A Long Pitch Home (5 page)

I jot something down on the pad and then hold it up.

Baba leans in, adjusts his glasses, and reads my writing:

•
The smell of rain during monsoon season
•
Mrs. Ahmed's laundry-screeching voice

I place the pencil and paper on the table, next to the keyboard. “When we talk or write, I will trade you one new thing in America for one Karachi memory. That way, you will know what to expect when you get here, and I will remember everything about Karachi.”

“I like that idea.” Baba nods, and holds up a hand. “Stay right here.”

I laugh. “Where else would I go?”

Baba disappears for a few seconds, and then he's back in front of the screen, holding up a notebook and a pen. “I've given you one memory—no, two! Now it is your turn.”

How to begin? Everything is new here—I could list a million things. “You told me today smelled like rain. In America, it smells like cut grass. Gardens here have grass carpets called
lawns
, and people like to cut the grass with a machine. And if the cut grass gets on the sidewalk, they blow it away with another machine.”

Baba shakes his head like he can't believe such a thing. He writes on his paper, then holds it up for me to see:

•
The scent of cut grass

“I have started my list,” Baba declares. “When I miss you, which is a hundred times a day, I will look at the list and it will feel like I am right there with you.”

I hold up my thumb to the computer's camera for Baba to see. “In America, a thumb sticking up means something is good. Jalaal told me.” I raise my other thumb and grin. “Your idea is a two-thumbs-up idea.”

I wait to see how Baba reacts, because a thumb up in Pakistan is definitely not the kind of gesture for good ideas. In fact, Mudassar got sent home from school one time when he did this to Yusef, who said Mudassar's sister smelled like a camel.

Baba's eyes grow wide, and then he laughs louder and longer than I have heard him laugh for many months. I laugh, too, and soon we are both wiping away tears and catching our breath.

“I don't recommend you share this new custom with Daddo. Your grandmother would not appreciate the humor like we do.” Baba picks up his pen. “But I have heard of this American gesture. I am going to write that down.”

My mother's voice calls from the kitchen. “Bilal, time to let your father go to sleep. It is the middle of the night back home.”

I sigh.

Baba laughs. “Tell your mother I heard that. And she is right. We will talk again tomorrow.”

“Okay. Good night, Baba.”

“Take care of that eye.”

“I will.”

He blows me a kiss, and I catch it and press it on my heart. I blow him one back, and he does the same.

My hand hovers over the touch pad before I guide the cursor to the icon of the red phone, but I don't want to click it.

Baba must feel the same way, because he says, “On three, okay?”

I nod.

“One, two . . . three.”

I still don't click on the red phone, but Baba does, because there's a
booping
sound, and then he's gone.

The clanking of pots and spoons drifts in from the kitchen, mixed with Ammi and Auntie's laughter. Usually the feast is my favorite part of Eid, even though we have to dress up.There will be gifts of money for my sister and brother, my cousin, and me. We'll drink
lassi
, made of sweet yogurt, and eat until our stomachs won't hold another bite. Then we'll have dessert.

But today I have already had my favorite part of Eid—Skyping with Baba.

 Five

A
s soon as I walk into the gym with Jalaal, anyone can see I'm different from the other kids at baseball camp. I'm the only one with a black eye.

Kids stand in clumps around signs with words I have never seen before, like Dylan's Dugout Crew and Hank's Home Run Champs. I swallow.

Jalaal scans the gym. “Your group is here somewhere.” He takes off his cap. I take mine off, too. I look around but have no idea which group is mine. Jalaal is one of the high school camp trainers, but not for my group. I wish he could be my camp trainer in case I have any questions. Maybe someone in my group will speak Urdu. If not, I will try my best in English, but I don't know very many baseball words. Thanks to Jalaal, I do know
glove
,
catcher
, and
pitch
, and that is better than nothing.

“There's your coach,” Jalaal says, flipping his cap back onto his head. “I'll introduce you.”

I flip my own cap back on and follow Jalaal over to a sign with more new words: Matt's Mad Dog Mavericks. I smile, because even though I don't know all these words, I do know what a mad dog is. Then I stop smiling, because what do mad dogs have to do with baseball? Maybe the mad dog is our mascot. But dogs are dirty creatures that run in the streets. Who would want a dog for a mascot?

Jalaal calls, “Hey!” to a man with short hair the color of strong tea.They do a very complicated handshake, ending with a sort of hug and a fist-thump on each other's back. I hope the coach doesn't greet me that way, because I'll never remember the hand motions. Luckily, he just sticks out his hand and says, “I'm Coach Matt. How're you doing, big guy?”

This is the second nickname someone has given me here in America. I wonder if I'm supposed to give people nicknames, too.

I shift my baseball bag to my other shoulder and shake Coach Matt's hand. “Hello, sir. My name is Bilal.”

Coach Matt smiles. I can tell he is older than Jalaal, because he really needs to shave. Or maybe he is trying to grow a beard. But he isn't old like my parents. He turns his baseball cap around backward. “Welcome to camp, Bilal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He gives my shoulder a side punch, and I take a small step sideways. Not because it was a hard punch, but because I wasn't expecting it.

“You can call me Coach Matt.”

“Okay, Coach Matt, sir.”

Jalaal bends down and whispers in Urdu, “He means you can drop the ‘sir.' Just ‘Coach Matt,' or ‘Coach,' is fine.”

I feel my ears go hot. It's one thing to know words in English, but another thing to know which words to use when and which words to leave out.

Jalaal pats my shoulder and announces, “Well, I'm off.” He nods toward the opposite side of the gym before walking away. “See you later, little buddy,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Good-bye, big buddy.”

I want to run after him, but I know I can't. Instead I take a breath and turn to join my group.

The Matt's Mad Dog Mavericks sign is surrounded by boys my age, all except for a tall boy with yellow curls sticking out from under his cap. This boy is big like Jalaal and throws his head back when he laughs at something one of the other boys says. He reaches over and punches a kid on the shoulder like Coach Matt did to me. The boy grins and punches him back. Obviously, shoulder punching is an American sign of friendship.

When Coach Matt calls, “Hey, Kyle!” the yellow-haired boy jogs over.

“This is Kyle,” Coach Matt says to me. “He's one of the high school camp trainers who'll be helping us out.” He turns to Kyle. “This is Bilal.”

Kyle sticks out his hand and says, “Good to meet you, Bilal.” He narrows his eyes. “Wow, nice shiner.”

“Thank you,” I say, wishing I knew what a shiner is.

Coach Matt adjusts his cap. “Bilal is Jalaal's cousin. Just got here from Pakistan.”

“Right.” Kyle nods. “Jalaal told us you were coming. We play together on the high school team. You play baseball in Pakistan?”

“No, it is my first time.”

I don't tell Kyle this is actually my second time; Black-Eye Day doesn't count.

“Okay, Mad Dogs!” Coach Matt claps his hands and rubs them together. “Have a seat, gentlemen!”

But when I look around, there are no seats. Tennis shoes squeak on shiny wood as the boys gather closer and sit on the floor. I sit, too.

“First of all, Mad Dogs, welcome to baseball camp!” Coach Matt sounds very excited about this day. The other boys clap and yell things like “Yeah!” and “Woo!” and pump their fists in the air. I pretend to be happy, too. I even yell, “Yeah!” like the others, but secretly I am praying I will get through the day without another black eye.

Coach Matt continues. “I remember most of you from last year's camp and the regular season. We've got a few new faces this time, so let's go around and introduce ourselves. Give us your name and the position you like to play best.”

I stare at Coach Matt. He talks too fast for me to understand all of his words. He points to one boy and asks him to stand.

“Jake, second base.”

The next boy stands and says, “Akash, catcher.”

They are saying their names. That much I know. And of course I know
catcher
is a position in baseball. One I will never play.

The boys continue to stand, one by one:

“Carlos, second base.”

“Jack, shortstop.”

“Aiden, left field.”

And it goes on this way until it is my turn.

“Bilal,” I say, and now I need to pick a position.

In cricket I play the gully position most, but I didn't hear anyone say this one, so I don't think it is a baseball word. I try to think of what the boy next to me just said.

“Um, third base?” I sit down quickly and hope third base is something like the gully position.

“Great!” Coach Matt nods. “Okay, Mad Dogs, here's how we'll run the day.”

I figured there would be running, which I don't mind. But as Coach Matt talks and talks, I only understand a few of his words. How can this be? I can speak English. But Coach Matt's American English does not sound the same as the English I learned from Madam Sughra last year. The other kids laugh at some things Coach Matt says. I laugh along, too, so no one will suspect that I do not understand the jokes.

All at once the boys scramble to their feet and head outside with their bags slung over their shoulders. I am the last to follow.

We skirt around an asphalt-covered area where other kids are gathered, listening to a coach who is the tallest man I have ever seen. Coach Matt leads us up some concrete steps with dry grass poking through cracks. It is hard to grow grass in Karachi, but here grass grows all over the place.

At the top of the steps is a field so green it hurts my eyes. I watch the other kids so I'll know what to do. They dig into their bags and pull out their gloves before flinging their bags onto the bottom bench of the shiny metal bleachers. I do the same, then jog out to where Coach Matt and Kyle are waiting.

After showing us some throws, the coaches pair us up for practice.

Coach Matt waves a kid over. “Akash, this is Bilal. He's from Pakistan. Isn't that where you're from?”

Akash shakes his head. “I'm from here.” He shrugs. “My parents are from India.”

“Close enough, right?” Coach Matt says. He pats Akash on the shoulder and walks away to pair up more kids.

India and Pakistan are close—they are right next to each other—but for some reason Akash does not look happy about Coach Matt's words.

I pull on my glove. “You move here from India?”

Akash shakes his head. “Never been.”

I stare at him. “Never?”

He stares back, like a challenge. “Nope.” And he goes back to tossing the ball and catching it in his glove.

I want to ask him what it's like to be from a different country than his parents, but I do not know him well enough to ask such a question. Plus he doesn't look like he wants to talk. Maybe if we become the kind of friends who punch each other's shoulders and call each other by nicknames, then I will ask him this question.

Akash backs up a few steps. “Ready?” He holds up the ball like the point of a question mark, and I nod even though I am not ready, even though I will never be ready. I glance around to be sure no one is behind me if—
when
—I miss the ball.

I give my glove a few punches with my left fist like I've seen the other boys do.

Akash pulls his arm back and lifts one knee. He lets the ball fly, and I jump for it.The ball hits my glove near the thumb, then skips over the edge and drops behind me. I scoop up the ball. When I turn back, I think I see Akash rolling his eyes.

Looking around at the others, I can tell I am the worst player out here. I must have been terrible at cricket when I first learned, but that was too many years ago to remember. Back then I wasn't the only one learning to play, so we were all bad at cricket together. But when I think about it, even Omar Khan, the greatest cricket player in the history of the world, wasn't born knowing how to play cricket. He had to start somewhere, and I guess now I do, too. With baseball.

Akash punches his glove, waiting for me to throw the ball. I know now that I am supposed to pitch the ball, not bowl it as I did in cricket. Eyeing Akash's glove, I pull back my arm and take a step as I let the ball fly. Akash barely has to move, because the ball finds its way right where I told it to go—into the soft leather center of his glove.