“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”
“But, even without Martin’s dad, it just wasn’t our game,” says Aaron. “Everyone has games like that, even the majors, where the team just can’t get it right. The best hitter can’t hit, the first baseman can’t get the out. The pitcher’s a mess. It happens. Ya gotta shake it off.”
“Shake it off? What if your team is just flat-out bad?” I ask.
Aaron cocks his head to one side. “Do you really think our team is bad?”
I try to think about our team as honestly as I can. We have good players, bad players, and in-between players. “I don’t know,” I say.
“Look at it this way,” says Aaron. “Part of the game is up here.” He points to his temple. “Like with a batting slump? It’s not that the batter is not able to hit the ball; it’s that he thinks he can’t hit the ball.”
I try not to look at Sean when Aaron says this, but I’m pretty sure I can hear him sigh. If anyone’s in a slump, it’s Sean.
Aaron continues, “It’s the same with the team. You think your team is bad, you have a bad game, and then you think it’s because the team is bad and you don’t bother trying. You think your team is good and just having a bad day? Then you can come back from that. See?”
More kids start showing up as Sean finally catches the out that ends my turn. I’m thinking that we’ll just start playing with bigger teams, but instead, Aaron has a different idea.
“Let’s play Pepper.”
In Pepper, one person is the hitter and everyone else is a fielder and pitcher. The batter hits the ball, and whoever fields the ball pitches it back so that the batter is “peppered” with pitches from all directions.
The fielders line up, and one of the new kids goes first, a fourth grader named Tommy. He hits about a dozen balls before Aaron catches a line drive and Tommy’s turn is over. By the rules, it’s now Aaron’s turn. On his first at bat, he hits one aloft, almost directly to Sean. Sean barely has to move his glove to catch it.
“You’re out,” says a kid who goes by Bucky, probably because he has two large front teeth that stick out under his top lip. “It’s his turn.” He points at Sean.
Aaron shoulders the bat. “That was a short turn,” he says. “Can we say that everyone gets at least three hits?”
Bucky thinks it over; apparently, he’s the unofficial chief of the new kids who have shown up. “From now on,” says Bucky. “Not starting with you. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Aaron gives in immediately, which surprises me, since Bucky is younger than us. “Okay,” Aaron says. He hands the bat over to Sean. “Three-hit minimum, starting with Sean.”
We return to the fielding line. Before Sean can get settled into his stance, Aaron yells, “Pepper!” and launches the ball toward Sean.
Sean barely has time to react. He turns his head toward the ball and jerks back, and then awkwardly swings the bat. There’s a soft thunk as the bat and ball connect, and the ball rolls toward Tommy.
Tommy immediately grabs the ball and pitches it back. “Pepper!”
This time, Sean is just a hair more settled in his stance. He pops the ball back, dropping it just behind the line. It’s closest to me and I scramble to get it.
“Hurry!” whispers Aaron. “Before Sean has time to think.”
So this is what Aaron is up to; he is trying to get Sean to hit before he has time to think about it, or psych himself out. My pitch is a little bit on the outside, but Sean adjusts by taking a step forward and swinging. A line drive cuts through the middle of our group.
“No one’s getting that one!” shouts Aaron.
We go around and around, playing Pepper, then Three Flies Up, then Over the Line. We change sides and positions, borrow gloves, and change the rules as we go along. Tommy gets to take two steps closer to the line for Over the Line because he’s the youngest. It’s my turn to try to hit the ball through the other side when a figure, just beyond the edge of the lot near the trees, catches my eye.
At first it’s barely a shadow, but as it moves out of the trees, I can see it more clearly. Slender in build, longish dark hair. He has his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket and he’s looking directly at our game, as if to see what all the noise is about.
I could swear it’s Nelson.
Somewhere behind me, someone is calling my name, but I’m just trying to look more closely at this person. The man’s face is harder to see, especially when the breeze pushes his hair across it. But the jean jacket. The way he stands.
My pulse is thundering through my veins. I feel hot and cold at the same time. I take a few steps closer. Could it be?
Suddenly, I’m jerked backward roughly. Someone is holding me at the elbow.
It’s Ba. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
In that split second, I lose sight of the man. When I look back, he’s gone. The other boys are now gathered together, staring at me and Ba.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, wondering if Ba saw what I saw.
“A few minutes. I came to look for you,” says Ba. He points at the streetlights, glowing against the rapidly darkening sky. “You were supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago.” He turns to the other boys. “I suspect you all were supposed to be home by now.”
He didn’t see. He never sees what I see.
“Are you okay?” asks Aaron.
“Throw away the trash,” says Ba, pointing to our bases.
I’m not going to say what I saw, or what I thought I saw. It makes no sense. They might think I’ve gone crazy, or worse, Ba will give me ten reasons why I’m wrong, and I don’t want to be wrong.
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” I tell Aaron.
Ghost runner.
Eagles fly high
Eagles fly low
Eagles get hits
And home runs you know.
THE PARENTS ON THE OTHER TEAM END THEIR CHANT by flapping their arms and yelling, “Gooooo Eagles!” I hate them. I hate the way they sit and talk to each other. I hate the way they laugh after they chant, like they know it’s silly, but they can’t help themselves.
But most of all, I hate them because it’s working. We are down 10–2.
Bobby and I stare at the Eagles parents. “I wish they would shut up already,” says Bobby. His dad is here, but he is not the cheering type. There seem to be more parents at the game than usual; I think it’s because of the strike. People are getting desperate for baseball.
We should be able to beat these guys, but it’s the top of the fourth and we are falling apart. We just can’t make the outs, even the easy ones. Rickey misses a soft pop-up. Jimmy overthrows to first. Yonder loses a ball along the fence line. The Eagles scored seven runs in this inning before we could get that last, miserable third out.
The team jogs to the dugout, not so much because anyone is in a hurry to bat, but because they just want to leave the field. Before anyone can put on a batting helmet, though, Ba comes into the dugout, looking worried.
“The umpire just told me that he will call the slaughter rule if the game gets much worse,” says Ba.
“Don’t worry,” said Aaron. “We’re going to close the gap this inning.” The slaughter rule says that if one team is down more than ten runs by the end of the fourth inning, the ump can declare the game over.
I pace up and down the dugout, wishing for a comeback. I imagine telling Mom, “We were down eight runs, the ump was threatening to call the slaughter rule, and then we came back!” I slip my fingers through the chain-link fence at the front of the dugout, squeezing with all my might.
But it doesn’t look so good. Jimmy pops out, and then Bobby strikes out swinging, giving us two quick outs. That gets us down to our two worst hitters, Doug and Yonder. Doug hits a dribbler back to the pitcher that rightfully should be an out, but mercifully, the pitcher overthrows to first and Doug makes it safely on base.
Yonder, who usually hits the ball straight into someone’s glove, tees off four foul balls before he gets a sharp
ly hit single down the third-base line. Doug makes it to second easily. Against all odds, we have two men on.
The team gets on its feet. We are at the most reliable part of our lineup now, Aaron, and then Martin. They almost always get on base. I stare at the back of Aaron’s shirt, trying to will him to get a hit that will bring home Yonder.
“Two-out ral-ly!” It’s Sean, Rickey, and me, trying to get the rest of the team going. Our words sound sad instead of encouraging, but we persist.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ba give the signal. He sweeps his right hand over his left arm, and then tugs on his wrist. Take.
Take? I don’t believe it. Why would Ba call for a take? I look to Aaron for his reaction, but he just nods. He takes his time walking to home plate. He stops to tap the dirt off his cleats and adjusts his shirt.
The pitcher pulls his cap down low, studying Aaron for a moment. Then he goes into his windup.
The pitch is a beaut, straight and fast. Aaron watches it go by.
Aaron looks back at Ba. This time, he stacks his fists and points at Aaron. Swing away.
The next pitch is outside. Then Aaron watches a pitch go by, which the ump calls a strike. 1–2. The dugout groans at the call. “Looked like a ball to me,” I say to no one in particular.
The next pitch is low. Ball two. The next one is in the dirt. Ball three. Full count.
Sean and I holler as loud as we can: “That’s too low! That’s too low! That is where the wormies go!”
I think about what Aaron said about going to full count, about finding out what you’re made of, and hope he is made of something really good inside today. A double, anyway.
The pitcher shakes off the first signal, then nods, and goes into his windup.
I can’t watch and I have to watch. C’mon, Aaron! This is the best and worst part of baseball, to put so much hope on hitting a small, fast-moving ball with a two-inch-wide stick.
Aaron swings. It’s a beautiful swing—tight and quick. But it’s no good.
“Hunh,” calls the umpire, drawing back his arm.
Disappointment takes an extra moment to set in because it happens so quickly.
The other team scores four runs in the next inning. Our fight is gone. They don’t even have any outs when the ump declares the game over.
The mood in the dugout is dark. This ending doesn’t feel merciful, which is the other name for the slaughter rule. The mercy rule. It feels humiliating. We watch the other team walk happily to their cars. I hear one of them say they are going for ice cream. I wonder what I am going to tell Mom.
Martin comes over and pokes Aaron in the shoulder, hard. “You know why they call it a game? ’Cause there are winners and losers.”
Sean takes a few steps toward them. “Hey.” He holds up his hands. “There’s no telling what would have happened, even if Aaron had gotten a hit.”
Martin shakes his head. “Yeah, but I don’t want this to happen again, you know? And we need to talk about this so it won’t happen again.” From the way Martin curls his hands, I’m not sure he is necessarily interested in talking.
Aaron covers his head with his hands. “I know, I know. I’m a sucker for the high fastball, okay?”
“Maybe you’re just a sucker in general,” says Martin. He raises his voice. “Maybe we’re all suckers, thinking that we could win with this chop suey coach of ours.” He spits on the dugout floor. “Telling you to take on the first pitch.”
The fact that I agree with Martin makes this all the more painful.
“That pitch was a gift.” He glares at Aaron. “You shouldn’t have listened to him.”
“He’s the coach,” says Aaron.
“He shouldn’t be.” The silence in the dugout suggests that, at best, this point is debatable.
“Yeah, well, you’re so busy complaining about Mr. Lee, but when that guy asked for volunteers to coach, he’s the only one that offered,” says Sean.
“And your dad wasn’t available, right, Martin?” says Aaron quietly.
Martin lets out a howl and lunges for Aaron, pinning him to the chain-link side of the dugout. Sean grabs Martin from behind. “Knock it off! Knock it off!” Sean yells. Jimmy and Bobby jam themselves in between Martin and Aaron.
“You do not talk about my dad!” screams Martin. “Don’t ever talk about my dad.” Even with Sean holding him from behind, Martin breaks free enough to pull back his fist.
I stick out my hand to block his punch. “Stop it!” If Ba finds out that I talked about Martin’s dad, I’m in trouble. “Knock it off!”
“Let him!” hollers Aaron. “And that will be last punch he throws.”
Martin’s eyes get wide and he drops his fist. He takes a step back, staring at Aaron as if he’s turned into a snake.
“You … you …” That is all Martin can say.
I turn around to look at Aaron.
The first thing I think of is a tail. Something that doesn’t belong. But it’s one long braid hanging out of Aaron’s baseball cap.
“You’re a girl,” says Martin. His voice rises and squeaks. A girl?
THERE ARE RULES EVERYONE KNOWS AND THERE ARE rules everyone has to figure out for themselves. Everyone knows that girls aren’t supposed to play baseball.
“You’re a girl,” says Martin. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
I’m too stunned to speak. I can only look. Aaron, star baseball player, has suddenly turned into a girl. Without the cap, long brown hair falls into her eyes. She pushes herself into the chain-link fence because that is the only place she can go. We surround her, our loss suddenly forgotten.
“How long have you been a girl?” asks Jimmy.
Aaron narrows her eyes at him. “How long do you think?”
“You lied to us,” says Rickey.
“I never said I was a boy.” She folds her arms in front of her and stares at us.
“What’s your real name?” asks Sean.
“It’s Aaron,” she says. “You know that.”
“No, your real name,” says Doug.
“I told you. It’s Erin. E-R-I-N.” She spells her name as if we should have known all along. Like it’s our fault.
“You let us think it was Aaron, like Hank Aaron. I saw your name on the roster,” I say. I say this like the force of this argument will make Aaron change back into a boy. But no, I had told a girl about Nelson.
“Let’s just say that I let everyone make their own assumptions,” says Erin. “People see what they expect to see.”
That is definitely true. With all that time we spent together, I never guessed, but with the cap off, I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. The name. The slightly high-pitched voice. And, now that I look more carefully, a not-quite-right body shape.
“Letting people spell your name wrong—that’s cheating,” says Rickey.
“No one asked me how to spell my name,” says Erin. “Did you spell your name when you registered?” She lifts her chin slightly.
Martin points at her. “You took a cup, an athletic cup. You wouldn’t have taken one if you weren’t trying to fool us.”
Leave it to Martin to find the most incriminating evidence.
For the first time, Erin’s bravery falters. Her chin drops. “I was supposed to take one,” she says. “It was part of the uniform.”
“You wearing it now?” asks Bobby. “Show us.”
“That’s how you found Nelson’s bat,” I say, putting it all together. “You were using the latrine.” Erin nods her head, ever so slightly, but does not look at me.
“Teammates don’t lie to each other,” says Coop.
Erin spreads her hands open wide, pleading. “Look, I just wanted to play ball. On a team. That’s all. Isn’t that what we all want to do?” She pushes her hair off her face. “Everything I did, I did as me, Erin.”
A few guys nod their heads, but don’t say anything. All I can think of is Aaron giving me Nelson’s bat back. Erin.
Rickey’s mom walks into
the dugout. As soon as she sees Erin, her eyes get big. “What’s going on here? Who is that?”
“It’s Aaron,” says Rickey. “He’s a girl.”
“Oh my goodness,” says Rickey’s mom, pulling him toward her so that her arm is a shield around him. “Rickey, you’ve been playing with a girl?”
Ba walks into the dugout. He glances at us, his eyes widening slightly when he sees Erin. But the only thing he says is, “We need to clear out the dugout for the next game.”
“Did you know about this?” accuses Rickey’s mom. Rickey shakes his head and covers his eyes.
More parents come into the dugout. Their voices snake around us, surprised and accusing, all at the same time.
“Is this the one who struck out with two men on? No wonder we lost.”
“It’s just unnatural, girls playing sports.”
“A girl, huh? Probably put here by some women’s libbers. Well, I’m sure the coach will have something to say about that!”
He doesn’t.
With each comment, Erin seems to get smaller and smaller. Some parents don’t even say anything. They just walk in, stare at Erin, and leave. Erin finally puts her cap back on, which makes it all seem a little less awful.
Erin’s dad walks in, the score book tucked under his arm. He just says, “Let’s go,” and Erin walks out behind him. “I told you this would happen,” I hear him say in a low voice.
“I just wanted to play,” says Erin.
When she walks by me, her glove brushes against mine. Erin gives me a pleading look. I can almost hear her whisper in my ear. It’s called a game because it’s supposed to be fun.
Ba quietly picks up the bats and balls and puts them into the equipment bag, and hands me a paper bag to put the trash in. I can hear the other parents whispering and looking at Ba.
Doug’s dad walks up to the rear of the dugout, and rests his arms on the sloped roof. “Mr. Lee,” he says. “What are you going to do about this?”
Ba holds his hand up and nods his head as if to say, Yes, I hear you. But he doesn’t say anything else.
I think that another coach would handle this right away. Another coach would take charge and say to everyone, “Okay, folks, here’s what we’re going to do,” and everyone would nod and listen to him. But not my father; he is not that kind of man. He is not a heckuva game kind of dad. My father is the kind of man who lets the rottenest kid on the team save face. The kind who picks the slowest kid in the league as his special pick for the team. He bows his head away from the other parents as he finishes cleaning up the dugout and lets the team scatter, with bad feelings and confusion.
The Way Home Looks Now Page 11
