by Jenny Manzer
“Hoo. If that was a meatball, it was flaming!” yelled Gus, loud enough for the Rockets to hear.
“New team name!” shouted Hank. “The Flaming Meatballs!”
After a few pitches I got in the zone and almost forgot the Rockets were there. I looked at the watch Nana Cadman gave me for my birthday. It’s shaped like a baseball and the second hand is a bat. I wanted to keep my word—half an hour, and then they could have the bigger field.
“Let’s bring it in, Ravens,” I called. In a softer voice, I said, “Look, we can come back tomorrow and practice again. I just don’t want to start anything with them.”
We packed up with five minutes to spare. The Rockets seemed a lot more interested in bugging us than actually practicing. By the time we left, two of them were just flipping their water bottles in the dirt. Kyle and another guy were throwing sunflower seeds at each other.
I wondered how we had ever let them beat us.
In baseball they say anything can happen. Anything. Trust me, it’s true. If a major leaguer gets a ball stuck in his mitt, hey, he throws the whole glove to first base. And once, a ball beaned outfielder Jose Canseco on the top of his noggin—boing! He was okay, but it bounced over the wall, and the batter got a homer. Canseco was playing for the Texas Rangers. Just sayin.’ A couple of years ago my dad and I watched a Blue Jays game that went nineteen innings! Go to bed! my mom hollered, but then she sat down and watched too. We just had to see how it ended. Now we had to see how the Ravens ended this year. We’d had our extra Monday practices as a team, and a small group of us had been meeting every day to play. Sometimes Hank looked at me and mouthed Stingray just because it was a secret we shared.
In our round-one afternoon playoff game against the Westlake Jets, Gus homered, and—get this—Jerome hit a line drive to far left field that earned him a double. Of course, Oscar also made a pretty tragic base-running error—causing a traffic pileup. I had played just okay. I singled, walked and struck out once, which didn’t make me happy. I made a couple of good fielding stops. Still, I hadn’t pitched yet in a game, though Coach had hinted I might. The Jets had an awesome girl on their team named Brooke—tall, orange cleats. She hit a ground-rule double, and she made a double play when she was playing second base. She had an arm for sure. I noticed she didn’t pitch though. I wondered if she had wanted to.
Despite a few good hits, we lost. I was trying to be more Zen about losing. My mom says that: I’m trying to be more Zen. It means calm. I think she learned about it at her yoga class. Coach Vij was less Zen. He wanted to us to stay in contention. Now that we’d lost one, we were under the gun.
“We’re going to have to win the rest of our games to stay alive,” said Coach Vij after the game. “Can we do it?”
“It seems technically possible, Coach!” shouted Oscar, pumping his fist.
“Let’s try that again with a Yes, we can, Coach!”
“Yes, we can, Coach!” we all shouted, except for Kahlil, who was too busy hustling to get to an orthodontist appointment. His mom was waiting with the car running, pointing at her watch. Most of the Ravens scattered, off to unlock bikes or meet their parents in the parking lot.
Coach Vij closed up the batting cage and started packing away the team equipment. I collected the scattered baseballs. A.J. went back to the dugout for his glove.
“Thanks, Caspar. You’re always a real help to the team,” said Coach.
I smiled. I liked to help. I liked to be part of a team. I always had. Maybe it was because I had no brothers or sisters. I was restless when there was no baseball. Like I didn’t know who I was or what to do.
“Not just with how you help,” Coach said. “There’s something different about you.”
I frowned, wondering what he meant. Could he tell?
“You have a special gift,” he continued.
I do? I thought. “Fast wrists,” I said.
“That too.” He laughed. “But I mean you have a way of seeing potential in people. You notice skills. You’d be a good coach.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. It was one of the best things anyone had ever said to me.
“Thank you.”
Hank appeared, back from the concession. He held up two freezies, both blue flavor, whatever that was.
“This is a future-victory freezie,” Hank said, giving one to me. Then he produced two more that had been tucked into his baseball belt, handing them to Coach Vij and A.J., reminding me of batons in a relay.
“Awesome!” said A.J.
“Um, thanks,” said Coach Vij. I wondered which he was more worried about—the lack of nutrition or the fact that they’d been tucked into Hank’s pants.
“Oosh, that was cold,” said Hank, smiling broadly. “To Ravens!”
“To Ravens!” we agreed, clinking freezies.
“We may start sucking after today, so let’s enjoy the moment,” added Hank.
“Hank, positive thinking,” said Coach Vij, tapping his Ravens cap as if all the answers were there. “We’ve worked hard. Don’t count us out.”
“Right, we’re tough,” said Hank. The words were less convincing coming from his blue-stained lips.
“Hank, do you wanna stay and do some extra batting practice?” I asked.
“I just locked up the batting cage,” said Coach Vij, taking a small taste of his freezie.
“Oh rats,” said Hank.
“I’ll stay if you guys want to practice,” said Coach.
“You’d better text Mom,” warned A.J.
“She’ll be packing up from your sister’s game,” said Coach. “I can stay for half an hour. Then we have to fly.”
I was already digging in my bag for my helmet. While I waited to take some swings, I realized this is what I had dreamed of. Hanging out as a boy with my friends, playing ball. I knew someday my secret would get out, but I had waited so long for this that I just wanted to enjoy the moment. It was my turn.
Sixth Inning
Coach Vij asked if I had a preference about who played catcher when I pitched, and I thought of Hank right away. It turned out Hank was a natural trapper. He’s got the knack. And style. He springs up and throws down his mask and stomps around like some sumo wrestler. Hank isn’t a gifted batter, but the dude can catch, he can read a play, and he has a strong arm. The number of baseball games lost on overthrows and bad plays by catchers—don’t get me started.
Hank was at my house, playing a Lego Lord of the Rings video game, and I found myself thinking about what a great catcher he’d become. It had even surprised me. I decided to tell him.
“Dude,” I said, as his avatar tried to leap from a cave, “you’ve become an ace catcher, no doubts.” For some reason we’d been tagging all our thoughts with no doubts lately.
“Thanks, dude,” he said just as his avatar died in an explosion. “Son of a monkey!” he shouted.
Why did everyone in Redburn say that?
Ever notice how when you are desperate to get some sleep, you can’t? The night before our second playoff game I lay awake looking at my clock and listening to J.R. snore. My parents had given up on insisting that he sleep downstairs in his proper dog bed. My bedroom carpet was coated in his hair, and my mom had declared my room a disaster area. She’d actually made a sign for the door with a piece of cardboard and a black marker. She thought she was funny. Another time, in Toronto, she’d made a sign for the hall that read Footwear Sale. Okay, so my dad and I had left cleats, snow boots, flip-flops and a few pairs of running shoes in the hall. She had a point.
I must have fallen asleep sometime after 1:12 AM, though, because the next thing I knew my mom marched in at seven, telling me to rise and shine because it was two hours to game time.
“Okay, okay,” I said, throwing my elbow over my face. The morning sun was already strong. It was going to be a hot one. Redburn was having an unusually hot summer, the locals kept saying.
I didn’t like to have to rush to a game, so my mom knew to get me up in plenty of time.
She had a glass dish ready on the table for me with yogurt, blueberries and some almond granola.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, sitting down. My new baseball pants fit perfectly, snug but long in the leg. It was important to look right for baseball, I thought. I liked to start off every game with a clean uniform—before I trashed it by sliding or diving.
My dad walked into the kitchen, already in his game gear—tracksuit and Cubs cap. He had this Saturday off. He sometimes worked weekends—it depended on his schedule—but he wanted to see me pitch my first game.
“Ya want some coffee, ace?” my dad asked, cradling his mug like it was a baby.
“No, I’m good,” I said. I made it through half the dish of yogurt. That was all I could manage given the butterflies playing Twister in my gut. Then I heard ringing.
“Phone!” I shouted, trying to distract my parents from my unfinished breakfast.
My dad answered and handed me the phone. “It’s for you.”
“Hello, is this Mister Amazing?”
“Yes, Nana, it’s Caspar. How are you?”
“I’m hot. My fan is on the fritz, and it’s already broiling here. But I wanted to wish you good luck today. Just keep it cool, okay, because calm is a pitcher’s best friend. You can’t let the outside noise get to you.”
I nodded. Steel and oak.
“You there, sunshine?”
“Yes, Nana. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, lovey. Who are you playing today?”
“The Belleford Bruins.”
They were the team I’d hit the grand slam against. I hoped they weren’t out to get me. It wasn’t as if I had flipped my bat like Bautista.
“Well, I know you’ll make me proud, because you always do.”
“Thanks, Nana. I hope you come visit soon.”
“Okay, ’bye. Play hard, but play fair, Caz Cadman,” she said. “Love you. Let me know how it goes.”
Dear Matt,
How is life in Toronto? That is so cool that you made the Red Devils. I wish I was there to practice with you. I bet the team will win again this year.
I pitched my first game today for two innings. My friend, Hank, was the catcher, and we did okay—three up, three down in the fourth inning, and two hits in the fifth. We won 11 to 7, partly because Gus hit a two-run homer, so we get to face the Rockets in the semis.
I’ve attached a photo of me in my Ravens uniform in our new backyard.
Write me back.
Your friend,
Caz
When Matt and I used to send emails at home, I’d sometimes sign mine Lightn4Eva, after our house team, but that seemed wrong now that we didn’t play together. Matt’s emails were becoming less frequent, which made sense, because he was busy with baseball and day camps. Coach Vij said Redburn was thinking of setting up an all-star team in the coming year to compete with other teams in the SeaTac area. That would be cool. The more baseball the better, I figured.
My mom stuck her head into the office, where I was parked at the computer.
“Hey, how’s the arm?” she asked. It had been a bit sore after the game. But winning always helps soothe the aches and pains.
“It’s okay,” I said, rubbing the top of my shoulder. I was a right-handed pitcher. It was better to be a leftie—they were in high demand in the big leagues—but you couldn’t help the way you were born.
“Not too much more screen time, okay?” my mom said. Parents were all berserk about screen time. I spent half my waking hours throwing a ball or running, a quarter of my time on a bike or skateboard, and another chunk of time walking J.R. I was going to be okay with some screen time. It was like she couldn’t help herself though. She listened to a public radio station.
“I’m just writing to Matt,” I said, a slight lie. I had already sent my note to Matt. Mom nodded and headed downstairs to the Dungeon, which is what she called our new laundry area, a dark corner off the rec room. Once she was out of sight I googled girl who is a boy. About three hundred million results popped up, including one from a newspaper called The Guardian with the headline The teen trailblazer for transgender children: From the age of two, Jazz Jennings knew she was a girl born in a boy’s body.
There was a photo of Jazz Jennings. She sat in a chair, wearing a pink dress, a necklace, nail polish and a big smile. She lived in Florida, a place I hoped to visit to see the teams at spring training. It was too bad that Jazz could not have just been born a girl, and me a boy. That would have been so simple. I had felt like a boy for my whole life. I wouldn’t change my mind. Miss Linda had told me that sometimes your physical anatomy doesn’t match your identity and that there were other kids like me and other people like me. In the article, they called Jazz Jennings transgender, the same word Miss Linda used. Jazz Jennings looked happy. That’s what I was thinking when I heard the microwave door slam in the kitchen. The smell of microwave popcorn wafted to the office, and my stomach grumbled. Lunch had been a few hours earlier.
“Caspar, want some popcorn?” my mom called.
She knows I love corn of all kinds—corn on the cob, candy corn, but popcorn most of all. She says even when I was little, eating from those toddler trays, I would polish off my corn first. Some things don’t change.
I heard her in the hall, so I quickly clicked the box to close the article. If I had been born a boy, already in the right body, would I still be me, Caspar Cadman? It was kind of a scary thought.
I found my mom settled on our deck steps with the bowl of popcorn next to her. It was like she had made the popcorn to lure me there. It had worked.
“How did you like pitching?” she asked, holding up the bowl to me. The summer air smelled sweet from the blossoming shrubs in our yard.
“I liked it,” I said, taking a hardball-sized scoop of popcorn.
“You seem okay with the pressure. You handled it well.”
“I guess. Hank’s good at framing the pitches.”
“You were in a tough spot when the ump wasn’t calling strikes. You walked a few.”
I nodded, agreeing. I was busy stuffing more popcorn in my face. My mom really could have been a sportscaster. She didn’t play it much, but she loves baseball. She didn’t get her love of the game from Grandpa and Grandpa Ames, that is for sure. We watched a green hummingbird vibrate in front of us, then flit away.
“You had two runners on, but you got out of it.” “I told myself to settle it down. Then I told myself to try harder.”
She thought for a second, looking off at the garden trellis so I couldn’t see her face. When she turned back, I noticed that her eyes shone with tears. But she was smiling like she’d won the 50/50 draw.
“That’s my boy,” she said.
Seventh Inning
Over the three days after the quarterfinals game, our neighbors suddenly seemed to take notice of me. They even knew I was a pitcher.
“Hey, Caspar, big game coming up. You play for the Ravens, right?” a neighbor asked one day. He shook his head, as if we were doomed to go up in flames like a video-game avatar. Then he went back to his weeding. Sometimes they asked if my family was going to cut down the cedar hedges that blocked their light.
The day of the semifinals I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the toast my mom had placed in front of me. I hadn’t gone downstairs to the Dungeon yet to get my baseball pants from the drying rack, so I was just wearing my underwear and my Ravens jersey.
“Eat your toast, Caz, you can do it, put a little power to it, gooo, Caz!” said my mom, who sometimes gave orders as baseball cheers, thinking she was funny. She was as nervous as I was, and it made her chatter more. I usually got tomb quiet.
“It’s a great day for baseball,” she said, looking out the greenhouse kitchen window. I loved to play baseball any day, but that didn’t stop the hamster wheel in my head from spinning on playoff days. There was no way I could eat.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked, resisting her attempt to be cheerful. I stood up to go find my ball pants.<
br />
“Hey,” said my dad, striding in, holding a takeout coffee. “What’s this? Is it the No-Pants, No-Problem playoffs?”
“Dad—”
“You’re just going to open a can of No-Pants on them?”
“Stop,” I whined.
“I brought you a pre-playoff game present,” he said.
“I just need pants,” I said, preparing to go downstairs.
“You’d better need a hug from Nana, ’cause that what’s you’re getting.” Nana Cadman barged into the kitchen, her arms outstretched. She wore a shiny peach blouse, which she promptly crushed against me while administering two lipsticky kisses, one on each cheek.
“Nana!” I said, hugging back. She smelled like cold cucumbers and pink flowers. J.R. appeared, thumping his silky tail and head-butting Nana for some attention.
“Why are you here?” I asked, letting her give me another squeeze.
“I came to see some baseball, of course. My favorite player got traded to a new team.”
My mom got Nana a cup of coffee while my dad got her bag from the car. No—bags plural. Nana never traveled light. It was just not her style.
The semifinals were at a big park that we’d only played at once before. It had a concession stand, an announcing booth and big banks of metal bleachers—which were already filling up. I felt better when I saw the other Ravens. Oscar, Kahlil, Gus, A.J. and Coach Vij were at the park when we arrived. They were extra early. I saw most of the Rockets on the other side of the field, already jogging in a group. They must have shown up extra, extra early. Some guy was driving around on a lawn mower shaped like a tank. The grounds must require twenty-four/seven mowing in such a rainy climate. The heat wave had passed, and Redburn was back to merely warm, which was fine by me—it’s hard to grip the ball if you’re sweating a lot. I hung up my Red Devils bag and touched the lettering for good luck. Cadman.
