by Jenny Manzer
I put my Blue Jays cap in my baseball bag and pulled on my new Redburn Ravens one. It fit just right. I jumped into all the practice drills. I jogged, I hit, I threw, and then I sprinted bases. I felt like me in my boy clothes. I felt like me in my boy walk, slouchy and low to the ground. I forgot all my worries about school, and where I would go to the bathroom, and whether anyone would ever find out my secret. When it was my turn to hit pitches from Coach Vij, I stood at home plate and found my spot in the box. I was ready. Pop, crack, pop.
“Nice job, Caspar. You’ve got fast wrists.”
I just smiled and helped collect the stray balls. My dad told me it’s good to be humble because there is no I in team. I knew the other boys would be sizing me up.
After practice I walked home with Hank. He talked nonstop about the coach, our team and our chances for the season.
“Dude,” he said. “With Gus’s swing and your arm, we are sooo going to beat the Rockets this season.”
“It’s just summer ball.” I shrugged, trying to keep it cool. I liked to win, but more than that I wanted to be part of a team that worked together. It sucked to feel like you were the only one trying.
“The Rockets hate the Ravens. There’s always this thing about which team is best in Redburn. The other teams don’t matter that much.”
“I get it,” I said. Rivalry in the neighborhood. It made sense.
“Hoo-hoo,” Hank said. “We are going to be kings of the diamond.” He held up a fist for me to bump.
I bumped back. I was glad he was excited. But, as Nana always reminded me, you should never count your Ws before the end of the ninth.
That night I finally got a message from Matt, via my dad’s email. My dad let me sit at his computer in the office, which was still filled with boxes. He left me alone to read it.
Dear Caz,
How is Washington? Do you like your new house?
I played in a Fun Tournament. It wasn’t that fun. It was a blowout and not for my side.
How is your swing? I got a new Xbox game called Field Day where robots attack during a baseball game. Do you root for the Mariners now?
We all miss you.
Write back,
Matt
I read it twice, and then read the third-to-last line three times. We all miss you. I wondered who really missed me. Matt did. We’d been best friends since first grade. Whenever we’d gone away, his family had looked after J.R. for us. He’d stood up for me when no one else did. Well, most of the time.
“Dad,” I called, “can we Skype with Matt?” On our last night in Toronto, we’d had a barbecue with Matt’s family, and he and I had both cried. Then our moms had hugged each other and cried. We’d promised we would write and Skype.
My dad appeared at the door, balancing a bowl of ice cream on one palm.
“I’m sorry, Caz. It’s way too late in Toronto. Matt will be asleep. Another time, okay?”
“Okay.”
He disappeared again, the sound of a spoon clattering. I started to write an email back, to assure Matt my swing was fine and that I still rooted for the Jays. Then I remembered walking into Matt’s kitchen the night of the barbecue to get us some sodas. The screen door was propped open. Matt’s mom and my mom were leaning against the counter, talking, wineglasses in hand.
“It’s going to be so hard, Elaine,” my mom had said. It came out more like a sob.
Matt’s mom had hugged my mom, and the white wine sloshed in their glasses.
“Maybe,” said Matt’s mom. “But you are all more than up for it, especially that great kid of yours.”
I’d crept back out to Matt’s backyard, my bare feet tickled by the dry summer grass.
“Where are the sodas?” he asked.
I shrugged, not able to say.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” he blurted.
I’d stared at him for a second. He looked scared, like I was going to yell at him.
“Me too,” I said.
We’d ended up bouncing on Matt’s trampoline, chucking Wiffle balls at each other and laughing like five-year-olds. When it got dark and the parents were still talking, Matt and I had lain on the trampoline, looking up at the sky. I’d wondered if the stars would look different in Washington and if I would meet another friend with a trampoline. Then I had felt bad for thinking that, as if I were forgetting about Matt already.
Second Inning
Game day. I could tell right away that the Redburn Rockets were a tight team. The first thing I saw when I got to the park was player number 9 cranking a ball their coach had pitched. The coach had one of those big, thick beards that are in style—or, at least, that lots of guys wear. When number 9 turned around, he caught me watching and saluted.
“Watch and learn,” he said to me through the wire fence.
It was that kid from the tryout, the one who had switched the For Sale sign on the cars. Kyle something. I held his stare for a moment so he would know I wasn’t afraid of him. Then I went and found the Ravens dugout. The ground was sprinkled with sunflower shells from the last game. Baseball players are crazy for sunflower seeds. My mom hates finding the shells in the laundry.
I was the fourth to arrive. A.J., Coach Vij and Oscar were already there, tossing the ball.
“Caspar! Excellent. You can partner up with Oscar and do some grounders. But first, can you take the batting order over to the scoring booth for me?” The batting order was usually scratched on a slip of paper in pencil, old school, in case some kid didn’t show up at the last minute.
“Yes, Coach.” I ran to climb the stairs to the little booth behind home plate. Hustle is important. I took a peek at the paper and saw my name in the ninth position. I’d get fewer at-bats. But that was okay. I was the new kid. I’d have to prove myself to the coach and everyone else who had played the previous year. A man sat at a table by the window overlooking home plate. He was bent over a laptop, frowning.
“Coach wanted me to give you the batting order,” I said, holding out the paper.
“Thanks. I’m Kent Budworth, scorekeeping for the Rockets. I’m just trying to get this app started up. And you are…?”
He smiled at me. He was wearing those glasses that change in shade or light.
“Caspar Cadman. I play for the Ravens. We just moved here.”
“Well, welcome to Redburn. And good luck today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Budworth,” I said, then headed back to our dugout.
Oscar had spotted a wasp zagging at him and was running around like it was a yellow ball of fire. He was wearing the short baseball pants, the ones Nana said looked like knickers. I tried not to stare as his legs eggbeatered away from that wasp.
“I’m all-er-gic!” he shouted.
Oscar had a lot going on. But he was super quick. He’d be a natural for stealing bases. It was good to have someone fast. Oscar was a little unusual, but his speed could definitely be an asset.
The rest of my team showed up pretty much all at once. We lined up for drills—kicking our heels to our behinds, then swinging our legs forward to touch our toes. I was learning names. Besides Hank, A.J., big Gus and Oscar, there was a guy named Patrick who was apparently a wicked pitcher. And Kahlil, Dwight and Jerome. Not bad, eh? I have a good memory for names and statistics. If you ever need an answer to a baseball trivia question, try “Joe DiMaggio.” It’s as good a guess as any.
We were the home team, so we were out on the field first. I was playing left field, which was fine by me. Best to stay in the background for a bit. Patrick was on the mound. If the Rockets were so tough, I assumed Coach Vij would be hoping for a strong start to set the tone. Patrick struck out the first batter after what my old coach would have called a “battle royale” at bat. The player, who was small but scrappy, kept fouling off. The sound was like a kernel popping.
The second batter, wearing a bright orange helmet, got thunked on the elbow as he turned, which earned him a hit by pitch. One on first. One out. The next batter hit a hoppe
r toward third base, which Gus bumbled, allowing the runner to reach first. Double bummer. There were two batters on base and only one out. We needed to get some outs fast.
Up next was someone I recognized: Kyle Loudmouth. He was batting cleanup, the number four spot. Maybe Kyle was as good as his swagger suggested. Coach Vij gave the outfielders a wave to back up—heavy hitter. I could see Patrick was rattled. He stopped to take several deep breaths. Kyle, who looked more like thirteen than under eleven, stood away from the plate and took a practice swing. It was a good cut, like a hungry giant swiping the air with a spoon. Patrick threw hard. Swinging strike. I had a bad feeling about this Kyle guy.
Ball, ball, ball. C’mon, Patrick, I thought, don’t let him on your island. Steel and oak, steel and oak.
Patrick threw a sinker. Kyle took a massive swing and fouled it out over the fence, the ball thumping the top of a gray minivan with a convincing crack, causing the van’s alarm to go off.
“Son of a monkey!” an adult shouted, jumping from the bleachers and sprinting to the van. Now that was hustle.
Score that one as an error on the minivan owner.
We were at a full count, three balls and two strikes. Things were about to get interesting. Patrick wound up and launched a missile. Kyle, out of chances, swung, and when I heard the ball make contact I started moving. I had a feeling. I tracked the ball as I ran, my glove at the ready. The ball soared toward the top of the wire fence. Just as it was about to clear the fence, I sprung up into the air and stretched my glove like someone reaching for an apple at the top of the tree. I fell to the ground, hard, but kept my glove in the air, still squeezing the ball. I sprang to my feet and threw as I hard as I could, all the way to third. It wasn’t my best throw, but Gus was tall enough to snag it.
“Tag him!” A.J. called from right field. Gus remembered what to do and chased the runner who had tagged up at second. The orange-helmet runner froze seeing Gus charging at him. Gus made the tag.
“Yessss!” I heard someone shout, probably Hank. “Double play!”
The inning was over. I had made my first play and my first double play. Judging by the look Kyle shot me as he went to the dugout, I had also made my first enemy.
Kyle made sure I knew what he thought of my messing up his home run. In the third inning he hit me on the shoulder with a pitch. In the fourth inning, when I was playing second base, he knocked me to the ground while he was running, even though I wasn’t on the base path. The ump didn’t call it, because why would Kyle have done it on purpose? Anyone who thinks baseball is non-contact should watch Kyle and the Rockets play. Hank had warned me how rough they were. It was a frustrating game. In the sixth inning an ump called a Rocket safe when he stole home, even though A.J., who was playing catcher, had clearly made the tag. The kicker was when I made a throw to Oscar at first base just as an airplane flew overhead. Oscar looked up to the sky, and the ball thumped past him.
“You catch like a girl!” I heard someone shout from the Rockets dugout.
“Hey!” their coach shouted. “There’ll be none of that.”
In the final count we lost to the Rockets 15 to 9. Not quite a blowout, but not good either. We had some strikeouts, a few groundouts and a couple of pop outs. We just couldn’t get our bats together. So much for hitting the sticks. It was more like getting hit with sticks.
“You made some great plays out there, Ravens. You’re starting to act like a team. Gus, Caz, your double play was awesome. I like the way you’re talking to each other, calling the ball, backing each other up. We’ve got some work to do on our hitting, but hey, I’m here all summer.”
I could cope with losing. I didn’t like it, but it happened. I dreaded having to tell my parents though. My dad had been working, and I’d asked my mom to sit this one out—it would have amped my nerves. I didn’t want to relive the whole thing.
“Great game today, Caz,” said A.J. as we gathered up all the equipment. “That was some catch.”
“Thanks. That was a monster double you had in the third.”
I had missed talking baseball. Hank appeared, reading the joke on a Double Bubble wrapper. He handed a piece of gum to A.J. and one to me. We unwrapped and bit into the gum, which was like hard pink concrete. While we chewed, we had to endure one last cheer from the Rockets.
“We’re Rockets, we rule! We’re taking you to school!
“We can’t be beat, so take a seat. We’ll show you who’s the boss.”
“That doesn’t rhyme,” noted A.J., producing a bubble the size of a grapefruit. He had big brown eyes and long dark eyelashes that Grandma Ames would have said were wasted on a boy.
“Last year they had a cheer about kicking teams in the butt, but Coach Cronck made them change it,” added A.J.
“What’d they rhyme butt with?” asked Hank.
“Let’s just get going,” I said to him, shouldering my baseball bag. It was red and white, with my last name stitched on the side. It had been a special bag for the Red Devils. I’d “played up” because I’d only been nine and most of the others were ten.
“Cool bag, Cadman,” said A.J. and ran off to join Coach Vij at their car.
The Rockets were finally done celebrating, and Kyle sauntered past. He was slurping from a green Gatorade water bottle that had Budworth written on it in black marker. Then I realized that Mr. Budworth, the guy in the score booth, must be his dad.
“Nice game, ladies,” Kyle said to us as he went by, swinging his water bottle. For some boys, calling someone a girl is the worst thing they can come up with. Don’t guys have a mom? I had nothing against girls. I just knew I was a boy.
“Ya wanna walk home together?” asked Hank.
“Sure,” I said. And for once we didn’t even talk about baseball. Hank had a lot to say about rock-climbing, something else he apparently excelled at, and he gave me the rundown on the teachers at Redburn Elementary, even though school was the last thing I wanted to think about.
When we got to my house, J.R. was peering out the living-room picture window, which meant he must be up on the couch. He’d get in trouble for that. He disappeared from view, probably to race to the door to greet me. He’d seemed a bit nervous since we left Toronto. It was the only home he’d ever known too.
“See ya, Caz,” said Hank. “Hey, my parents say you can come sleep over sometime.”
“Cool,” I said, but my stomach flopped over. “I’ll ask my mom.”
We did a fist bump.
My mom asked me all kinds of questions about the game, no doubt trying to gauge if the kids were being nice to me. Yes, unless you counted Kyle—but I wasn’t going to mention him. She worried.
When it was time for bed, I got into my favorite striped pajamas. J.R. sauntered in to flop down by my bed. I thought about how baseball was always a game of “what ifs.” What if I hadn’t swung at that junk pitch? What if I hadn’t popped out to close that inning? What if the ump had called that ball a strike? What if, what if, what if? A lot of baseball couldn’t be controlled.
What if I had just been born a boy? Would I still be me, Caspar? What if Hank somehow discovered the truth at a sleepover? J.R. let out a loud snore. He was pretty lucky to be able to fall asleep without any “what ifs.” J.R. was a good example of how to be super chill. He always made me feel better, and he was always my friend, no matter how I hit or what I wore or even how I smelled. That was the best way for a friend to be.
Third Inning
Coach Vij gave us a pep talk. It was totally inspirational, like a YouTube clip or something. Best of all, I knew he meant it. For his day job, Coach Vij was a real estate agent. His signs were all over Redburn. But you could tell he lived and breathed baseball. And if he had to put up with odd ducks like Oscar or even Dwight (who had tried to sneak a Game Boy into the dugout), so be it. We’d already faced the toughest team in the division, the rival Rockets, so I think Coach figured we might come out with a W against the Belleford Bruins. I was a little punchy because my mom and dad
were in the stands. Dad had joked that he was going to live-tweet it for Nana Cadman.
“Take a knee,” said Coach Vij after we’d finished our warm-up.
Most of the team sat down, their ankles against their behinds.
“One knee!” said Coach Vij, looking exasperated. He waited while everyone adjusted.
“Ravens,” he began, “are not strong or big, but they are wily creatures.”
“I saw a nature special on them!” shouted Oscar, who seemed to have no sense of volume with his voice. “They can play xylophones!”
“Not now, Oscar,” said Coach Vij, waving his hands for emphasis. I could totally imagine him selling houses. “Ravens use their skills. They don’t need to be big, because they are highly intelligent.”
I saw where this was going. We weren’t a team of big guys, except for Gus. I was pretty tall, but no one would call me stocky.
“Ravens also thrive by working together. They adapt, and they even show empathy to each other.”
“I’m here for you, Caz,” cooed Jerome, who was kneeling at my side. Jerome was always horsing around. He did show signs of being a good player when he paid attention.
“I want you all to play like Ravens,” said Coach Vij, ignoring Jerome. “You play smart, you use your skills, you work as a team, and you support each other.”
I raised my hand. “Ravens are tricksters,” I said, remembering a First Nations story we’d read in school.
“Exactly,” said Coach Vij. “Let’s keep them off-balance. Let’s surprise them with how well we play as a team.”
We leaned in for a cheer. “Goooo, Ravens!” We were the visitors today, so first to bat. Hank and Oscar were at the top of the order. While Oscar was putting on his helmet, I made a small suggestion.
“Hey, O, remember how we practiced bunts? You might want to try one today unless Coach gives you a sign. You’re so fast, dude.”
Oscar nodded, his face bleached of color. He got super nervous before he batted. I hadn’t seen him make contact in a game yet.
