The Way Home Looks Now

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  I nod. Chris is right: The world is messed up. But then, we have baseball. Baseball reminds us that there are still good and joyful things in the world, even when times get bad.

  Friendship does that, too. Even friendships that have gone off the rails for a while.

  “Come back tomorrow?” I ask Chris.

  As Chris and I walk home, I look over my shoulder to see the sun set over the field. The sky is dark, stained orange and purple at the edges. The streetlights have come on; one light stands over home plate, casting it in a yellow light.

  At the far edge of left field, there’s a figure walking toward the trees. I can just make out the details from where Chris and I are. Dark hair. Blue jacket. He carries something long and thin.

  Like a Louisville Slugger bat, with red tape on the handle.

  This time, no one pulls on my elbow to disrupt my vision. I watch the person fade into the darkness among the trees. He moves with a slow purpose.

  It could be anyone, but I choose to believe.

  ERIN IS LATE TO WARM-UPS. IT’S PROBABLY JUST AS well—the less time she’s on the field, the less time the other team has to figure out that something’s up. Some of the guys suggest, only half-jokingly, that we stick her out in right field, which is the position farthest away from the Panthers’ dugout.

  When Erin does show up, she looks different. It doesn’t take long to figure out why.

  “You cut your hair?” I say, remembering at the last second to lower my voice. Her braid is gone. Short tufts of hair stick out from under her cap. It’s not boy short, but it’s not super long, either. I look over at the Panthers dugout, to see if anyone is looking at our latest player, but no one seems to care. Maybe it’s true what Erin said—people only see what they want to see.

  “Lots of guys wear their hair like this,” she says. “My mom says the unisex look is really in right now.”

  “You cut off your hair,” says Sean, with some admiration. “That’s dedication to the game.”

  When Jimmy sees Erin’s hair, though, he is less excited. “Guys have long hair, too!” he says. “You could have pretended to be a guy with long hair.”

  Erin gives Jimmy a look. “So you want me, a girl, to pretend to be a guy who looks like a girl?”

  Jimmy grins. “When you say it like that, it sounds more complicated.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” says Erin. She lowers her head, and runs her fingers through the bits of hair at the nape of her neck. But her fingers keep going after her hair has stopped.

  We are almost done with warm-ups when Sean comes racing onto the field. Even though we haven’t started the game yet, his hair is plastered to his head and little trickles of sweat run down his face. Sean motions for us to come into the dugout.

  “What’s going on?” asks Rickey.

  Sean leans over, pressing his hands into his knees. “The other coach said he heard we had a girl on our team. He said he’ll pull his team if he finds a girl.”

  I look over at the other dugout, and realize I know who the other coach is. It’s Dan Bennett, from the tryouts.

  “It’s a forfeit if he does that,” says Doug. “We’d get the win.”

  “Aw, wins on forfeit are cheap,” says Martin.

  We all turn and look at Erin. We hadn’t considered what would happen if someone was actually looking for her.

  “What do you want to do? You want me to leave?” she says.

  “You’re supposed to pitch today,” I remind her.

  “As much as you fooled us, I think the coach might be able to spot you on the mound if he’s looking for a girl,” says Martin. “Like a sitting duck.” He shakes his head. “My arm’s still pretty sore from the last game. I don’t think I can pitch another game today.”

  “I could pitch,” offers Jimmy.

  “A whole game?” asks Martin. “Against these guys?”

  Jimmy falls silent. He’s not ready, and he knows it.

  “Besides, we still gotta stick Miss Baseball somewhere on the field,” says Martin, jerking his thumb at Erin. “We only have nine.” Bobby is out sick.

  I pull off my catcher’s helmet and pads to cool off. I hold them in my hand, feeling their heft. An idea begins to form in my head.

  “Erin, you could catch,” I say. “Put this gear on and no one’s the wiser.”

  “Can you catch?” asks Martin.

  “Ask my two older brothers,” says Erin. “I don’t like it, but I can do it.” She takes the helmet out of my hands and jams it on. Once she adds the chest protector and the shin guards, it is a pretty good disguise.

  Ba walks in. He looks at me, out of catching gear, and then looks at Erin. We tell him what’s going on. If Ba is at all rattled by this development or the prospect of not exactly telling the truth, he doesn’t show it. “So who’s going to pitch?”

  This was the harder part of the plan I’ve concocted. I pick up my glove, my regular glove, and say, “I am.”

  The pitching mound feels a hundred feet high. And I pitch like it, too. I throw the first two warm-up pitches over Erin’s head, and the third one into the dirt. Erin stands up and jogs over to the mound.

  “Just relax,” she says. “Get the ball over the plate.”

  “It’s been a while,” I mutter. “I’m a little rusty.”

  “We’re playing catch, okay? You can do this.”

  But I can’t stop thinking. I’m thinking of what will happen if we get caught. I don’t want to have come this far to lose it all again. I’m thinking of Mom. I’m thinking of what Nelson would say, and what hydrangeas look like in August.

  I know what he would say. Don’t overthink it.

  I am in the middle of the windup when Ba walks out with Dan Bennett. I can’t help myself. I stop the windup and pretend to study the ball so I can hear what they are saying.

  “It’s a bit hot,” he says. Mr. Bennett is taller than I remember, though his voice is the same. “But we should have ourselves a fine game.”

  Ba nods. “We are looking forward to it.”

  I hold my breath. They are only a few feet away from Erin. I make a wish for them to finish talking and go back to the dugouts. Go go go.

  “Just one more thing,” says Mr. Bennett. “There’s a rumor going around that you might have a girl on your team, Mr. Lee.” He points a thick finger at Ba. “If that’s the case, I will pull my team, with the full backing of the league’s board of directors.”

  It’s hard to believe that I ever wanted to play for Dan Bennett.

  Erin stays perfectly still, crouched in the catcher’s position.

  Dan Bennett takes a few steps into the field and looks at each player. “You,” he calls to Doug in right field. “Come here.”

  Doug has longish dark-brown hair that curls around the edge of his cap. He jogs across half the field before Coach Bennett shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says. “Darn kids with their long hair.”

  He turns his glare to me. I let him get a good look. “That’s my son, Peter,” says Ba.

  “Figured as much,” says Coach Bennett. “Not too many Orientals around here, you know.”

  I throw Erin a pitch so she can look busy. The ball hits the plate, but Erin drops down and blocks it. She picks up the ball and throws it back to me.

  For a moment, I fantasize that Ba will grab Mr. Bennett by the front of his shirt and tell him to leave our team alone.

  Instead, though, Ba points at Erin. “Our catcher. Our catcher is a girl.”

  Erin’s look of shock must mirror my own. I think we’re both going to be sick. Ba and his truth telling. But suddenly Bennett throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Oh, you got me,” he says.

  “I got you?” asks Ba, unsure of the phrase.

  “Well, sure. C’mon. If a girl was going to play, she sure as heck wouldn’t play catcher. You’d stick her in the outfield and pray that nobody hits to her.” He turns to Erin. “What’s your name there?” he asks.

  “Erin,” she replies
, not looking up. I cross my fingers and hope that he doesn’t ask her to spell it.

  “Nice block,” he says. “Oh no, that’s no girl. No one out there but fine young men.” He claps Ba on the shoulder. “See, I knew that rumor didn’t make any sense. I told my wife that you Orientals understand this situation. You’re traditionalists. Girls belong in the kitchen.”

  Ba turns slowly so that Mr. Bennett cannot see him give me a long look.

  “I certainly agree,” says Ba. “That girls belong at home.”

  I almost collapse right there on the mound. And even under the catcher’s mask, Erin’s smile is impossible to miss. As soon as Ba and Coach Bennett walk away, she holds up her glove and then signals one finger, straight down.

  Fastball.

  I hurl it in, as straight and fast as a ray of light.

  “I think Erin’s braid was good luck,” says Jimmy. It’s our last at bat, and we’re down, 6–1. One out. Coop’s at bat. Rusty’s pitching has been as good as advertised.

  “It’s not like we won all our games before Erin cut her hair,” points out Doug.

  “I know,” says Jimmy. “But we need … something.”

  “Like what?” says Sean. “Snacks?”

  I know what Jimmy means. It’s not the score; it’s the mood in the dugout. I jump up and grab the fence. “Coop, Coop, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can!” My voice sounds thin all by itself and I feel kind of silly, but it does the trick. The pitcher throws it outside. The count evens up, 2–2.

  “C’mon,” says Erin. “Everybody, get up!” She joins me at the fence and Jimmy and Bobby follow. Our voices grow stronger, until we’re shouting, “NO ONE CAN!”

  The pitch is low. Coop starts to swing, and then stops short. Check swing. We hold our breath. The ump hesitates half a second, and then calls a ball. Full count.

  We all draw in a deep breath and then start screaming again. “Coop, Coop, he’s our man …”

  CRACK! It’s a beauty—a long arcing hit, behind the center fielder. Coop makes it to second—a stand-up double.

  Now it’s Doug’s turn. Rickey’s on deck, Erin’s in the hole. If we get that far, I’m after Erin. We’re yelling so much and so loudly that the words become strange stretched-out sounds.

  Doug swings late and the ball dribbles off the edge of the bat. For a second, the pitcher and the catcher can’t decide who’s going to get it, which is enough time for Doug to land safely on first while Coop makes it to third.

  Runners on the corners, and one of our best hitters coming up—Rickey. We’re about to start cheering when Martin interrupts us.

  “You’re just going to keep doing … that?” he says. “For everyone?”

  “We’ve gotten two hits in a row, and now we have a runner at third,” says Erin. “You don’t mess with a streak. Chanting is our streak. Everyone knows that, right, Rickey?”

  Rickey thinks about it, adjusting his batting helmet. “Call me Rick,” he says, after pausing a moment. “My sister’s best friend is here today.”

  Ooooooohhhhhhh, the rest of us croon back to him, but Rick ignores us. We get through two rounds of Rick, Rick, he’s our man before he slaps a single into center. The center fielder catches it on the bounce and throws it to second, getting Doug. Coop comes home.

  Erin’s up. And now there’s some controversy over whether we can do the chant that says Erin is our man.

  “We could do that one where you spell the name …” says Jimmy.

  “No! We have to spell it the girl way,” says Sean.

  Erin looks back at the dugout. She’s not in the batter’s box yet because we haven’t started chanting.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, you guys are a bunch of morons. This isn’t rocket science.” Martin stands up and walks over to us. Then he grabs the fence and starts shouting.

  “Extra, extra, read all about it!

  Erin’s gonna smash it!

  No doubt about it!”

  “There,” he says, stalking back to his seat on the bench. “Now you have a chant for Erin.”

  I scan our opponents’ faces, checking to see if anyone cares that we’ve changed our chant. No one seems to care about that. They do, however, seem to care deeply when Erin hits one into the gap and Rickey makes it home. 6–3.

  Now the team is chanting, “Two out ral-ly!” I’m up. I’ve had a single and a walk so far. When I reach the plate, the team switches to our new chant.

  Extra, extra, read all about it!

  Peter’s gonna smash it!

  No doubt about it!

  The pitcher scowls at me; I’d be mad, too, if a rally started while I was pitching.

  Ba tells me to swing away, and I’m thinking I’ll lay off the first pitch, figuring that the pitcher will go with something off-speed. When the pitch comes in, though, it’s just ripe for hitting, right down the middle of the plate. It’s crazy because it’s like everything is going at one-tenth speed. I can see the stitches, the Rawlings stamp, the stain of grass on one side.

  When the bat connects with the ball, it feels like the ball is soft, like hitting a wet sponge. I don’t even have to look—I know it’s gone. There’s a pop the bat makes when you hit it well. I can hear the oohs, even from the other team, and I see the pitcher throw his glove on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ump twirl his finger.

  Nelson had told me about this—I hit the sweet spot of the bat. “When you hit the sweet spot, there are no rattles, no bone shakes,” he said. “It’s like everything’s so perfect, it all moves together.”

  As I pass first, my legs feel the way they did when I went ice-skating the first time—not when I was actually skating, but after I’d taken off the skates and was walking across the locker room. Freed of the weight of the skates, my legs felt weirdly light, and I wasn’t actually sure my feet were touching the ground.

  Erin waits for me at home and we jump on each other, screaming our heads off. We’re within one run of tying the game. But more than that, it’s because we love this game. We love this game.

  It’s Martin’s turn to bat, and for a moment, all the screaming stops and both teams watch Martin in silence. He’s the tying run. Martin knocks the dirt off his cleats.

  “Don’t get out,” says Coop quietly. Martin glares at him.

  Martin goes into his stance, the tip of his bat making tight circles. Martin swings at the first pitch. Strike. You can hear the other team sigh with relief.

  “What are we doing?” Erin squeaks, jolting us out of our daze. “C’mon! Keep up the streak!”

  For a split second, the dugout hesitates. It’s Martin, who was just complaining about the cheering.

  But no, you don’t mess with a streak.

  We start screaming. “Extra, extra, read all about it. Martin’s gonna smash it …”

  Martin goes to full count. He fouls off one, then two more. We scream louder. The pitcher draws himself up, nods at the catcher, and goes into the windup.

  There are three sounds.

  The first is the grunt from Martin as he takes a swing.

  The second is the “huh” from the umpire, calling the third strike.

  The third is the sound of the ball crashing into the backstop.

  Complete silence. Then it hits me. “First! Run to first!”

  The batter becomes a runner when the third strike called by the umpire is not caught …

  “Pick up the ball! Pick up the ball!” screams the other coach. The catcher scrambles briefly, and then makes a wild toss to first. The ball sails over the first baseman’s head. Martin tags first and takes off for second.

  “What’s he doing?” wails Doug. “They’re going to nail him. He should just take first.”

  The right fielder scoops up the ball and sidearms it to second. He throws wide. The second baseman stretches for it, but the ball goes just past the tip of his glove. The ball shoots into the outfield.

  “He’s still going! He’s still going!” screams Jimmy.

&
nbsp; Martin barrels for third. Everyone on the Panthers side screams at the fielders to just hang on to the ball, “Eat it!” But the temptation is too much. The right fielder launches a cannon to third. Ba is already signaling for Martin to stop at third. Two hands, palms out.

  The third baseman has to leap up to catch the ball. He comes down with the ball, but as soon as he hits the ground, the ball pops free. Erin and I look at each other, and I know what she’s thinking: A third-strike home run!

  The loose ball is all the encouragement Martin needs to head for home, seventy feet from a win. He blows by Ba and his sign to stop. We’re all screaming, “Go go go,” as if our voices can make him go faster. “Go, Martin! Go!” There’s no stopping him now. It’s going to be decided at the plate.

  The catcher is a big kid, bigger than Martin, practically as big as Ba. He hit a triple during the first inning. He sets up in the base path, straddling the path. The ball arrives a split second ahead of Martin.

  “Knock him down!” yells Erin.

  “Slide to the outside!” yells Sean.

  But Martin does neither. Instead, he twists and slides, slipping between the catcher’s feet. A thread through a needle. His feet touch the base as the catcher tags him on the head.

  We hold our breath.

  The umpire pauses a moment, and then jerks his hand back. “You’re out!”

  For a second, our team deflates. A collective “nooooo” fills the dugout, and I see Martin’s head flop back down to the ground.

  It’s over.

  Around me, I can hear the mutters of why and suggestions of what might have been. Sighs. And the thing is, part of me knows I should feel disappointed. But a lightness springs in my chest, as happy as a balloon, so that all I can do is laugh. It bubbles out of me and floats up.

  I was wrong, wrong to wait for a winning game. That’s not what my mom loved, and, I think, still loves, about the game. More than winning, it’s the game itself, and people playing it to the limit. That’s what it has to be.

  Rickey turns around and gives me a strange look. “He said out, Pete. You know that, right?”