The Way Home Looks Now

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  At first, Martin gets the strikeouts against the other team, the Falcons. He knows that a high, inside fastball is downright irresistible. He also plants a few on just the outside that send the batters chasing after the ball, making them look like they’re trying to catch butterflies.

  In spite of a good start, though, some of the better players start getting hits off Martin when they get up to bat a second time. By the end of the third inning, it’s 5–4, Falcons.

  At the top of the fourth, it’s bases loaded, but Martin has worked the count to 0–2. Then I hear a voice behind me and rustling behind the backstop. And then there’s a smell, sour and old.

  “Boy. Ya gotta step into it.” The voice stops for a moment, and there’s a deep breath. Then the smell gets stronger.

  I peer around the umpire and see a man dressed in a button-down shirt and dark blue pants. I’ve never seen him before, but he must be Martin’s dad.

  Martin acts like he can’t hear his father. He goes into his windup and fires one in. It’s a little outside, and the ump calls a ball.

  “A ball? Are you kidding me? Are you blind?” Mr. Greer hisses to the umpire. Then he raises his voice. “You get him out, ya hear me? Don’t walk this kid.”

  The umpire turns slightly, so more of his back is toward Martin’s father. But it doesn’t make Mr. Greer go away. I lower my head, silently grateful Mom isn’t here today. This is the last thing I’d want her to see, the ugliness and stench.

  Ba signals for a curveball. I have to lunge to the side to get the ball. Martin is down, 2–2 in the count.

  Martin has an expression I haven’t seen before. I see his chin wobbling right before he puts his glove up in front of his face. One eye stares out and blinks.

  “You strike him out!” roars Mr. Greer.

  Ba signals for a four-seam fastball, Martin’s most reliable pitch. Martin goes into his windup and throws the ace. In a split second, I see the ball is not coming in on target—it hits the batter square in the hip.

  “Ugh!” The batter drops his bat and falls to the ground. I jump back and look down at him. His eyes squeeze shut in pain.

  The Falcons coach comes out and checks on the batter. After a minute, the kid gets up and limps to first base, rubbing his hip while the parents clap politely.

  “Yeah, you rub it, you big baby,” says Mr. Greer. “A real player shows no pain.” He raises his voice. “You showed him, didn’t ya!” The runner on third comes home, touches the base with his toe, and darts away. No one wants to be around Mr. Greer.

  “Now listen here,” starts the umpire.

  “Bend your back!” shouts Mr. Greer. “And let’s see some strikeouts!”

  The umpire turns to face Mr. Greer. “I can have you thrown out!”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” says Mr. Greer.

  “You must be Mr. Greer.” In the middle of Mr. Greer’s sizzling anger comes another voice.

  It is Ba.

  “I am so pleased you could come to a game,” says Ba.

  My father’s comments are enough to distract Mr. Greer. He whips his head away from the umpire and looks at my dad, slightly confused.

  “It is so hot out here, in the sun,” my father continues. His voice is dry and smooth as a stone, the one he uses with the neighbors and customers at the pharmacy. “I know that Martin pitches so well because of you, but perhaps you would be more comfortable in the dugout?”

  Mr. Greer stares blankly at my father for a second, as if suddenly remembering where he is. “No,” he says, turning abruptly. “I’m done here. I just came to see the kid pitch for a while.” He swings around to go, and the turn unsteadies him. He walks unevenly out to the parking lot.

  No one says anything when Mr. Greer walks away, but I can feel a shift in the crowd, among the players, like a breeze on a summer day. Relief. Ba calls a time-out, and signals the infield to come to the mound.

  As Ba and I walk toward him, Martin narrows his eyes at us and folds his arms across his chest. All the other kids come running in.

  “What was going on out there?” asks Jimmy. “Was that your dad, Martin?” He gives Martin a puzzled, wide-eyed look.

  Martin looks at Jimmy dead-on. “I have no idea who that was,” he says. “Some old drunk, I guess.”

  “Wow,” says Jimmy, giggling a little. “Crazy old guy.”

  I struggle to keep my mouth from falling open. I had heard Ba say, “You must be Martin’s father,” and the man had not denied it, but I guess I was the only one close enough to hear. I study Ba’s face, checking for some sign of disapproval. But Ba does not correct Martin.

  “You must be careful around strangers,” he says.

  Martin lifts his chin at Ba. “I suppose you’re pulling me out of the game.”

  “Being able to pitch at all under those conditions is a sign of a very good pitcher,” says Ba. “It reminded me of Branch Rickey testing Jackie Robinson’s ability to handle hostile crowds before he signed him.”

  Aaron shakes his head. “I couldn’t pitch with someone yelling at me.”

  Rickey puffs out his chest. “See? You can always count on someone named Rickey to be cool.” All of the other players laugh at Rickey’s joke, except Martin. He turns his head; his hands open and close.

  “You are doing just fine, Martin,” says Ba. “I am sure that the team would be very appreciative if you stayed in.”

  Martin glances at the rest of the team and shrugs. “I can do that,” says Martin, as if he’s doing us all a huge favor.

  “C’mon, everyone, buck up,” says Aaron. “It’s called a game ’cause it’s supposed to be fun.”

  We end up losing by three runs. No surprise there. And maybe it’s no surprise that no one is there to pick up Martin. Martin, Ba, and I lean against our car, watching the last of the team leave.

  “That umpire, he was calling a tight strike zone,” complains Martin. He wants to act like it’s not his fault.

  “It’s part of the game,” says Ba. “The other team had the same strike zone.” He reaches over and unlocks the driver’s-side door. “We should go. Get in, Martin. I will give you a ride home.”

  Martin shifts. “Nah,” he says. “It’s all right. Go on. My mom will be here any minute.”

  I’m tired. And hungry. I open the door on the passenger side. “Okay, so let’s go.”

  Ba shakes his head. “That would not be responsible. We can wait.”

  Martin scans the road, looking east and west. Finally, after a few more minutes, he says, “I guess it would be okay for you to drive me home.”

  “Good,” says Ba. Then to me, “Sit in the back with Martin.”

  Martin and I sit in the back of the car, not speaking. I watch the landscape change out the window. Martin directs Ba to the edge of town, where there are more trees and the stores are more spread out.

  “Stop here,” Martin suddenly announces. I hate the way Martin speaks to my father, like my father is his driver, his servant. And Ba just takes it.

  Ba slows the car. “Here?” he asks. There is no house, not as far as we can see. There is a dirt road going off to the right from the main road, leading into the woods.

  “This is fine,” says Martin.

  “Where is your house?” asks Ba. The car still rolls, slowly.

  Martin waves vaguely at the dirt road. “It’s down there. You don’t need to drive down there.”

  The car picks up speed. “I will take you there,” says Ba. “I will feel better if I see you go in your house.”

  Martin sighs noisily and rolls his eyes. As we drive into the woods, I see a row of not-very-nice-looking houses. They have weedy front yards, broken screen doors, and curtains drooping in the windows. Martin tells my father that his house is the fifth one on the right. It’s a one-story house; the wooden siding needs painting and the chimney is crumbling.

  Martin sits in the car for a moment. Then he grabs his glove. “Well, bye,” he says to Ba.

  “Good job today, Martin,” sa
ys Ba.

  Martin heads straight into the house; he doesn’t look back at our car once. After the screen door slams behind him, a face looks out. It is the man from the game.

  “I knew it,” I say from the backseat.

  “Keep your opinions to yourself,” Ba says sharply.

  “What? About what?”

  Ba bobs his head to indicate the ribbon of road disappearing behind us. “About Martin. His father. Where he lives.”

  “So you knew! Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It is none of my business,” says Ba calmly.

  I feel like my head is going to explode. This kindness, this courtesy that my father extends to Martin is beyond my comprehension.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  “Driving Martin home?” asks Ba. He seems genuinely confused.

  “Why are you protecting him? And why did you act like he was doing us a huge favor by continuing to pitch?” I’m so mad it feels like the words are shooting out of my mouth like bullets. And I can’t even bring myself to say what I really want to say. Do you know what he says about you behind your back?

  “We did need a pitcher,” says Ba. “Aaron was not ready to pitch again, and I think Jimmy is not quite ready to pitch.” He gives me a significant look. “No one else on the team can or will pitch.”

  So that’s what this is about. He’s still mad about me not pitching. For defying him.

  “You’re the one who always says to tell the truth,” I say, half under my breath.

  “And you’re old enough to know the difference between a lie to save yourself, and a lie to …” Ba hesitates. “An omission to be kind.”

  “Kindness? For Martin?” I say. “You’re the coach; he should just do what you tell him. You shouldn’t have to suck up to him.” I slouch down in my seat. “I just wish you had let him feel lousy for a while, cause that’s how he makes everyone else feel.”

  Ba is silent for a moment, and then he asks, “Is that what I should do? Act out of vengeance and spite?”

  I slink lower into my seat. “I’m just saying, maybe he should know how other people feel,” I mumble.

  “How can Martin learn the correct way to behave if I do not show him?” asks Ba.

  I don’t answer Ba. Some people talk about signals getting crossed, but our words just whiz by each other, never intersecting. They are parallel lines that never make contact.

  If Ba and I are trading words that don’t connect, then Mom is just a black hole where my words disappear.

  “Mom, I got a double today. I got stranded, but it was a nice hit, right down the third-base line.” I am grateful she did not come to today’s game so I can only tell her the good parts.

  Nothing.

  “I had some good catches, too. Martin had a wild pitch that I had to jump up and catch!” I crouch down on the floor and leap up into the air to show her.

  Her eyes never move from the television screen. I look over at the TV to see what is so interesting. It’s a commercial for a supermarket. I’m not as interesting as new cash registers or double coupons.

  A cold, dizzy feeling sweeps over me. Why isn’t this working? What am I doing wrong?

  From where I am, kneeling on the floor, I look at Mom, look at her expression. Her eyes remind me of the goldfish we see in Chinese restaurants—dark and expressionless. No one knows what they are seeing or thinking, either.

  I swallow hard and force myself to push away Martin and the lost game. I will not give up.

  I start to tell her about a game, a different game. A game she can’t ignore. The best game ever played.

  I start at the bottom of the third, when we were down 5–4. But now, instead of Martin’s dad showing up, I have Martin pitching the game of his life. Going to full count and getting the strikeout. Fiery fastballs and mind-boggling curveballs. It’s killing me to say these things, but it’s the best I can make up on the fly. I have to let the rest of the team get some credit, too, so Rickey turns a line drive into a double play, second to first.

  Mom keeps looking at the TV, but I won’t stop talking. I have our batters struggle against mighty odds—a bad call and a lucky catch. Then I figure Coop won’t mind if I turn his base on balls into a sweet hit on an 0–2 pitch. And I give myself a steal to second base.

  I do insert some truthful things—like the way Aaron always taps the bat three times before settling into his stance and the way you can tell Jimmy and Bobby apart by the way they run the bases. I tell her about how Rickey puffs out his chest after he gets a hit, and how Sean never swings on the first pitch. But as for the rest, it’s a great game that anyone would want to play in—the come-from-behind victory, great plays. I decide not to give myself credit for the game-winning hit. I figure Aaron might like that honor.

  By the time I am done, I almost believe my own story. I want to believe my own story; I want to be on that team.

  Finally, Mom speaks.

  “That is something.” She glances at me when she says that. She might even be talking about something on TV, like a knife that can cut through a metal can, or glue that can hold a construction worker from a beam, but it’s something. I’ll take it.

  “What part?” I ask, trying to lure her closer to me, just for a moment. “What part did you like the best?”

  She is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Your steal to second.”

  For a moment, her words sear me, because maybe if I really had had a steal, she would feel even better about it. The next game will be better, I vow. Truly.

  As I get up to leave, I realize that my father is standing in the hallway, right outside the living room. My heart speeds up. I do not know how long he has been listening.

  I walk by him, waiting for him to say something. But he doesn’t. He lets me walk away without a word, but I’m not sure what I’m getting away with. Maybe I am getting a pass because we are both liars today, trying to convince ourselves that the situation is not so bad.

  I DON’T KNOW HOW AARON FIGURED OUT WHERE WE live, but he’s here, after dinner, asking if I want to go down to Folger’s Lot.

  “Haven’t you had enough baseball today?” I ask. Aaron is still in his uniform, and has a huge smile on his face, like we didn’t just get creamed earlier in the day.

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” says Aaron.

  “I’m kinda sore,” I say.

  “We’ll play easy,” says Aaron. “It’s just for fun.”

  I wonder if Chris will be there. “I think it might rain.”

  Aaron snorts. “You never played in the rain before?”

  “Hello, Aaron,” says Ba, who has come to see who is at the front door. “Did you need something?”

  After Aaron tells Ba why he’s there, I expect Ba to tell Aaron no, because I have homework or I have chores to do. But instead, Ba reaches over and pushes the screen door open wider.

  “Get your glove,” he tells me. “And come home when the street lights come on.”

  Aaron and I walk over to Sean’s house, and then the three of us walk down to the lot. There’s no one else there.

  “People are probably still eating,” says Sean, who skipped dessert to come out with us.

  Aaron finds a brown paper grocery bag, folds it up, and puts a rock on top to make first base. A flattened RC Cola can is designated as second, and we pile weeds into a mound for third. Aaron hits first, I pitch, and Sean fields.

  I throw an easy, swooping pitch and Aaron gives it a nice knock into shallow left. The rule is that the runner has to stop once the pitcher gets the ball again. Aaron gets a double.

  “Ghost runner,” announces Aaron, heading back to home.

  Aaron gets a single on his next at bat, which puts the ghost runner at third. The ghost runner moves up as many bases as the runner.

  “One more to score,” announces Aaron, picking up his bat and giving it a very confident twirl in the air.

  “You wish,” I say. I try to get him with an outside pitch, but Aaron lays his bat
on it. Sean darts over and scoops up the ball right before it hits the ground.

  “Nice one,” I call. Since he made the out, Sean gets to bat next, I move into the field, and Aaron pitches.

  Sean whiffs the first two pitches. He starts turning red. He hasn’t had a hit yet in a game, which I’m sure is bugging him.

  Aaron starts to wind up, and then stops. “You’re all right,” says Aaron. “You can do this.” His voice is quiet and encouraging. “Open your stance a little.”

  Sean moves his feet uncertainly. Aaron throws a soft pitch and Sean tightens his grip and swings hard. Unnngh! It’s a lot of effort, for absolutely no payoff, not even a tip.

  Sean shakes his head in disgust, finds the ball, and sidearms it back to Aaron. Then he holds out the bat to me.

  My turn goes on for a while. If Sean can’t hit for love or money, then it’s like I can’t not hit. I swing at everything—tomahawk swings at pitches that are practically over my head, golf swings near the ground, and everything in between. The bat and ball keep connecting and sending the ball out into the field. Me and the ghost runner, we go around and around. Three runs, four runs, five runs.

  After the fifth run, Aaron throws his head back and laughs. “Aren’t you tired?”

  “Maybe the ghost runner,” I say. “Not me.”

  “I thought you were sore,” says Aaron, reminding me of my comment earlier. I’d forgotten the excuse I’d first made up.

  “That game today,” I start. “Lousy, huh?”

  “You can say that again,” says Sean. He’s standing on the mound, contemplating his next pitch. “That guy showing up. He really got to Martin.”

  “C’mon,” I hear myself say. “That wasn’t a stranger showing up. That was Martin’s dad.” I ignore the little voice in my head, reminding me that Ba told me to keep my mouth shut.

  “Really?” says Sean, his eyes growing wide.

  “I figured,” says Aaron. “That explains a lot, doesn’t it?”