My Life as a Diamond

by Jenny Manzer

  I was hungry, as usual. Starving, actually. I started throwing open the cupboards, trying to find something to eat. My mom came into the kitchen, looking surprised. I worried something had happened to Nana Cadman or to Grandma and Grandpa Ames.

  “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Caspar,” she said. “You won.”

  “Won what?” I asked, still thinking of my dream snack. I was wishing for Pop-Tarts. But there was no way we had those. My mom mostly bought healthy non-processed food.

  “You won that contest to go see the Mariners play. You get to take ten friends with you to the game. Remember?”

  My brain flashed back to Hardy’s Sports World and the clerk who used to be a Rocket. I remembered. It seemed like a long time ago.

  “Awesome!” I said, doing an arm pump like I was starting up a chainsaw. My dad looked super excited, like this was his dream come true.

  “Wait,” I said. “Do I even have ten friends here?”

  “I think you do, Caspar.” My mom.

  “I’ll invite the whole team. All the Ravens.”

  “I thought you would.” My dad.

  Ninth Inning

  Most of the Ravens accepted my invitation to go see the Mariners take on the Oakland A’s. My mom even said she would smuggle in a tofu hot dog for Oscar if they didn’t have vegetarian options. Coach Vij, Coach Mira and A.J.’s little sister, Anita, came along as well. Anita was decked out in full Mariners gear and knew all about the players, including their batting averages.

  “Did you teach her all that, Coach Mira?” I asked.

  “You bet, Caz. And you can just call me Mira now,” she said.

  My mom and Mira seemed to really get along, drinking coffees the size of fire hydrants and rolling their eyes about the same things their husbands and kids did. Dwight and Kahlil had said they couldn’t come, and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because of what Kyle had said, but nobody trusted him. Almost everyone on the team had been one of Kyle’s victims at some point. Maybe one day I would tell the rest of my friends—in my own words and in my own way, like I had with Hank. That night I just wanted to enjoy some baseball. I think Coach Vij already understood the situation. It was something about the way he said, We know you.

  We’d been through a lot, us Ravens, and being in that stadium together was the best. We all wore our uniforms, and after the game we would get to run the bases together. I was already planning my email to Matt. He was pretty happy these days too, since the Red Devils had won the summer championships (like I’d predicted) for the second year in a row.

  I’d only ever seen a ball game in Toronto, but most things here at Safeco Field were sort of the same. Whenever the Mariners pitcher got two strikes on one of the Oakland batters, the screen flashed MAKE SOME NOISE! to the crowd. Yelling was one of the best parts of a ball game. And the big buckets of popcorn, of course.

  One time during a pitching change, the cameras turned our way, and we saw ourselves on the jumbo-tron. Oscar busted out his dance moves as if he’d been waiting all his ten years for that moment. I had never seen him dance that way, fluid like a water snake, and arm moves like he was shooting an arrow with a bow. I laughed so hard I thought I would snort Sprite out my nose. The rest of us threw our arms around each other, making the number-one sign with our fingers.

  “This is the best thing,” said Mira to my mom as the game resumed and we heard the crack of a bat. “This is summer.”

  This is the best thing—this is summer with friends, I thought. When the Mariners slammed a towering two-run homer in the ninth inning we all soared to our feet at once. I shouted, not even sure what I was saying because my words were blending with the roar of the crowd. That is the very best feeling, I thought, when your team causes you to jump for joy. You forget your troubles just for that one moment of amazement. I slapped high fives with all my new friends and even some people behind me that I didn’t know. And for that one moment I felt like the luckiest boy on earth.

  Acknowledgments

  Full confession: I’ve never hit a grand slam or a home run. I’ve never thrown a perfect slider. Or even a so-so slider. Although I grew up in Toronto—including during the era that the Toronto Blue Jays won two World Series—I did not really get baseball. Then I had kids. And those kids loved baseball. Since then, I have spent hundreds of hours at ballparks, counting pitches or running the scoreboard—but mostly just watching and cheering. Being at all these games led me to become a true baseball fan, and some of the players I observed at the diamond inspired me to imagine Caz Cadman.

  I’m a cisgender person, which means the gender I was assigned at birth fits how I feel. To help me better understand Caz, I read books, articles and blogs, including Some Assembly Required: The Not-So-Secret Life of a Transgender Teen by Arin Andrews, and the warm and wonderful middle-reader book George by Alex Gino. I also listened to many episodes of the captivating podcast “How to Be a Girl: Daily Life with My Transgender Daughter” by Marlo Mack, which you can find here: http://www.howtobeagirlpodcast.com.

  I sincerely thank the early readers of this book, particularly the transgender boy and his family who weighed in on what worked and what didn’t ring true. I am grateful for their insights, observations, and astute suggestions. This family also suggested several resources to share, including Gender Spectrum: https://www.genderspectrum.org/ and Trans Care BC http://transhealth.phsa.ca/trans-101, which includes a page of terms and information that is helpful no matter where you live. Any trans people who need immediate support can contact the Trans Lifeline: https://www.translifeline.org/ in Canada or the U.S.

  My appreciation also goes out to Dr. Aaron Devor, Chair in Transgender Studies (http://uvic.ca/ transchair) at the University of Victoria, who was kind enough to review the manuscript. The university is home to the world-leading Transgender Archives, and you can learn about them here: http://transgenderarchives.ca.

  My good friends Andrew and Suzanne MacLeod read an early version of this story and offered warm encouragement when I needed it. Thanks as well to my employers for allowing me to go on leave to work on books. I wrote a draft of this book during those five months.

  In 2016, to my disbelief, I won a national contest in which the prize was a trip to see the Toronto Blue Jays play a series against the Seattle Mariners at Safeco Field. It was a magical experience—and helped me write this book. Thank you to the Toronto Blue Jays.

  My gratitude to all the volunteer coaches and dedicated parents who make the game happen, especially everyone at the Carnarvon Baseball Club. And a fist bump to the 2017 Mosquito AAA Black Eagles coaches, players, and parents. We took a lot of ferries together, my friends.

  A round of high fives to the stellar team at Orca Book Publishers, including Andrew Wooldridge, Jen Cameron, Vivian Sinclair, Teresa Bubela and my wise editor, Tanya Trafford. Thank you for believing in this book.

  A bat flip to my incredible agent, Kerry Sparks of Levine, Greenberg, Rostan Literary Agency, who would always be a first draft pick for my team.

  My love goes out to my relatives in Fredericton, New Brunswick—the McMullen, Phillips and Skulsky families. Thank you for hosting my children for a week during the summer of 2017. They had the time of their lives while I revised this manuscript. My father, Ron Manzer, is the kindest, gentlest person I know. Thank you for everything. Thank you, too, to Barrie and Marjorie Leach, and to my niece, Charlotte—for being such a devoted reader!

  I would also like to acknowledge the memory of my mother, Kathryn Helen Manzer, who valued her signed baseball from Carl Yastrzemski. Even my spellcheck knows his name! I also dedicate this book to my sister, Patricia Kathryn Manzer, who sat in the stands at a lot of rainy baseball games. She left us far too soon, and we will remember her every day.

  This book would not have happened without the love and support of my own ball club: my son, A.J., my daughter, Briar, and my husband, Coach David, who always encourages batters to “put a little dance in your stance.”

  And, in th
e final inning, I want to thank all the kids like Caz, and the parents, activists, educators, librarians, health-care providers, writers, friends, relatives, teammates, and coaches, who are out there, every day, working to make the world a better place for all children.

  JENNY MANZER is the author of the young adult novel Save Me, Kurt Cobain. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her family. Follow her on Twitter @jennymanzer or find her at jennymanzer.com.

  ONE

  Game Face

  The noise in the gym was so loud, Sameer could feel it rumbling up through his chair and thrumming in his chest. It shook the scorers’ table where he was sitting and jittered the pen beside the score sheet. The few adults in the gym had their hands over their ears, shaking their heads in alarm and giving each other pained smiles. Some kids in the crowd were doing the wave, and the non-waving sections were drumming their feet in a deafening frenzy on the bleachers as the seconds ticked down on the halftime break. Even during this pause in the basketball game, the Gladys Spinoza Junior High gym was a riot of cheering chaos.

  Sameer smiled and pushed up his glasses. The atmosphere in the gym was exactly how he liked it. He swung his short legs happily, turned to Gracie and yelled, “Great crowd, eh?”

  She shrugged. “The usual,” she shouted back, smiling and shaking her head.

  Sameer jumped as the buzzer sounded, scrambled off his chair and stood to high-five the team members as they ran back from their halftime shooting. Every guy on the team swung by the scorers’ table to slap Sameer’s hand.

  “Great job, guys…Keep it up…Shots, shots, shots, Rochon…Nikho, they’re playing close on D—burn around them and go to the hoop…You can take that number 3, easy…Boards, man, boards…You are getting up there, Nate! Whatcha been eating?…Hey, great support from the bench…” Sameer had a quick word of encouragement for every one of them.

  “Sameer!” Gracie tugged at his arm and pointed at the refs, who were at the center circle, looking impatient to start the half. Sameer and Gracie switched places at the table, and Gracie snatched up the pen and smoothed the score sheet. The scoring wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as the announcing, so he and Gracie had agreed to call one half, score the next. Sameer adjusted the microphone and pulled a paper with cryptic stats on it from his pocket. Then he settled his elbows on the table, put his chin on his fists, closed his eyes and savored the moment.

  Gracie had done a great job calling the first half. She had a knack for description, a quick, lively delivery and great give-and-take with the crowd. It was a tough act to follow. Sameer took a deep breath, reminded himself how much he loved basketball and this team, opened his eyes and flicked on the mic.

  “We’re back, you pounding maniacs!” he thundered. The crowd roared its approval. “You guys are amazing! No school has spirit like Gladys Spinoza school spirit! We are most definitely in GLADIATOR COUNTRY!” Sameer’s friend Vijay, the Gladiators’ mascot, brandished a silver garbage-can-lid “shield” and dollar-store sword in a menacing and bloodthirsty manner, racing back and forth and baying at the appreciative crowd.

  Gracie elbowed Sameer and pointed to the players on the court, her eyebrows raised.

  “Whoops,” Sameer said into the mic, “you guys are such a great crowd that I almost forgot I’m supposed to call this thing! Thanks, Gracie. Okay, well, the Bobcats blew that shot, so we haven’t missed any scoring. It’s 42–39 at the half, and the Gladiators are close, so close, to their first win of the whole season, after losing—well, after losing a lot!”

  From the sidelines on his left, Coach Bosetti threw Sameer a dirty look. Coach Boss had his game face on, and it wasn’t pretty. He was packed tightly into a gray Gladiators sweatshirt, and he looked, as usual, red-faced and angry. He paced the sidelines, swinging his clipboard and bellowing at his team.

  “Boards! Boards! Do you understand? BOARDS! REBOUND! Speak English? You guys are PATHETIC!”

  Sameer ignored him. “Bobcats sit at second-to-last place in the league, so Gladiators, this may be our game!”

  “Block out! BLOCK. OUT. NATE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Coach Boss’s scream ripped through the gym, louder than Sameer with the mic. Nate, a sensitive, awkward redhead, glanced nervously over at Coach Boss, then flushed and skittered into the key like a young giraffe, one of his long legs accidentally tripping a player from the other team who was driving in for a layup. The ref blew a short blast on the whistle. Nate had the misfortune of already being six foot five and not entirely in control of his arms and legs.

  “Foul on number 12, Nathan Schneider,” Sameer said quietly into the mic. He glanced down at the score sheet and added quickly, “But that’s only Big Nate’s second foul, folks, which is really excellent for a big man in a tight game. He’s been putting up monster rebounds this game too.”

  “Sub! SUB!” roared Coach Boss.

  As Nate came back to the bench, his face white and anxious, Sameer gave him a thumbs-up and a quick, closed-eyes headshake that meant “Shake it off, buddy—don’t let him get you down.”

  “Substitution. Number 16, Kenneth Otombo, coming in for Nate. He may be their spark off the bench,” Sameer reported to the crowd. “This is Kenneth’s first appearance this game, so let’s give him a big Gladiator salute!”

  The people in the crowd jumped to their feet, raised their fists above their heads and roared, “Charge!”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Sameer grinned and stood, raising his fists along with the crowd.

  Play continued, and the Gladiators’ best shooter, Rochon, started to get hot.

  “Rochon, the Rockin’ Roch-Man, raining down threes! Burying them! Shooting the lights out!” Sameer whipped the crowd into a frenzy, “Shooting three for seven from downtown! Better outside shooting percentage than Kobe Bryant last night! We’ll take it! Oh yes, we’ll take that three, thank you very much! Oh, wait, what’s this? The Bobcats’ coach has just wisely called a time-out. Yes, sir, smart plan.” Sameer nodded at the other coach, who ignored him. “He’s gotta stop the bleeding! Because these Gladiators, your Gladiators, are on fire!” The crowd cheered as both teams jogged in to their benches.

  “Great job, guys!” he called after flicking off the mic. Blaring music filled the gym, and the cheer team ran in to execute a complicated routine.

  Vijay ran over to Sameer and Gracie. His helmet wobbled perilously as he ran. “Hi, guys,” he said, looking only at Gracie.

  “Your helmet’s crooked there, tough guy.” Gracie laughed and turned away to talk to a friend.

  Vijay dumped his sword and shield on the ground and pulled off his gladiator helmet. Sameer and Vijay had spent a whole evening making it, covering an old bike helmet in duct tape and tinfoil and glue-gunning a yellow sponge-mop head along the top. Vijay reached behind Sameer and grabbed Sameer’s hoodie to wipe his sweaty face.

  “Okay, that’s disgusting,” protested Sameer, looking up from studying the score sheet. He snatched his hoodie back.

  Vijay grinned, showing gums and a line of big front teeth. “Hot in this thing. Like, hot hot.” He gestured down at the peeling silver tunic someone had donated from an old Halloween knight’s costume. He was wearing it over his regular gym clothes.

  “Speaking of your gladiator costume, Vijay,” Sameer said, “couldn’t you maybe wear black shorts and a black shirt? Or red? I mean, team colors are black and red. Those green shorts, that yellow shirt…” He shook his head dismissively. “Unprofessional. Plus, they stink. Just saying.”

  “Yeah yeah, whatever.” Vijay wasn’t listening. “So, Sameer,” he said, his eyes snaking sideways to look at Gracie, “has she mentioned me? Like, at all? In any way?”

  “Oh yeah, Vijay. You’re all we’ve been talking about,” said Sameer sarcastically. “It’s just been ‘Vijay’ this and ‘Vijay’ that! Look, we’re in the middle of a basketball game, if you haven’t noticed. I’m working, okay?”

  “I’m working too,” said Vijay, leaning in annoyingly close
and breathing in Sameer’s ear. “Working on loooove.”

  “Go,” said Sameer, batting him away.

  Vijay grinned, then jumped as Coach Boss’s clipboard hit the wall behind him.

  “Man, he’s throwing things now?” Vijay looked over his shoulder with alarm at the huddled Gladiators and the huge, ranting man. “I mean, not just screaming like usual? Wait, aren’t we winning?” Vijay checked the scoreboard, even though Sameer was nodding. “Yeah, we’re winning. Rochon was raining them in there.”

  Sameer shook his head. “He’s a terrible coach. No clue how to motivate players, how to use their strengths. Just rant and rave, shame and blame. Only ever plays five, maybe six guys, even if they’re dog-tired, like now. And look at the talent we have on the bench—” Sameer was interrupted by the whistle ending the time-out.

  “Go, Vijay. Shoo.”

  Vijay had already turned to Gracie.

  “Guess I gotta get back to my fans,” he said, grinning at Gracie and her friend Simone. He put his hand to his ear. “Hear that? The crowd’s calling me. Calling their number one Gladiator. Got to… gladiate.” He picked up his sword and shield, shoved on his helmet, gave a corny salute and ran off to lead the crowd in the GLAD-I-A-TORS cheer. Each of the four sections of the bleachers had a syllable, and Vijay conducted them like a maniac, running up and down, first slowly, then with increasing speed, until it all broke loose into laughter and applause and foot stomping.

  “Such a goof,” said Simone.

  “Sort of cute though,” said Gracie. “In a way.”

  Sameer pushed up his glasses and looked over at Gracie. Seriously? Vijay?