But I wouldn’t be there to play third base.

  “Go get ’em,” my dad said, smiling, but behind the smile I could see a ripple of concern. My parents often looked at me that way now. I knew they were worried. Nana told me we all have our path to walk. I wished she would remind them.

  As soon as my dad drove off, I felt sad. I should have told him to stay. There were lots of parents pacing around in tracksuits and yoga pants, most of them glancing at their palms every few seconds as if they were holding the key to the universe and not a smartphone.

  “Ethan hit .400 in the spring season,” one dad told another dad, not looking up from his phone.

  I noticed one kid, super tall, striding into the parking lot. He wore black Converse high-tops instead of cleats. I watched as he stuck his arm in the open window of a black minivan and grabbed a For Sale sign from the back. He then placed it on top of a white sports car.

  The boy caught me watching. He turned and scowled.

  “What’re you looking at?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. “Just getting in the zone.”

  “Yeah, well, get out of my zone,” he said, bumping me with his baseball bag as he passed.

  Don’t let them mess with you, Cadman. Steel and oak. That’s what I tell myself in my head sometimes. I imagine I’m made of steel or oak inside, sturdy and strong. No room for butterflies. I saw it in a baseball video online, how you can get rid of nerves by telling yourself you are made of tough materials. The idea is that if the brain believes, the performance will follow, or something like that.

  I walked up to the table of volunteers with clipboards and told them my name.

  “Caspar Cadman. That’s a great baseball name, honey,” said the lady with all the forms. She was wearing a tennis outfit, visor and all, which made me question her commitment to baseball. “Caspar, you can start at the batting station.”

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the number she gave me to wear. We’d be tested, given points for our various skills and then assigned to teams. I knew the drill. Baseball is baseball. It’s the same all over the world, which is kind of cool. I don’t speak Spanish, but I bet I could still play a game of scrub with a kid from the Dominican Republic, no problem.

  “Great baseball name, honey!” a voice behind me said in a fake falsetto.

  I walked past Converse Guy, careful not to bump him with my baseball bag even though I was tempted. Let your game do your talking, my dad always said.

  “Kyle Budworth,” Converse Guy told the volunteers at the table. He was big. It was hard to believe he was U-11.

  I went to the batting station and stood in line. When it was my turn in the cage, I hit every ball that came at me, pop, pop, pop. When I left the cage I noticed Hank in line. I gave him a wave, still wearing my batting glove. Hank raised one hand in greeting and gave me a nervous smile. I wondered if we were friends.

  First Inning

  I was outside, throwing against my rebounder net, when I found out I was part of a team again. My dad wandered out to the driveway with his phone to read me the email. I was now one-tenth of the Redburn Ravens.

  My new coach’s name was Vijay Goel. His son was Arjun. My dad read out the rest of the team names. One was familiar—Hank Ottenburg.

  “I know him,” I said. Throw, bounce, catch. The rebounder net looked like something Spiderman would spin.

  “Yeah? He any good?”

  “He thinks he’s good.” Then I felt bad for saying that, because I’d liked Hank. He was goofy, but in a positive way.

  “Well, I’m glad you’ll have a friend.”

  I shrugged. We’d played catch at the park a couple of times. Hank had tried to show me how to do some grips for pitches, as if we didn’t have them in Canada.

  My dad and I sometimes have trouble talking since I made the change. Mostly when we hang out, we throw the ball, or he pitches to me so I can practice batting. I imagine he wishes things were different. I wish that too sometimes. But wishing things are different never works.

  “First practice is tomorrow,” said my dad. “I’ll be working, but your mom will take you.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, keeping my face neutral. I was nervous about practice—about how I would play and whether any of the kids would know I was different.

  “Want to go to the park and hit a few before I have to go to work?”

  “Sure,” I said, straightening my Jays cap. I hoped the Ravens’ team uniforms weren’t yellow. For some reason I had this idea that yellow was bad luck.

  After dinner I overheard part of a conversation I wished I hadn’t. My mom was sitting on her bed, talking to her parents, Grandma and Grandpa Ames. She didn’t notice me standing in the doorway. I knew there had been some discussion of them coming to visit around Canada Day, which of course was not a big deal in the U.S. of A. But July 1 had come and gone.

  “Mom, Dad, if you’re going to visit, you have to respect Caspar’s wishes. It’s his life. No dresses, no comments about his hair…No, Dad, it’s the way he feels.”

  There was a long pause.

  “When you both come on the line like this, I feel that you’re ganging up on me.”

  Miss Linda had told us to try to express ourselves this way—“When you do this, I feel that.” It was part of effective communication, she said.

  My grandpa’s voice got so loud I could hear it through the phone. He was probably talking about God. He credited God for helping him get through some tough times when he was in the Navy.

  “Dad,” she sighed. “I really need you to support me on this.” My mom jammed her fingers into her hair and rubbed her scalp, as if trying to erase something in her head.

  “Mom,” she said, trying another route. “When Cassandra was three, she asked me to put her back in my tummy. She said something had gone wrong.” Her voice caught like a shawl snagging on a nail.

  My mom stopped. Grandpa was probably interrupting. He always interrupted. My mom told me that when she was a kid he’d return home from being out at sea and act like life hadn’t gone on while he was away. As if the whole world had stopped until he came back.

  “We’d rather have a happy boy than a miserable girl,” my mom said. I could tell by her tone that it was her final word, at least for the moment. “Mom, Dad, I can’t talk anymore right now. Let me know when you’re ready to listen.”

  And she hung up. Then she cupped her hands and held her face there, as if her head was just so heavy. I crept away so she wouldn’t know I’d been there. I found J.R. dozing in a spot of sun by the back door. I lay down beside him, and he thumped his tail. I felt bad that my mom was fighting with Grandma and Grandpa, but I was happy she’d stuck up for me. J.R. sighed like he’d had a really hard day, even though all he’d done was sleep. I wondered if he was bored. I stroked the velvety spot on his nose.

  “Ya wanna go out, boy?” I asked him, and J.R.’s whole body came alive, starting with his tail. I went to get his leash. Keeping J.R. happy was so simple.

  The next day I discovered that the Ravens’ uniforms were black and red. The coach tossed them to us one by one. Two of the kids missed the catch. I tried not to worry that they bobbled a slow-moving T-shirt coming at them. Coach Vijay Goel had a brown, smiling face and a bucketful of baseballs. He said we could call him Coach Vij.

  We all stood around in a circle to get the team details. The first practice is always boring stuff like schedules and uniforms and which parents are going to do scorekeeping and field prep and on and on. The practice was at the same park where I’d met Hank, so just a few blocks from my new house. The league was co-ed, but there were no girls on the Ravens that I could see. Maybe there were some on the other Redburn team, which was called the Rockets. The other teams in the league were from the surrounding suburbs and made up of any other kids who wanted to play ball on the off-season. If you thought there was an off-season, unlike Nana.

  “What’s the first rule of Ravens baseball?” asked Coach Vij, surveyi
ng the group. I noticed Hank fiddling with his Mariners cap.

  “Don’t talk about Ravens baseball!” shouted one kid. He was small and pale, and I didn’t hold out high hopes for him. It wasn’t his build or his Fight Club joke that I found discouraging. It was the way he’d been picking at the grass and stretching his gum out of his mouth. I pegged him as a kid whose parents made him play. That’s the worst. Their parents don’t want them glued to Minecraft all summer, so some baseball team gets them. They sit down and rest in the outfield and spend the whole time in the dugout talking about what they’re going to buy from the concession when the game is over. Not that I am against a killer hot dog and a freezie, but still.

  “No, Oscar, the first rule is that we have fun.”

  “Knew it!” shouted Hank, suddenly awakening from his zombie trance. The names went by so fast that I didn’t catch them all, except for Oscar, Arjun (the coach’s kid—everyone called him A.J.) and Hank, of course. There was a big guy named Gus. I hoped he could hit. Every team needs power hitters. I was good at making contact, but I couldn’t always belt it. My super power was that I had fast wrists. Every coach had told me so.

  “So,” Coach Vij was saying, “my parents loved baseball, and now both my kids love baseball. My wife plays, my little daughter plays, and A.J. here, of course. The Goel family is usually on a ball diamond somewhere. I even proposed to my wife at Dodger Stadium. We got on the kiss cam.”

  “Dad!” said A.J., looking like he’d just found a nest of baby rats in his lunch bag. Like the team didn’t need to hear about that romantic stuff.

  “Sorry! Okay, team, time to get moving! A.J., you hand out the hats. Let’s start things off with a jog to warm up, and then we’ll review the basics. Meat-and-potatoes baseball—catching, throwing and batting.”

  “Coach Vij,” said Oscar, shooting his arm up. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  Why did that not surprise me? He looked like someone who could use a real hot dog.

  “That’s okay, Oscar,” said Coach Vij, sighing. “It’s just an expression.”