by Joe Gribble
says. “Just get the ball over the plate, then we'll work on speed.”
Bob waves to Shinji at first. “Shinji, go in and hit. Maybe JJ just needs a target.”
Shinji shakes his head as he trots to the plate. “I don't want to be a frickin’ target, Coach.” He grabs a bat and steps into the box.
JJ fires a speedball.
Shinji jumps back out of the way to keep from getting hit. “He’s trying to frickin’ kill me!”
“Sorry, Shinji!” JJ says.
“Slow it down a little more, JJ,” Bob says. “Just get it over the plate.”
JJ throws one slow, a duck right over the plate.
Shinji swings hard and connects, a high foul out past the third base line, almost into the street.
The ball stops near a young man walking away from them along the sidewalk.
Josh, at third, hollers to him, “Hey, bro! How about a little help?”
The man turns. A teenager, tall and lanky, wearing Afghan-style clothing: flowing shirt, salwar pants, and sandals. He picks up the ball.
Josh waves at him from third base.
The Afghan teen’s arm moves in a blur.
Josh watches the ball fly over his head.
Ramiro, at home plate, doesn't move. He raises his glove to his chest and the ball hits it dead center.
“Holy shit,” Josh says.
JJ turns to Bob. “You see that, Coach? That guy's got an arm.”
JJ turns and shouts to the kid, already walking away. “Hey, bro! Bro! You wanna play ball?”
Bob watches the kid walk away. “Shut up, JJ. We don't need him.”
“But Coach,” JJ says, “you saw him throw.”
Bob swivels around to face home plate, turning his back on the Afghani kid. “Just pitch the ball, JJ.”
JJ watches as the Afghan kid continues to walk away. He shakes his head and turns back to face Ramiro.
Ramiro throws the ball back to JJ.
JJ catches it. “You gotta’ admit, Coach, that kid can throw.”
Bob ignores him. “Just pitch the ball over the plate.”
---
They practice until almost sunset, when Bob finally turns them loose.
Ramiro sits on the bench, pulling off his shin guards while the rest of the team walks away.
Bob sits down next to him. “How’s it going, Ramiro?”
“Honestly?” Ramiro asks.
“Sure,” Bob says.
“You got a cred problem.”
“How’s that?”
“The way you throw. Like a girl or somethin’,” Ramiro says.
Bob looks down at his missing right arm, then raises his left. “I’m not much good with my left.”
“We gotta’ work on that so these guys will take you serious,” Ramiro says. “Grab the ball.”
Ramiro grabs his face mask and heads for home plate, without his other protective gear. “Throw me a few.”
Bob walks to the pitcher’s mound, tossing the ball lightly in the air and catching it with his left hand. He toes the rubber.
Ramiro squats behind the plate.
Bob stares at the catcher, still tossing the ball in the air.
Ramiro punches his glove. “Any time, Coach.”
Bob tries to go into a windup. Awkward. He throws, but his pitch flies well to Ramiro’s left.
Ramiro doesn’t even try to get it. He stands and puts his hands on his hips. “I think you’re worse than JJ. We got a lot of work to do.”
Ramiro walks over to retrieve the ball and tosses it back to Bob. Without a glove, Bob tries a bare-handed catch and bobbles the ball. He steps onto the rubber and throws again, far inside, but at least Ramiro is able to snag it.
Bob throws again, this time forcing Ramiro to leap into the air to try and catch the ball, but he misses it just the same. He shakes his head as he trots back to get the ball and tosses it to Bob.
Bob winds up, but loses his balance and almost falls over.
Ramiro can’t help but laugh.
Bob frowns. Tries again. This time his throw bounces short of the plate and flies to Ramiro’s right, well out of reach.
Ramiro stands up and pulls off his face mask, studying his coach before committing. “Why don’t you move in a little closer to the plate, Coach?”
Bob glances around to make sure no one is watching. He steps a few paces forward and tries again, but his throw still goes wide. Bob shakes his head as Ramiro throws the ball back to him. “You sure you want to do this?”
Ramiro squats back down behind the plate. “We got at least another hour before it gets dark, Coach. I’m here as long as you want.”
---
An hour later, the sun is almost down and Bob has thrown at least a couple hundred pitches. His accuracy has gotten better, and he’s back up on the mound, throwing from the regulation distance. It’s getting harder to see the plate in the fading sunlight, so Bob calls it a night. “That’s enough for today, Ramiro,” Bob says.
He follows Ramiro back over to the bench. Ramiro grabs his gear and puts it under his arm.
“Thanks for helping,” Bob says.
“No problem, Coach. You’re getting a lot better already. We can practice whenever you want.”
“I appreciate it,” Bob says. “I’d just as soon the other Bandits don’t know, though. At least not until I’m a lot better.”
“I ain’t gonna’ say nothin’, Coach. You have my word. See you tomorrow.” Ramiro starts to walk away.
“One thing,” Bob says.
Ramiro turns.
“Your immigration problem. I know you said you weren’t supposed to talk about it, but is there anything I can do?”
Ramiro looks around, then walks back to Bob and begins talking in a low voice. “I wish you could, Coach. I’m not sure. See, the ATF brought us here for our safety. My dad don’t talk about it, but he did something for them back when we were still in Mexico. Something to do with guns, probably, just from things I’ve overheard him tell my mom. I don’t know. We been here three years already. We were supposed to have our permanent papers by now, but we’re still waiting. Dad says we can’t go back. No matter what.”
Bob takes it all in. Not the first time the U.S. government promised something, then didn’t follow through. “I understand, Ramiro. Let me ask around.”
“You can’t tell no one, Coach,” Ramiro says.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.” Bob pats Ramiro on the shoulder as the young man smiles, then walks away. “See you tomorrow,” Bob shouts after him.
---
Downtown Dayton
The downpour resolves into a light drizzle. Bob has to keep switching on his wipers as he drives downtown. Even at the slowest setting the wipers come on too often, so he switches them on and off manually, steering with his knees each time he has to use his hand to adjust the wipers. Just one more reminder of what they had taken from him. He pulls to the curb when he spots what he is searching for. Only a hundred feet away, it wasn’t much more than an old house. A pair of silver-domed parapets in the rear mark it for what it really is. A mosque. Bob saw plenty of them in Afghanistan. More than enough. He watches the building for fifteen minutes, just staring at it. He isn’t sure why he came, why he should even care. Maybe just to see what they looked like. Were they foreigners who brought their religion to the shores of America, relying on Americans’ indifference, taking advantage of our hard-won freedoms? Or were they Americans, coerced or lured into the promises of a so-called peaceful religion? All Bob would need to do is confront them, show them his injuries, but he doubted that would sway any of them… He had experienced their animosity toward ”infidels” plenty of times in the past.
Bob watches with interest as a small group of men emerge from the side door. Several wear traditional Arab dress, and the others wear American-style clothing. They say their farewells, and split up when they reach the sidewalk. The men in the American clothing walk toward him. The others walk away. Bob fires up his truck and dr
ops it into gear. He eases away from the curb, around a car parked in front of him and drives slowly down the street toward the mosque.
As he passes the men in American clothes, he stares at them. They stare back, keeping their eyes locked on him until he passes by. He picks up his speed as he approaches the others, the men in Arab clothing. Timing is everything. He pushes the accelerator down hard and swerves toward the sidewalk.
His right front tire smashes into the large puddle at just the right instant, dousing the pedestrians with the filthy street water. Bob accelerates away, oblivious to the angry curses coming from the drenched men.
Bob turns the corner and heads back to the base, a smile across his face.
---
Security Forces Headquarters
Another day on the job reminds Bob that there’s more to life than baseball, at least for someone who doesn’t play ball for a living. As he walks down the hall toward Major Kepler’s office, he hears voices coming from the break room. He stops in the hall when he hears his name.
Inside the break room, two civilian contract guards—rent-a-cops—and a young airman drink coffee.
“Williams just hasn't figured it out yet,” the first rent-a-cop, Paul, says. He takes a swig of his coffee and feeds his overweight frame with a bite from a Danish.
Bob waits outside and listens.
In the break room, the second rent-a-cop, George, a thin man with cigarette-stained teeth, agrees. “You can’t be a cop with just one arm.”
“I heard he's even trying to coach a baseball team,” Paul says. “Unbelievable.”
“Just how the hell does that work?” George asks. “He can't even throw the ball, much less swing a bat.”
Airman Jones twists in his seat. “I heard he was a good cop. And a hell of a pitcher.”
“Was,” Paul says. “Maybe