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
The 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—”
“Jalaal, that is enough.” Auntie’s voice is like steel. “I will not discuss this any further.”
Furious footsteps pound down the stairs, and I back out the front door, pretending I’m just now coming in so they won’t know I was eavesdropping.
Jalaal brushes past me and out of the house without a word, leaving the front door wide open in his wake. Auntie nods once to me as she comes down the stairs, her eyes avoiding mine. She rounds the corner and heads down the hall to the kitchen, her dupatta trailing behind her like an angry serpent.
My mother calls my name as she comes around the house from the side yard, clipped daffodils in her hand. I sink onto the porch swing and she joins me.
“Better to give them some privacy,” she says.
“Auntie looked really upset. So did Jalaal.”
My mother sighs. “This is a difficult age for him.”
Next door, Olivia’s yellow car pulls into the driveway. The daisy hubcaps slow from a white, spinning blur to petals. She steps out and waves, and my mother and I wave back.
I give the swing a gentle push with my foot. “They were arguing about Olivia, weren’t they?”
My mother studies my face like she’s trying to figure out if I’m old enough to hear what she has to say.
I decide to show her I am old enough. “Jalaal wants to be Olivia’s boyfriend, I think.”
Ammi bites her bottom lip, and I think she’s trying not to smile.
“You have always been very observant, Bilal.”
“I am right?”
My mother pushes our swing with the toe of her tennis shoe against the floor of the wooden porch. “It’s really none of our business, Bilal.”
“But if it were our business . . .”
Ammi raises an eyebrow.
“. . . then why would Auntie be so mad at Jalaal?”
Our swing sways back and forth six times before she answers. “It’s complicated, Bilal. Jalaal is—we are—Muslim. Olivia is not.”
I frown. “So he has to have a Muslim girlfriend?”
“Auntie prefers that he waits to have any girlfriend until he is older.”
I think about the Valentine’s Day party when someone threw the “Love Birds” heart at Jordan and me. Yuck. I don’t want any girlfriend, Muslim or not.
I decide to change the subject. “When can we call Baba?”
My mother glances at her watch. “I’ll try to phone him tomorrow.”
When I’m at school, of course. I’m always at school when he calls. And on the weekends, our calls usually don’t go through.
My mother seems to guess my thoughts. “At least his letters come fairly regularly.”
Baba wrote his first letter to us one day months ago when the power was out and he couldn’t connect to the Internet. I told him that I liked holding something that I knew he had touched, so now he sends both old-fashioned letters and emails.
Ammi stands. “Should we see if one arrived today?”
“I’ll check.” I race to the mailbox, pull back the little door, and slip my hand into the cool metal box. I pull out a stack of envelopes, my heart full of hope as I flip through each one. When I get to the second-to-last envelope, I close my eyes and take a breath. Then I peek. It’s not from Baba.
My mother watches me from the swing. When I shake my head, her shoulders droop.
I climb back up the porch steps, and my mother stands. “I think we can go in now. Auntie has had some time to cool down.”
In case Auntie needs extra cooling-down time, I head upstairs. It’s nice to have the room to myself. When Jalaal comes home, he’ll probably need some cooling-down time, too, and I’ll have to go somewhere else.
I’m only halfway done with my homework when Jalaal slips into our room, eyes on his phone.
“Hi, Jalaal.” I didn’t even hear him come home.
I expect to see storm clouds in his eyes, but he’s actually wearing a lopsided grin.
“Hey, little buddy.”
I put down my pencil. “Is Olivia your girlfriend?”
Jalaal looks up from his phone. He shoots a glance at the door, then strides over and closes it.
“It’s complicated.” He runs a hand through his hair.
I nod like this is news; I feel guilty for overhearing his argument earlier with Auntie.
Jalaal lowers his voice. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.” I inch closer to the edge of my chair.
“I want to ask Olivia to prom.”
“What’s prom?”
“It’s this big, formal high school dance.”
That’s it? That’s the big secret? That doesn’t sound so great. But I can tell Jalaal thinks it is.
“Do you think she’ll say yes?”
Jalaal shrugs. “I think so. At least, I hope so.”
I wonder how he’s going to do this if his mother won’t let him have a girlfriend. “When are you going to ask her?”
“Prom’s still a few months away. I’ve got time.”
I nod, even though I have no idea how much time he needs before he has to ask her.
Jalaal looks lost in thought, but finally he blinks. “I just need time to convince my parents to let me go. Especially my mom.”
“You can do it, Jalaal.”
There’s no way he can do it. Auntie sounded mad.
He stands. “Sometimes, little buddy, you have to take matters into your own hands.” He pulls notebooks from his backpack, sits at his desk, and clicks on his reading lamp.
I glance at his phone sitting next to his books. I wish I had my own phone so I could call Baba at school, when he’s home and awake.
Jalaal said I have to take matters into my own hands. What I really have to do is take a phone into my own hands, put it in my backpack, and take it to school . . .
. . . to call Baba.
Twenty-three
Convincing my mother to let me take her phone to school has not been easy. But my opportunity comes sooner than I expected. Today I have baseball practice after school, but Jalaal also has a
dentist appointment and can’t pick me up. Since my mom doesn’t have a car here in America, Auntie has to pick me up. She also has a million errands to run. We’ve been running overtime with the Cardinals getting ready for the exhibition tournament, so I never know what time practice will finish. I told her I could just call her when practice is over, and she called that idea very efficient.
When I get off the bus at school this morning, I am sure my phone is well hidden in my back pocket.
Until Akash says, “You got a phone?”
My hand flies to the phone, and I shove it deeper into my pocket.
“It’s my mom’s.” I glance around to make sure no one heard him before remembering that I haven’t done anything wrong. Not yet, anyway.
All throughout the class morning meeting, the only thing I can think about is calling Baba. I’ve heard Jalaal say he can never get any reception at school, which means I’ll have to call outside at recess. That’ll be nighttime in Karachi, but not so late that my phone call will wake anyone up.
When recess time finally gets here, I’m the first one out the door. I’ve already picked out a place I can go to talk to Baba where no one will see me—behind Mr. Jacobs’s trailer classroom. It’s risky, because although I am hidden from the playground, I still have to keep my voice down in case Mr. Jacobs spots me.
I take my time walking there, even though I want to sprint. When I finally slip into the shadow of the building, I let out a breath and pull out my mother’s phone. Baba’s number isn’t in her phone’s memory, because we always call with the house phone. But of course I know it by heart; it used to be my phone number. I touch the screen to wake it up, tap in the numbers, and wait. At first I think my call has not gone through. What if the power is out again? But then the familiar ring sounds. It’s a Pakistani phone ringing—three quick, gurgling rings—different from an American ringtone.
“Hello?”
“Daddo?”
There is a moment of silence, then my grandmother asks, “Bilal jaan? Is that you?”
Her voice sounds happy and suspicious at the same time.
A Long Pitch Home Page 15