When he came home, Ba closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. I thought I was home free when he took the first spoonful and made a little noise. I thought it meant he was happy. But now his question makes me think that I have misunderstood—maybe it was indigestion.
“Yes, Ba,” I say. “I would.” I try to make my voice serious, but not desperate. “Tryouts are this Saturday.”
“It is a very big commitment, to play on a team. There are practices and games after school. And it would cut into your time for homework. Your grades are already not good.” He doesn’t even look at me. He bends his head down over the chili so I can see the top of his head, the whiteness of his scalp.
“I’m getting better. And I would make sure I got my homework done. Really,” I say. If my teachers were here, they’d probably fall over in a collective faint. “I’m even doing better in math.”
“I can help you with your work,” says Ba.
I shake my head. “I don’t need any help.”
“Mark Santos, a boy in my class, he plays baseball and he gets all As,” says Elaine.
“This is different,” says Ba. “How would Peter get to practices?”
“Kids get rides with other kids’ parents all the time,” I point out.
Ba frowns. “You are so quick to impose on other people.”
This is a big issue with Ba. Imposing.
“It’s no big deal. Other families do stuff for each other all the time,” says Elaine. “No one minds.”
Ba pokes his fork in Elaine’s direction. “We are different, Elaine.” I wonder how he means we are different.
“I’ll take care of everything,” I say. “No one will think you’re asking them to do anything.” My stomach begins to burn.
Ba looks at me and then away. “Maybe next year,” he says.
“I can’t play next year,” I say. My throat is tightening up. “I’ll be too old.”
Ba frowns. “You still have one more year.”
“I’m twelve,” I say. “I turned twelve in November.” I didn’t have a birthday party; I had not asked, and no one offered.
Ba is quiet for a moment. “Of course,” he says. “You are twelve.”
My father, who makes his living measuring out precise quantities of medicine, has forgotten how old I am.
There is a long silence, and then Elaine clears her throat. “Just for the record,” she says. “I’m going to be eight on May 22.”
Ba looks at both of us and smiles, barely. “You are both getting older.”
Usually when my father makes a statement like this, it is followed by “and.” As in, “And you should be acting more responsibly. And your grades are getting more important. And it’s time to stop acting foolishly.” But this time, that is all he says.
“Well?” I ask when it’s clear he’s not going to say anything else.
“Well what?”
“Can I play baseball? Can I go to tryouts?” I try to hold back the impatience in my voice.
Ba takes his time chewing his food.
“Yes,” he says finally. “You may go to tryouts.” Even though he is saying yes, I can still hear an undercurrent of no.
In the Before, I would have jumped out of my seat to hear Ba say that. But this is different.
“Thank you,” I say. And then we go back to eating dinner, as if nothing has happened.
IT’S SO EARLY THERE’S JUST A GRAYISH LIGHT OUTSIDE, but I can’t go back to sleep. It’s the morning of tryouts.
I keep thinking about King Midas. He was this king who wished that everything he touched would turn to gold. He ended up not even being able to eat because the food turned to gold, and he even turned his own daughter to gold. Miss Gunderson, who told us the story, said it was a parable about greed, but that doesn’t seem quite right. I think it is about making the right wish. If King Midas had made a better wish, like, “I wish I could turn things to gold only when I want to,” everybody would probably think he was a pretty smart guy.
I close my eyes and make a wish. I wish that baseball will make everything better.
It’s a very simple wish.
Most of the dads are playing catch with the boys at the field. Because it is a warm spring day, a lot of them are wearing T-shirts and ball caps. Some of the dads are standing with their ball caps pulled down low, arms folded, watching the other players. They are probably the coaches, scouting out the players.
Ba isn’t dressed like them. He is wearing a white button-down shirt and black pants, the way he does for work. He looks like someone from an old-time black-and-white movie, stuck in Technicolor.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say. “Just give me the money and I’ll go register.”
Ba shakes his head. “I think I should stay with you.”
I start to walk faster. But Ba calls me back.
“Peter,” he says. “Carry my bag.” He is juggling a thermos, a bag filled with books and papers, and a stool.
I want to tell Ba that dads do not bring books to tryouts. They watch their sons play. But instead, I make up an excuse. “I have to go warm up.”
“Very well,” says Ba. He puts the stool, bag, and thermos on the ground and holds out his hands. “Let’s warm up.”
“What?” I look around to see if anyone is watching. “With you? You don’t even have a glove.”
Ba holds his hands in front of him, fingers apart. “You said you wanted to warm up. Let’s warm up. Throw the ball.”
I throw the ball with just enough speed that maybe it will make Ba want to stop. To my surprise, Ba catches the ball, moving his hands with a soft backward motion so that the ball won’t bounce out. Then he throws the ball back at me, a grounder. I drop to my knees and block the ball.
“Stay on your feet,” Ba tells me.
“I always catch the ball this way,” I say. “It’s fine.” I know that I’m supposed to stay on my feet, but I didn’t know that Ba did, too. I know how to play. I know a lot more about baseball than he does.
“Hey, Peter!” Sean runs up. “You decided to play! That’s great!”
“Thanks.” I hope he won’t remind me of what I said earlier about playing.
Sean’s face is already bright pink from the walk from the car. He is also wearing corduroys. They don’t allow jeans at his school, so his mom doesn’t buy him any.
“Are you ready?” I ask.
“Sure.” Sean fans himself with his glove. “My old man can’t believe I’m going to try out. He’s really excited.”
I look over at Ba. I am not sure what to say about him.
During tryouts everything is done in fives. You hit five pitches, catch five throws, and throw each one back. You also run the bases while someone times you.
I do pretty well in the hitting and fielding. I whiff one ball, but hit two of the balls into the outfield. I don’t miss any of the balls that are hit to me. I stay on my feet for the grounder, but when I look over, Ba is reading his book.
Running, though, is definitely my best event. It’s hard to wait in line, to wait my turn to run the bases, and I keep jumping up and down to work off some energy and stay warm. While I’m waiting, one of the dads walks up to the guy with the timer.
“Dan Bennett! They letting you coach again?”
“Hey, Chuck. Yeah, I guess they ran out of drunks and parolees.” The man with the timer laughs at his own joke, and then the two men shake hands. It is almost like a secret club, the way they talk to each other. I’ve never heard my father talk to anyone with that confidence and ease.
“Seriously, though, how many kids do you have from last year?”
“Oh, I’ve got over half the team coming back. I need to get me some live ones to fill in a few spots,” says Mr. Bennett. “Didn’t see many kids last year who could get a piece of Rusty’s fastball. Just need some kids who can score.”
“Well,” says Chuck, slapping Mr. Bennett on the back, “you are a credit to the league. That was some team you took to the division championship.”
Championship? I try to get a better look at Mr. Bennett. He looks like a lot of dads out here—a little soft in the belly and wrinkly around the eyes. He has a thick brown mustache that jumps and wiggles when he talks. He must be something, though.
I imagine telling Mom we won the division.
How could she not answer back?
For that matter, I bet she would come to a championship game. She wouldn’t miss it.
“Don’t start your slide so far back,” says Mr. Bennett to the kid in front of me. It is almost my turn. The kid’s slide had ended a good two feet short of the base. Mr. Bennett looks at the stopwatch and shakes his head.
I laugh, mostly out of nervousness. Mr. Bennett looks at me and frowns.
“What, you think you’re better than him?”
My heart almost stops beating. “Um, well, probably,” I hear myself say.
“Um, well, probably.” Mr. Bennett mimics me, using a high voice. He writes down a time for the other kid. And then, before I have a chance to get set, he hits the button and says, “Prove it. Go!”
For a second, my feet scrabble to get traction in the hard, dry dirt. Then I take off for first base.
I adjust my stride slightly so I tag first with my right leg, pushing off slightly to change direction and head for second.
“Go, Peter, go!” someone yells. It sounds like Sean.
Faster. I imagine the ball coming in for the tag and lengthen my stride. Once I cross second, I swing wide and head for third. My legs begin to burn. I push through it.
I pretend that the third-base coach is giving me the go-ahead for home, his arm whipping around in a circle. Go go go!
We were told to slide at home, feet first. The trick to a really good slide is to keep your eyes on the bag the whole time. Nelson told me that. I slide across the plate, and then pop quickly to my feet.
Mr. Bennett clicks his stopwatch, and then half smiles, like he’s pleased in spite of himself.
“Not bad, kid,” he says. “Haven’t seen too many times better than that. What’s your name again?”
Yes. Now I have his attention.
Ba is not sitting with the other parents—he is sitting apart, on his stool, holding a Chinese newspaper. The pages of the newspaper are tissue thin, and threaten to blow away any second. It takes him a minute to notice me.
“Nixon’s trip to China. It’s very bad,” he says. “Bad for Taiwan.” He pokes at the paper with his index finger. “Now senators are being invited to China.”
I don’t say anything. I had seen the photos of Nixon’s trip: President Nixon on the Great Wall, Mrs. Nixon admiring a row of roasted ducks. Ba probably hasn’t seen anything I’ve done on the field.
Ba squints at me over the top of his newspaper.
“You would be faster running the bases if you picked up your feet a little bit,” he says, putting down his paper. Ba looks over at the field. “Your friend Sean is about to have his turn.” I can see him, too. He is two kids back from running.
“You should root for your friend,” says Ba.
I walk over to the right-field fence, where some other kids are leaning over the fence, watching tryouts. One kid turns around and says, “Nice run.”
“Thanks.” I try to sound like it’s no big deal.
Sean has only run a few feet when the laughter starts. It starts with the kids waiting in line, and then ripples to the people standing near the field.
ZHWIT zhwit ZHWIT zhwit.
It is Sean. Apparently his legs are rubbing together when he runs, and the corduroy sounds like sawing wood. It doesn’t help that Sean is not the most graceful runner.
“Look at him go!”
“Call the fire department! There’s going to be a spontaneous combustion!”
“It’s a miracle of nature. A whale’s going to catch on fire!” That comment is from Martin Greer. He has an older brother who’s been to juvie, and if you ask me, Martin’s not far behind.
Sean’s face goes from pink to bright red. I don’t know if it is from the effort of running, or from the comments people are shouting at him. I step away from the fence.
After what seems like forever, Sean finally crosses home plate. He doesn’t bother to slide. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Mr. Bennett looks at him and wrinkles his nose, like something smells bad.
I turn away before Sean can see me. Probably the only thing more painful than watching Sean would be him knowing that I saw him.
When tryouts are over, I take my time packing up my equipment. I had heard that if you wait long enough, you can find out whose team you are on.
“We should go home,” says Ba. He has finished his newspaper and is now reading one of his books. “We have been here a long time.”
“Just a little longer,” I beg. I have to know. Actually, it feels more like I am waiting for a confirmation. The more I think about it, the more I think I have to be on Bennett’s team.
Sean comes up. I hadn’t noticed it before, but his glove is brand new. “Hi, Mr. Lee,” he says. “Hey, Peter, how did you do?”
“Hard to say.” I don’t want to make Sean feel bad. “Nice glove.”
Sean looks at his glove as if he’s remembering it’s there for the first time. “Thanks,” he says. “My dad was ready to buy out Sears, if you want to know the truth.”
I look at Ba and try to imagine him wanting to buy anything sports related. I can’t.
A man with a clipboard comes out of the dugout where all the coaches are meeting. “Folks,” he said, “we’re just about finished, but it looks like we have a few more players than we expected. If one of the dads is interested in coaching a team, we sure could use another coach to even things out.”
No one says anything. I stare at Mr. Bennett. Pick me.
Sean leans over. “We should get on the same team, don’t you think?” he says in a half whisper. “Since we live in the same neighborhood?”
“I’m not sure that’s how they pick the teams,” I whisper back. I can’t imagine Dan Bennett picking Sean.
“As coach, of course, you get to coach your own boy.” The man clears his throat. “My own son is going to age out next year, and I’m only sorry I didn’t start coaching sooner.”
It is kind of sad, the guy standing up there, asking for help with no one answering. Behind him, I can see Mr. Bennett moving around, talking to people.
“It really does create a better experience for the boys,” says the man. “When the teams get too big, the kids don’t get much playing time, it’s harder to help them make adjustments in practice, that sort of thing.”
A dad sitting a few feet away from me flips open a newspaper and begins working on a crossword puzzle. No one seems to be listening.
The man tries one more time. “We don’t pay, of course, but I promise you’ll have memories you’ll treasure for the rest of your lives. Good father–son memories—you can’t buy those.”
There is more silence, and then, someone speaks.
“I will,” says a man to my left. “I will coach.”
“Great!” says the guy. “I knew we’d get a taker. You won’t regret it. And your name is?” He picks up the pencil that is attached to the clipboard with a string.
“Chen.” I turn around, because Chen is my father’s name, and I think it is amazing there is another person at tryouts with the same name.
I DON’T SAY ANYTHING WHEN BA JOINS THE COACHES’ meeting. Or when Ba makes me his first pick and finds out that his team is named the Jaguars. Or when we walk to the car and get in.
Once the car starts moving, though, I try to speak. It feels like there is a hole in the middle of my chest, and it is sucking away my words, the words I would have used to explain to Ba that I already had plans.
“You’re coaching.” I say, finally. “You’re coaching baseball.”
“They said they needed another coach,” says Ba. “I can coach.”
“You don’t know how to coach
baseball,” I say. “You don’t even like baseball.”
“I can learn,” Ba says simply. Then he adds, “Your friend Sean will be on the team. He will be helpful.”
“What? You picked Sean?” I must have missed that.
“He is your friend,” says Ba. “They said I had a free pick, for friends and neighbors, that sort of thing. I picked Sean. They said that we would do the rest of the drafts at another meeting.”
I can’t believe that Ba used his free pick on Sean. “He is only sort of my friend, and he’s not very good,” I say, remembering Sean’s base running.
“He comes over quite a bit to our house,” says Ba.
“He’s okay.”
“What about your other friend, Chris?”
“What about him?”
Ba makes a funny motion with his mouth. “I have not seen him for a long time.”
“He’s busy.”
“Did you see any good players during tryouts?” asks Ba.
I shake my head.
“No? No good players?” says Ba.
I shake my head again. Ba shouldn’t be asking me these questions. It’s so clear that this is a bad idea, my father coaching. “People who are coaching usually know who is a good player and who is not,” I say.
For a moment I think Ba is going to yell at me for speaking so rudely. I don’t care. I am on the wrong team. I am supposed to be on Bennett’s team. But instead, I am stuck on the wrong team with the wrong coach, who is going to pick all the wrong kids.
Somehow, I have made the wrong wish.
I FIND OUT ABOUT THE REST OF THE TEAM THE NEXT day when Martin Greer walks up to me and punches me in the arm. I have managed to go several grades without drawing Martin’s attention, and the punch tells me that is about to change.
“You, what’s your name? Peter?”
I nod.
He punches me again. “Whatsa matter? Are you a dummy? Can’t talk?” Martin is half a foot taller than I am, and kind of meaty. I resist the urge to rub the spot he’s punched.
The Way Home Looks Now Page 6
