A Long Pitch Home (28 page)

In the week leading up to the tournament, I run my fastest and swing my hardest. When I'm on the pitching mound, everyone says I'm on fire, including Jordan.

Sunday we have another day off, and I don't know what to do with myself.The tournament is in two days, and it feels like it will never get here. Just like Baba.

Everyone is busy except for me. Even Jordan is away for the day with her family. Jalaal is hardly around anymore since he got a summer job at the nursery and garden center with Olivia.

Uncle has errands to run. Ammi and Auntie haven't stopped cooking all morning, and Hira chases Humza around the backyard.

Telling Ammi I'm bored turns out to be a big mistake. I have to set the table even though dinner isn't for hours, then sweep the garage and pull weeds from the flower bed out back.

Finally Ammi calls me inside to wash up.

Jalaal is already back from the nursery, and he gets to the shower first.

Auntie announces that since summer has now arrived, all of us should read. “Every day for thirty minutes—adults, too,” Auntie says, beaming like this is the world's all-time greatest idea.

Hira actually does think it's a great idea. Jalaal looks less thrilled, but he cheers up when Auntie says he can download a baseball book. I would volunteer to read to Humza, but he's taking a nap. Ammi flips through a magazine too fast to read anything, and I wonder if just looking at the pictures counts. What am I going to read?

Then I remember my issues of
Sports Illustrated Kids
, so I bring a stack into the living room. I flip to the table of contents and sigh. There are no articles on cricket.

I hear Uncle's car pull up, and I wonder if he knows about Auntie's new summer reading plan. He'd better have something to read. He hasn't come through the door yet, and I almost wish I could warn him.

And then I hear it.

Two fast raps on the door—pause—another quick knock like a hiccup, followed by two slow thunks.

Baba's special knock.

My head snaps up, not daring to believe. I look at Ammi, who smiles through tears. She nods. “Go, Bilal.”

I scramble to my feet and race down the hall.

There are no locks to undo, not like last time; I fling the door open.

There, standing on the porch, is Baba.

I throw my arms around him and he laughs, swinging me off my feet. All the things I thought I'd forgotten come back in an instant—Baba's strong arms, the way his laughter sounds in my ear, the smell of cologne on his collar.

The stampede in the hallway announces the arrival of everyone else, and there are hugs and tears and more hugs. Baba and Ammi look at each other like they are seeing a lost treasure found.

Baba is home.

 Thirty-one

B
aba doesn't talk about the days when he went missing, at least not to me. But he does talk about the day he got the news that he was coming to us at last.

“It was because of you, Bilal.” His eyes still shine when he smiles, just like I remember.

“My friend Jack says politicians can pull strings.”

Baba smiles. “Omar Khan did not just pull strings, he cut right through them as if they were threads from a spider web.”

Baba and I laugh, and it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.

Baba unzips his suitcase and takes something from the side pocket that crinkles. “From Daddo.” He holds up a familiar purple packet with the dancing chili peppers on the front.

“Chili Milis!”

He tosses me the spicy gummy candies shaped like peppers, and I rip open the bag.

“Daddo remembers how much you love these.”

I put one Chili Mili in my mouth and chew, my eyes watering at the spicy kick. I wish I could thank Daddo in person. I roll the bag closed and promise myself that I will only eat one a day to make them last.

“Will Daddo ever come to live with us here in America one day?”

Baba sits on the bed, next to his suitcase. “No, Bilal. As much as she loves us, she wants to stay in her home and in Karachi with the rest of the family.”

“Can she visit?”

Baba nods. “I have no doubt that she will.”

Maybe I should start a list of things to know about America for Daddo when she comes.

I ask Baba about Mudassar.

Baba nods like he knew this question was coming. “Mudassar could use a good friend like you right about now.”

I frown. “His father?”

Baba rubs his face with his hands before looking me in the eye. “His father has gone to prison, Bilal
jaan
.”

I would think Baba would be relieved about this; now he doesn't have to worry that he'll be blamed for what Mudassar's father did. But Baba only looks sad.

I will call Mudassar. But first I need time to catch up with Baba and show him all the things that he's missed here in America.

I open my desk drawer and take out my list of things for Baba to know about America. Baba laughs and takes out his list, too. We pin them side by side on my bulletin board.

“Close your eyes, Bilal
jaan
, and hold out your hands.”

I hear Baba rise from the bed and rummage through his suitcase.

Then I feel it. My fingers close around the smooth wood, and even with my eyes closed, I know there is nothing else it could be—my cricket bat.

I run my fingers over the signatures of my faraway friends—Karachi Youth Tournament champions, every one of us. My bat took up suitcase space that Baba could have used for other things. “Baba—thank you.”

My father smiles. “I promised, didn't I?”

I nod, my heart so full I cannot speak.

“And one more thing.” He reaches into his carry-on bag and pulls out a cricket ball.

I grin. “Now we can teach Jalaal to play.”

Baba laughs. “Perhaps not with this.”

He turns the ball, revealing something scrawled in permanent marker:

For Bilal the Brave
Your friend,
Omar Khan

I gape at the ball, at this gift from the great Omar Khan. And then I hug Baba, because he is the real gift.

I thought I would be nervous to have Baba watch me play baseball. Although I have improved so much in one year, I am still not as good at baseball as I once was at cricket.

For the state championship game, I would like to say I struck out more batters than Jordan did. I would like to say I made it past second base. I would like to say I was the star of the game. I was not. My whole team was the star of that game, because together we beat the Williamsburg Wombats, seven to six. Baba says it's the most exciting game he has ever seen in his entire life.

My favorite part wasn't when I struck out two batters, or when I made it to second base with one hit. The best part was when I took the mound and saw Baba there in the stands. When he patted his heart twice, I patted mine twice, too. It wasn't for luck; it was his way of saying, “I love watching you play baseball,” and it was my way of saying back, “Thank you for being here.”

That evening, we celebrate the Cardinals' win, America's birthday, and my birthday all rolled into one. Neighborhood friends come by for food and to watch the fireworks from the high school. I introduce Baba to Jordan and her family, who all say, “Welcome to America!” Baba shakes hands with Akash and Henry. Jordan unties the yellow ribbon, and together we put it in the trash can.

This year I don't sit in a lawn chair with the grown-ups; I run and whoop and laugh with my friends as pinpoint lights soar skyward, burst, and fall back to earth.

Right before the big fireworks finale, everyone sings “Happy Birthday” to me, and Baba's voice is as loud as Hira's.

Jalaal points as the final rockets of light rise into the night and join the stars high above us before exploding into a hundred colors—the best birthday candle I have ever had. Last year I made a wish on my birthday; this year I don't need to.

The sparks wink themselves out as they float back down, and everyone claps at the grand finale. For my family, though, this is our grand beginning. I have decided that sometimes America means mom, baseball, and apple pie; sometimes it means Baba, cricket, and
jalebi
.

Baba once said the fourth of July would be the best day of my life.

He is right.

Acknowledgments

T
his book would not exist without the input and encouragement from a whole team of folks. My thanks begin with my agent, Erin Murphy, who encouraged me to write a proposal for this story. When it sold to Charlesbridge, my giddiness over selling three chapters and a synopsis quickly turned to mild panic as the reality of crafting an entire novel set in. All of a sudden I had deadlines, which were set (and, mercifully, revised) by my editor, Julie Bliven. I first met this novel's main character, Bilal, in a handful of scenes from my first novel,
Flying the Dragon
. In that story, he was a minor character, but I knew he had his own story to tell. Thanks to Julie's support, guidance, and encouragement, I found the space and the inspiration I needed to delve into Bilal's world. I also appreciate Emily Mitchell's proofreading prowess, Diane Earley's diligence with this book's design, and copyeditor Josette Haddad's knowledge of baseball (among a multitude of other topics) that helped wrangle some of this story's details into line. I am so grateful for Kelly Murphy, artist extraordinaire, whose talent has graced yet another children's-book cover.

Regarding all things baseball, I'd like to thank Nate Contrino, Harry Fulton, Carter Strain, and my dad, Chuck Dias, who has been a die-hard Red Sox fan for the last seventysomething years. Any inaccuracies that may remain are mine alone. Regarding all things cricket, I decided to change the names of the professional cricket players mentioned in this story, since these characters are based on real people who are still living.

I can't imagine writing a book without the insight, encouragement, and honest feedback from my long-time critique partners Joan Paquette, Julie Phillipps, and Kip Wilson. My mother, Carol Dias, also read through the manuscript and helped keep this story on track.

I never would have been able to write this book without the help of friends who have a close connection to Pakistani and Pakistani American culture. Fellow author and friend Hena Khan read through this manuscript several times and offered invaluable insights, even emailing relatives back in Pakistan to find answers to my questions. Fahd Patel, attorney by day and first-time dad by night, was kind enough to reply to an email from a stranger after I stumbled across a
Zindagi 360
interview where he talked about his Pakistani American experience. His wife, Sahar Khan, generously provided answers to questions that I didn't even know I had and read through the manuscript, all while working on her PhD and raising a baby son. My former colleague, Sughra Kolia, is not only a wonderful teacher, but also a kind friend who shared tidbits of her life here in the US and in Karachi. My thanks to Amrita Love and Shaziya Ali, who are sweeter than jalebi.

My students have inspired my writing more than they will ever know. One of my many, many wishes for them is that they will one day tell their own stories from their own unique world experiences. I hope that my students and all readers will follow the good work behind We Need Diverse Books, an organization that helps people of all ages find and value their own stories.