The Resisters

by Gish Jen

  “That’s a lesson we all learned the hard way,” he said. “You’d think all that time in the real dugout’s enough but it’s not. Because it’s a different kind of time.”

  And that was the first I heard from him directly about Renata. Who also pitched relief but was not as good as me, or who never got to be as good. Though she was a natural, too, he said. And who knew what she could have done, had she hung out with the guys and become one of them. Which maybe she would have if she’d been less isolated—if she’d had an Ondi like I did, he said. Or at least some other women. As it was, she had to drop off the team—he didn’t say exactly why. I wondered, though, if it had to do with getting involved with someone, and if that was why he told me house roofs could go flying through the air if I did.

  Eleanor and I wrote back via PigeonGram to congratulate her—saying how fantastic the game was, a real breakthrough, and so on. At the same time, we couldn’t help but comment on what an interesting story that was about Renata. Nor could we help but ask, Was it just one beer? And was it just her and Coach Link, alone? Before asking these things, I should perhaps point out that I did take an online ParentalParanoia quiz, and on a 0–10 scale received a 6—“concern absolutely justified.” Gwen replied,

  I can’t believe you tired out poor Hermes with questions like that.

  * * *

  —

  She did not write for a week. But then she started GreetingGramming again, just as cheerily as before, as if nothing had happened. Was that because she had forgiven us or because she didn’t want Aunt Nettie to see she’d stopped writing? We suspected the latter but had no way of knowing.

  One thing is that my arm is getting pretty sore sometimes. I am now one of the pitchers getting worked on after practice and have all sorts of special exercises. But I have a great new ointment, too. They gave me this stuff with THC in it—do you know what that is? Don’t worry, it’s not enough to make me high. But I can’t believe what a difference it makes. It draws the pain right out. And when the pain’s gone, I’m like a different person. You’d be amazed how sociable and relaxed.

  “How much THC is this?” Eleanor wanted to know. “And is that all there is in the ointment? And how relaxed is relaxed?”

  “If you want to cross-examine her, you can,” I said. I confined myself to:

  Did Coach recommend this?

  Yes! He has total control over everything having to do with his players. I guess he insisted on control when he was hired and got it. Because he’s gotten great results, and that’s what they want to see. They treat him like a god.

  Glad he’s keeping an eye on you.

  So I wrote. But these days Eleanor and I did not need SwarmDrones to unnerve us. We could not sleep.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, we sent a PigeonGram about the last League game—a rematch of the Lookouts and the Jets.

  Brianna Soros at shortstop caught a fly ball behind her back! Yes, you read that right. With her glove behind her! What a showboat. And then, cool as can be, she turned and threw to second for a double play. And in the ninth inning, Diego helping out in center field caught a ball that had gotten so far out past him he had to catch it over his shoulder. Which he did—but not before it dove so close to the ground he was lying on the grass on his stomach with his glove out in front of him like a frying pan. He stood up so happy he kissed the ball, and that was it—game. Lookouts 6, Jets 4, just like your game against Army. Of course, the level of play can’t compare. Maybe to you it will seem more comedy than competence now—a lot of shenanigans. But maybe you’d have liked to see the heroics all the same. Including the new pitcher, Bo Anders, who is doing okay, considering. He says he’s got to meet you someday because all he keeps hearing is, I don’t mean to compare you to Gwen but…It’s like you put a spell on the team, he says. And like, even though you’re gone, the spell hasn’t been broken.

  We awaited her reply a bit anxiously. And how relieved we were when in her return PigeonGram, she seemed touched. She did not seem to think the League Podunk, what with no starting pitchers, no relief pitchers, no strategy. She did not seem to see us now as a bit like soda-can sculptures, ingenious and full of spunk but finally not real sculpture. In fact, for the first time she sounded homesick.

  Oh, it’s the team that’s put a spell on me! A spell under which I remain, far away as I am. I wish I could have seen the heroics. Diego is a madman! And that Brianna Soros. Did you know she can also do gymnastics? One of these days she’s going to make a catch while doing a cartwheel. I know none of them would even think of Crossing Over, but if they were ever interested, wow. Thinking of them, any one of them, playing out here with me—I miss them all so much.

  “Ever.” Did that mean she was thinking of Crossing Over permanently?

  * * *

  —

  The game against Navy was—happily, said Eleanor, and I could not have agreed more—less exciting than the Army game. A female Satchel Paige or not, Gwen spent the game on the bench—which in a way I didn’t mind, Gwen GreetingGrammed.

  I mean, the pressure to save the game again! Or to do something else spectacular. What if I screwed up? I wish they’d stop calling me the Secret Weapon. It just makes me worry I’ll disappoint everyone—that what happened at Army was a fluke. And if I do shine eventually, I worry the older pitchers will hate me—relievers like Warren Peese especially. Who needs to be benched as a senior because of a freshman girl? I thought Coach was right to get him out there in his last season, though I also knew Coach was right when he said I should not care what Warren thought. As he said, It’s baseball. If the situation were reversed, Warren’d retire me quick as sundown.

  Meanwhile, there was a bunch of fans who wanted to see me put in. At the top of the fifth they started chanting, Sur-plus! Sur-plus! Sur-plus! It took me a while to realize who they were even talking about, to be honest. Then they started with Perm-her-derm! Perm-her-derm! Perm-her-derm! And then I wasn’t sure if these were fans at all.

  And then (I know this is a lot of ‘and then’s, but it’s not an essay, haha) guess who I saw? Renata the Witch, who still comes to the games sometimes. Even though she’s obviously not on the team anymore or even at the university, there she is giving me the bug eye. As if it is my fault she didn’t spend more time in the Dugout? I don’t know what she wanted, sitting there, but I wished she would go away. Although in a way, it seemed only natural to have someone staring at me when all the guys had Annies staring at them. Signaling, Ready when you are! Get your hotcakes right here! What is the matter with them? Of course, the guys eat it up, and you have to ask what is the matter with them, too, although a bigger problem so far as their sleep is concerned seems to be DumDumGames. Like who has the time? But a lot of them are addicted and Coach has to lecture them day and night about it.

  * * *

  —

  Though Gwen was not under as much pressure as her classmates were, she did not find, as the semester went on, that balancing schoolwork with baseball was getting easier. Her next PigeonGram read,

  I thought I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. If only I didn’t have to sleep. Or maybe if Coach got it that people had to sleep? Which in theory he should, right? Since he used to want to be a professor, etc. But in practice he says he has to win games because if compared to other coaches he doesn’t measure up, he’s out. Like he gets messages saying things like “Congratulations! You’re in the top 10 percent of college coaches!” all the time. Meaning Aunt Nettie has him by the numbers, just like she has everyone else. And if you think he gets credit for having almost single-handedly resurrected college baseball, which was near death many times, he does not. I guess Net U really only supports baseball because we win. But baseball’s always been where his heart is. He just couldn’t watch it die.

  As for why I should likewise give everything
to baseball, Coach says I should because that’s where my heart is, too. Wasn’t that why I came to Net U? Because of my golden arm? And if I’m not intending to Cross Over permanently—which he can’t quite believe, but that’s something else—what point is there in studying? I told him that I actually like to read and study. For a Surplus it’s a privilege, I said. If nothing else, I have to do it for all the people who can’t. But in addition, I am more than an arm, I told him—to which he scoffed. “Your arm owns you,” he said. “Like it or not.”

  Of course, that made me mad. It was a good thing that the next day, he apologized. “I want you to belong to the sport,” he said. “I want you to belong to the team. But you are right. Your arm doesn’t own you—no one owns you. Maybe that’s why you’re so cool on the mound. And you’re right, too. You should read all you can and study all you can, while you can. You know, I forget myself,” he said. “Sometimes I forget. But you remind me. Thank you.” Then he gave me something to help me sleep, so at least I didn’t waste time tossing and turning.

  I did not care what ParentalParanoia said. I immediately PigeonGrammed back,

  Gwen, honey. It is better to toss and turn. Do not take this whatever it is. These things are addictive and who knows what’s in it.

  Eleanor and I braced for her reaction. But to our relief, she responded agreeably.

  I told Coach the same thing—which is what Pink and Sylvie said, too, by the way. First of all, I said, I am so tired I pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow. Second of all, I don’t like to take things. The ointment is enough.

  “Thank goodness, but,” said Eleanor.

  The ointment. I agreed.

  She knit her eyebrows together—all of this on top of the pressure of the Mall Truck suit. There was some good news on that front. Eleanor now had a potential witness—a woman who could not herself eat NettieFood because of allergies but who had watched her husband lose all his drive until she convinced him to eat what she did. Then he became himself again! Still, Eleanor’s forehead looked like a riptide.

  “Let’s take a long warm bath,” I suggested.

  “We haven’t taken a bath together for a while.”

  And it did, it helped us relax. So much so that the next morning, I wrote to Gwen,

  If you have trouble sleeping, why don’t you try a warm bath?

  She PigeonGrammed back,

  I already told you I’m not taking the pills.

  Her next GreetingGram was less testy. She thought her writing needed more work than her teachers did, she said. And could we believe one of them gave his comments online, in all of a paragraph?

  Shouldn’t they mark the pages all up? Or is it only fathers who will take the time?

  Of course, I smiled at that. Relatively competent as she was at writing, though, Gwen was a disaster in bio lab.

  I am terrified of dissection. My partner runs out of the room all the time, and when the results come out wrong, which is always, I just want to throw something at someone. Especially when people say stuff like, You really should stick to baseball. Or, Too bad you’re only a quarter Asian.

  I wrote,

  That’s terrible. But please do not throw anything except a baseball, and not at anyone, and not in the lab, or out of the lab, for that matter. Even your mother sticks to bacon and eggs, and to be frank, it is not her best trait.

  Happily, life with Pink and Sylvie was great. Gwen GreetingGrammed,

  The only thing is, what’s going to happen next year? I don’t dare ask either one of them, and I’m sure I’m the only one already worrying about it. But I wonder if the novelty of me will wear off. I mean, I’m sure we’ll stay friends. Maybe we’ll get together and cook something every now and then. But I’m not sure they’ll even want to room with each other. Like I think Sylvie is going to want to room with her dance friends and Pink is going to want to room with her tennis friends. Leaving me to room with Ondi? Who is maybe going to want to move in with Traymore? Assuming she doesn’t get cut from the team? I guess I wish Pink or Sylvie would ask me to room with her. Especially Sylvie. But I don’t think she will.

  To this, Eleanor and I wrote,

  Maybe you should just ask her? What do you have to lose?

  We could see Gwen rolling her eyes, though. And sure enough, the answer came back,

  I can’t. Trust me. I just can’t.

  * * *

  —

  Ondi, in contrast, seemed less stuck, thanks to Traymore. She was apparently getting to practice early now and, what with Traymore teaching her to think more strategically, she was no longer leaning solely on her ability to catch Gwen. Instead, she was making sure she could catch all the pitchers and, what’s more, was much savvier than she had been about the pitches she called for. She not only appraised the batter’s weaknesses but the pitcher’s strengths, and she thought beyond the three-strike out—better understanding things like how she could save the pitcher’s arm by getting the batter to hit a grounder. Groundouts mean pitchers can stay in the game a lot longer, Gwen explained. That makes it easier for Coach to save other people for upcoming games or to work around injuries. It gives him options. And Ondi did more homework than any of the other catchers. Aunt Nettie had stats on all the players—on when they had swung and when they had not, on when they had gotten on base and when they had hit homers or grounders or fly balls or fouls. It was information distributed to everyone, and Fudge and Beetle, it seems, did look at it. But Ondi memorized it, retained it from game to game and, most critically, infused it with her intuition. She was like an AI database plus; indeed, hers was the sort of AI-human collaboration that the long-ago designers of wearables for catchers had dreamt of before coaches like Coach Link had them banned. Said Gwen in a GreetingGram,

  Ondi says Traymore tests her every night, and that she never gets a stat wrong. Of course, as she says, she was already used to studying twice as hard as other people because she was so far behind in her coursework, and with this, she didn’t start off behind. So now it’s turning into a real advantage. Some pitchers are even starting to say maybe women make the best catchers, because they’re better psychologists. “They know how to get inside your head,” Pietro said. And people’s confidence in her is making Ondi hustle more. She’s always been quick and tough, as you know, if a little erratic in her throwing. But now that she’s really on top of things, she’s better than ever.

  Gwen’s enthusiasm was real. But, of course, all things with Ondi were like yarn that’s been knit and unwound—full of kinks. Gwen reported in a PigeonGram,

  So I didn’t put in a good word for Ondi with Coach back after the Army game, as you may remember and as she remembers very well. But still she started helping me special all the same. Giving me the very best of her calls, she said. I told her not to, please—that she should not play favorites. Right makes might, I said. And, There’s no direction like true north. Still, she mostly insisted, “I can’t help it. I just know you better than the others.”

  One day, though, she said, “Remember how mean I was to you when the Thistles played the Lookouts? And how kind you were when the League was so mad at me for playing unhacked? This is my chance to pay you back.”

  “Oh, wow,” I said. “That’s so nice.”

  But then another day, she said that all that true north stuff was how I think, not how she thinks, and that Traymore agrees. She’s extra helpful to me, she said, because our best strategy is to stick together.

  “Surplus is Surplus, and you’re blind if you can’t see how it matters,” she said.

  “You mean, a PermaDermed Surplus is still a Surplus?” I answered—which of course made her mad. She really drives me crazy.

  * * *

  ◆

  If Ondi was driving Gwen crazy, the ever-increasing drone traffic above our house and our game
s was driving us crazy.

  “What do they want?” Diego demanded one day, glaring up at the sky. With his upstretched arms, he looked as if he were going to try to grab one. “I wish they would just say what the hell they want.”

  “Maybe they don’t know,” I said. “Or maybe they know that if they actually do something, we will fight back. So better to wear us down than confront us. And drones can keep this up forever because they are drones. Whereas we can’t stand it forever.”

  “They can just wear us down and see if we snap.”

  I nodded. In my heart I believed this strategy to be related to having been black-coded, but I couldn’t prove it.

  Then Diego said, out of nowhere, “Do you think Gwen is coming back to us?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. And when he reddened a little, I thought for a moment what a fine young man Diego had become—thoughtful and kind, and the de facto team captain. If only Gwen could see it, too! But Coach Link, Coach Link, Coach Link. Could she see anyone besides Coach Link?

  * * *

  —

  Mimi came to report on Gwen—who, she said, had really taken quite a shine to Net U. She hoped we were as pleased as she was.

  “Because you can scout all you want, and Aunt Nettie can predict all she wants,” she said. “But you still never know.”

  “Interesting,” said Eleanor.

  Mimi’s face did not so much shine as glow, which could have just been the heat and the smoke. There was a wildfire a little south of us, after all—nothing we weren’t used to, but it was making a warm fall day even warmer.