A Long Pitch Home (21 page)

And she goes to close the door.

“Wait!” I put out my hand, and she almost closes my fingers in the door.

“Take your hand away.”

“Okay, but can you listen first?”

She appears to think about this for a few seconds. “Fine.”

I take my hand back, relieved to still have my fingers. “I am sorry for my words on the bus.”

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “So why'd you say that?”

I take a deep breath, but it doesn't help me think of the right words to say.

When I don't answer, she says, “I'll tell you why.” She unfolds her arms and puts one hand back on the doorknob and the other on her hip. “It's because you don't want to be seen with me. Because I'm a girl, and obviously everyone on the team has a problem with that.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Jordan shakes her head. “I thought you were different. You didn't really fit in, either. I thought we could be friends.”

I find my voice. “But we are friends.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, when no one else is around. I don't need friends like that.”

I think I see her eyes go shiny, but she looks down before I can tell. Two seconds later she looks back up again, and I think I must have been mistaken.

“I only practiced with you because I could tell you needed it.”

Her words sting. I think of the times we laughed with Coach Pablo during the pitching clinics. But now I wonder if she was laughing at me instead of with me.

I slide my hands into my jacket pockets. “Well, you do not have to feel sorry for me anymore.”

And with that I turn and walk back down the front walk. When I reach the sidewalk, I stop. Maybe I should try to apologize again. Jordan is right—she doesn't need friends who don't want to be seen with her. But I also don't need friends who feel sorry for me.

I walk all the way home without turning around.

I tell Ammi I have homework to do, and take the laptop up to my room. But what I really need to do is talk to Baba. I double-click the Skype app and go to Baba's icon, which says Offline. I try calling on the regular phone, but the power must be out again in Karachi, because a recorded message says, “The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time.”

I close the laptop, fold my arms on top, and lay my head down. I don't want to reach a number; I want to reach Baba. And not only “at this time,” but all the time. Every day.

 Twenty-one

I
can tell by the way Coach Matt and Coach Pablo grin at each other that the news is good. I'm seated in the bleachers, waiting to warm up for my very first Cardinals practice, my arms folded against the chill of this gray, March day.

Coach Matt rubs his hands together. “All right, folks, time to listen up!”

We all quiet down.

“We've got some good news—an exciting event coming up for the team.”

I wonder if Jordan knows what this news is. Living with Coach Matt, maybe she overheard something. But she's still not talking to me, so it doesn't matter.

“We've got a shot at an exhibition tournament where some bigwigs will be watching us play.”

Bigwigs?

“And that exhibition game will be played at . . .”

Coach Matt and Coach Pablo grin at each other before saying together: “Nationals Park in Washington, DC!”

Cheers erupt, and even the coaches can't quiet us down. Nationals Park! Wait until I tell Jalaal!

Coach Pablo waves his arms up and down to get everyone quiet again. “We thought you'd all be excited.”

Coach Matt nods. “There's a push to include some new sports in future Olympic Games. At the moment, baseball is not an Olympic sport.”

There are choruses of “What?” and “Why not?” and “That's not fair!”

Coach Matt raises a hand. “I know. Hard to believe. Baseball became an official Olympic sport in 1992, but we got kicked out in 2012.”

Coach Pablo looks disgusted.

“But we are not going to sit around and feel sorry for ourselves.” Coach Matt shakes his head. “There are two groups working together on this—one is trying to get baseball back on the Olympic docket.”

Coach Pablo glances at his clipboard. “And the other group is trying to do the same for a sport called cricket.”

I freeze. Akash nudges my arm, and I shoot him a grin.

“One problem with baseball and cricket in the Olympics is that the games can take a long time.”

“So what?” Jack says. “That just means there's more greatness to watch.”

Coach Matt and Jack fist-bump. “Good point, Jack.There's one version of cricket that only lasts about three hours, instead of several days.”

Carlos looks at me. “Days?”

I shrug. Why is that so surprising?

I've only seen Nationals Park on television, when Jalaal and I watched the games last fall. It looks huge. What would it be like to play there?

“So how does it work?” Jack asks.

“The Cardinals have been selected as one of ten top teams in the region,”Coach Pablo explains. “If—when—we make it to the semifinals, the top two teams will face off at Nationals Park.”

“We've got our work cut out for us,” Coach Matt adds. “The team from Loudoun has been selected for the tournament, too.”

Everyone groans except for me and Jordan.

Coach Pablo holds up a hand. “I know—they beat us last year for the state championship. But I think we've got a good shot at winning this. Whoever clinches that exhibition game travels to Toronto this summer for the final game against the Canadian semi-final winners. All expenses paid.”

“There's only one catch.” Coach Matt looks serious.

What does he mean? Only one catcher? We always play with one catcher.

Coach Matt scans our faces before he speaks again. “If we win, the trip would be a ton of fun—no doubt about it. But if we win at Nationals Park, the final game will take place in Toronto on July fourth—the same day as the state championships here at home. If we do qualify for the state finals game but go to Toronto instead, then we forfeit the state title.”

There is too much to think about. Everyone else must feel the same way, because we have the worst practice we've ever had. Coach Pablo says we need to focus, and we are; just not on what's happening on the field.

When Jalaal picks me up after practice, I fling open the car door and blurt out, “The Cardinals might play at Nationals Park!”

Jalaal's eyes widen. “Your Cardinals?”

“Yes!” I get in and pull the door shut, tossing my bag in the back and high-fiving Jalaal.

I fill Jalaal in on what the coaches said.

“Man, Bilal! You playing at Nats Park.”

“Only if we make it through the playoffs. Just the top two teams get to play the exhibition game.” I can see Jalaal is happy for me, but I think he must also be a little envious, so I add, “It's only for kids twelve and under. They're trying to get more countries to start up cricket and baseball teams for kids, so people will want to see these sports in the Olympics.”

Jalaal nods. “So you have to convince a bunch of government diplomats that baseball is a good thing.”

“And we will,” I answer.

“Your dad will be so psyched if you get to play, Bilal! If you do, I'll film it for him.”

“Thanks, Jalaal.”

But we won't need a video if Baba can be there for real.

When we get home, I grab my bag and head inside, an idea forming in my head. If Baba knows I might be playing at Nationals Park, maybe he'll hurry up and try to come sooner. I probably won't get to pitch in a game that important, not unless Jordan is sick. But at least I'll be there in the dugout.

Out back, Ammi and Auntie are sitting on the swing, talking. Auntie's hand pats my mother's arm. I slide open the glass door, and Auntie stops mid-sentence.

I tell them how I might get to play at Nationals Park, but their reaction is not like Jalaal's. Even though they're both smiling, their eyes look tired.

“Bilal, this is happy news,” my mother says, but her voice sounds forced.

I look from one to the other. “Can we call Baba and tell him? I know it's late, but he won't mind.”

My aunt's eyes dart to my mother's face for only a second, then she looks down at her hands.

“Not at this hour, Bilal. Daddo needs her sleep.”

I sigh, but I know Ammi is right. “Did you talk to Baba this morning?”

My mother stands. “He's doing fine, Bilal. He'll be glad to hear your news.”

My aunt rises, too. “We'd better get dinner started.”

The door closes, but before they head into the kitchen, my mother turns and looks at me. Her smile is sad, and I wonder what she and Auntie were talking about.

I bring my bag up to my room and find Jalaal at his desk, the computer screen glowing. “Hey, Bilal, take a look at this.”

He's got a website up about the exhibition.

“Wow.” I lean over to get a better look at the big, gleaming stadium.

Jalaal scrolls down, past words and photos of kids playing baseball and cricket. He stops about halfway down and touches the screen with his finger. “Look at the list of the VIPs.”

“VIPs?”

“Very important people.”

“Oh.” The diplomats. I lean in closer. On the VIP list is a name I've heard since before I ever started playing cricket: Omar Khan.

I stand up. “What?
Omar Khan
is going to be there? But he's not a diplomat.”

Jalaal clicks on Omar's name, and a new page opens. “It says although his cricket-playing days are over, now he's a politician. He wants to be prime minister of Pakistan.”

I don't really care why he'll be there—he'll be there! At Nationals Park. Baba won't want to miss this game. He has to come now. He has to.

 Twenty-two

T
he next day at the park when I tell the guys about Omar Khan, Akash is the only one who understands.

“What?” Akash stops the basketball mid-dribble and lets it bounce off his shoe and bump-roll away. That's how surprised he is.

Henry chases down the ball. “Who's Omar . . . whateverhis-name-is?”

“Khan,” Akash and I say together.

“He is only the very best cricket player in all of the world,” I say.

“I don't know about that,” Akash says. “But he was captain of the Pakistani team that beat India way back in the nineties.”

“And he did it when he was thirty-nine,” I say.

Henry shakes his head. “Man, that's old. He must be pretty good.”

“He's good,” Akash allows.

“He's the best,” I say. “But now he's too old to play cricket, so he wants to be prime minister of Pakistan.”

Henry takes a shot at the basket and misses. “What's that?”

“It's like the president,” Akash says, jogging to retrieve the ball. “Hey!” He waves at a kid, a boy who joined my ESL class right before I left.

The boy waves back and jogs over. “Hello, Akash!”

Akash passes him the basketball. “This is Ravi—he's from India.”

“Then you know who Omar Khan is, don't you?” I ask.

Ravi nods like it's common knowledge. I like Ravi already.

I tell Ravi how Omar Khan is coming for the exhibition game, but I can tell he isn't following my English. He nods and smiles, but his eyes look a little panicked. I recognize that look.

I want to stay and explain so that Ravi understands, but I need to go finish my homework. We all leave except for Ravi, who heads up the hill to join a kid with a kite.

As soon as I get home and open the front door, Jalaal's voice trails down the stairs. “It's not fair! You never let me do anything.”

“That isn't true.” Auntie's voice simmers with anger.

“But she's nice. You'd like her if you'd just give her a chance.”

“It's not a matter of liking her. She seems very nice.”

“Then why can't—”