My Life as a Diamond

by Jenny Manzer

  Hank was leadoff and hit a dribbler between the mound and first base, the worst positioning imaginable. Unbelievably, the Bruins pitcher lost hold of the ball, giving Hank enough time to beat the throw to first. I heard my mom holler, “Great hustle, Hank!”

  You wouldn’t know it to look at her, because she’s pretty small, but my mom can really yell. She could be an ump, no problem. Then I heard Jerome call out, “Way. To. Go. Hank.” He liked to use a robot voice. Whatever. Chatter was good. It was part of being a team.

  Up next was Oscar. He swung at a junk ball, spun around and nearly fell over onto the catcher.

  “Oscar!” shouted Coach Vij. “Back up in the box!” Oscar nodded stiffly, as if agreeing to a seat in the electric chair. I got ready for my own turn, fastening my helmet (classic black with silver trim) and my batting glove (red and white).

  Oscar stared hard at the pitcher, and I realized that he really did care about the game. That made me feel better. I just couldn’t stand it when players didn’t try. Then a pitch, a little pop, and Oscar had executed a pretty good bunt. He ran his pants off, those short legs flying to first. Safe. Hank got to second and then sprinted to steal third on an overthrow. He stood there beaming like a glow stick. I gave him a thumbs-up. Now we had runners on first and third—men at the corners, as Nana would say.

  Jerome was up next, and I stepped out of the dugout to get on deck. I watched the pitcher, who was a tall gangly kid with long blond hair flowing down from his helmet, like that Mets pitcher. I couldn’t believe we had two on base, and I think Coach Vij was surprised too. He had a dazed half smile on his face.

  I took a practice swing. I watched the pitcher. I heard my mom utter a small “Go, Caz!” even though I wasn’t even up yet. Embarrassville: Population, 1. Jerome had good hand/eye coordination, if not a burning interest in baseball. Maybe it was the video games—who knew?

  “Jerry,” I called. “Let’s go! Hit Hank home.”

  “What?” asked Jerome, turning toward me. “No one calls me Jerry!”

  “I just did!” I shouted.

  That seemed to take the edge off, because Jerome settled in to battle the Viking-like pitcher to a full count. Foul, foul, foul, foul, and then kish!—a hard hit down the right foul line. It was good! The first baseman whipped it home, so Hank stayed on third. I was up to bat with the bases loaded.

  “C’mon, Caz, grand slam!” called my dad.

  Why did he have to do that? Now it would never happen. Did he understand nothing about baseball superstition? I admit it, with the bases loaded I was nervous. Tiny moths darted around in my stomach.

  “C’mon, Bruins, let’s beat these losers!” yelled some grown-up from the home bleachers, clearly tired of seeing us on the bases. He obviously hadn’t read and signed the parent-conduct form from the baseball association. You had to promise to always be a good sport, encourage fair play and not force your kids to play baseball. Almost all the parents broke the rules at some point.

  “Hey, not okay!” my mom yelled before my dad shushed her. As I said, my mom sometimes gets a little intense at games.

  I took my time, not letting anyone rush me. Despite trying to be cool, I swung at a junk pitch. Stupid. The Viking had me chasing, just like he wanted. I’d never admitted it to anyone, but I was always a bit scared when the ball barreled at me. It hurts to get hit. I was afraid of striking out too, especially in front of my new team. I didn’t want them to think I was a loser. I wanted them to—

  Strike!

  I’d missed another one. Two strikes.

  “If you like it, give it a rip,” shouted Coach Vij.

  “Go, Caz!” yelled Hank from third.

  The next pitch was wild and whizzed high by my head, whining in my ear like a mosquito. It nearly clocked me on the helmet, and I had to do the deep breathing Miss Linda had talked about because it reminded me of That Day. The one I kept trying to forget. You’re okay, Caz, you’re okay. The pitcher didn’t mean to hurt you, not this time.

  Not this time.

  I froze, remembering that day in Toronto. The worst day ever. Another pitch came at me, and I didn’t swing or move.

  “Caz, next one is yours!” My dad.

  “Enough farting around, Caz!” My mom. I wasn’t sure if the word farting was allowed in the Redburn baseball club’s code of conduct. She was usually quiet and shy with strangers, but she became a kind of baseball-mom leviathan at games. It was nice, because she seemed to forget her worries about me for six innings. It gave us all something else to think about.

  I felt my head jump back into my body. Bases loaded. Two strikes, two balls.

  “What is he waiting for, Christmas?” shouted someone from the bleachers.

  The pitcher fluffed his blond hair off his shoulder and hurled a slow-moving hunk of junk my way. I faced a full count.

  I noticed Oscar twitching around at second base, taking a lead, then jumping backward. What the—was he moonwalking? Oscar, pay attention, I wanted to shout, but a sweet heater was coming right at me. My brain told me it was good. I leaned on my back leg and took a big swing. Crack!

  I ran on contact as I’d been taught, surprising Gus on first, who’d gotten sleepy. Coach Vij windmilled his arm, shouting, “Go, go, go!” I’d hit the ball close to but not over the fence in center field—we’d have to hoof it. None of the other parents on the Ravens team knew my name yet, so all I heard was “Run, boy!” and “Attaboy!” Hank, Oscar and Jerome all scored. Coach was telling me to keep going, so I ran like I had red ants in my pants and slid into home just as the catcher caught the ball. He tagged me, but I’d already made it.

  Safe.

  The crowd roared on the Ravens side. There were a couple of stray boos from the Bruins fans who thought the catcher had made the tag. Hank, Oscar and even Jerome all came to slap me on the back.

  “Way to go, man,” said Gus, and I felt like I’d just been high-fived by Clayton Kershaw.

  “And that’s Caspar Cadman, number 3, with a grand slam,” said the announcer.

  “Caspar Cadman is a great baseball name!” I heard a fake high voice say.

  I undid my helmet and scanned the bleachers. There was Kyle, wearing a green Rockets hoodie, sitting right by home plate with another dude in the same hoodie. Kyle had his hair parted and slicked down. They were both holding cellophane bags and shoveling candy into their mouths. Kyle watched as I went back to the dugout. I could feel his eyes on me.

  You don’t have to apologize for being good, Cassie, my dad had told me once. But always remember that you’re part of a team.

  “That was a heaping slice of awesome,” said Hank, his eyes shining.

  “A-greed,” said Jerome in his robot voice.

  Oscar answered by doing the moonwalk along the dugout. He had it down. I just laughed because I was kind of proud of him, of us. We were holding our own against the Bruins, at least. But from what Hank had told me, the Ravens usually got clobbered by the Rockets, who had won the division championships two years in a row. I was hoping we could change that.

  Despite our four early runs, the Ravens fell to the Bruins 11 to 8. Patrick pitched well, but our fielding fell apart in the fourth inning, and the other team feasted on our mistakes—a dropped fly ball, an overthrow. Someone homered with a simple line drive. It was ugly baseball. Then, in the final inning—our games lasted six—a bald eagle dropped into the middle of the field and started ripping apart a mouse with his talons. I just stood there with my mouth hanging open, like a real city boy. I had never seen anything like it. Everyone else glanced at the eagle but just kept playing, as if the bird was a regular at the ballpark. I fumbled a grounder, which cost us a run. Eventually the eagle finished its dinner and flew away, making a musical call like keys jangling.

  Despite the loss, the mood in the dugout after the game was upbeat. All the guys were passing around bubble gum, and Jerome’s mom brought homemade chocolate-chip cookies in a big plastic tub. We pounced on them, kind of like the eagle, as if t
hey were the last cookies on earth.

  “Great game, Ravens,” said Coach Vij. “We need to up our D, not give them so many chances. But you played as a team, and you did what I asked. I want to give a special shout-out to Oscar, who got his first base hit with his first game bunt.”

  “First game bunt that worked,” corrected Oscar. “And it wasn’t the best bunt.”

  “If everyone had to be perfect all the time, nothing would ever get done,” said Coach. I had never thought of it that way before.

  “Yay, little O!” shouted Gus, slapping Oscar on the back. Oscar nearly dropped his cookie. We were all pretty happy, joshing around while we collected our gear. I could feel my mom and dad lurking outside the dugout, watching. That’s why I liked the baseball diamond. It was my place. I never stood around wondering where to hold my hands or what to say. My mom waved, miming for me to remember my cap. Yes, I’d left a few ballcaps behind. Thanks for embarrassing me again, Mom.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” I called to her.

  “Caz, that grand slam was the coolest,” said A.J.

  “Thanks, dude. You pitched a gem.” It was true. He’d pitched a sweet inning. Patrick had pitched well too. We smiled at each other, and I felt for a second like I belonged.

  As I lugged my gear to the car, I passed Kyle and his green-hoodie friend unlocking their bikes.

  “Way to blow that grounder, Caz the Spaz,” said Kyle, watching me walk by.

  I felt my shoulders go stiff. I clamped my lips shut. The last thing I needed was a fight with this guy. Steel and oak.

  Kyle’s friend snorted a laugh. He was sucking on one of those candy ring pops, which made him look like an enormous hoodie-wearing baby. I tried not to laugh.

  “Something funny, Spaz?”

  I had all kinds of answers in my brain, like Just thinking about your swing, but instead I walked to the car, making sure to keep my head high.

  “Were those boys friends of yours, honey?” my mom asked as I got into the car.

  “No,” I said and left it at that.

  At dinner that night my parents were all hyped up about my grand slam, which my dad kept calling a “grand salami,” and how nice the other kids on my team seemed. I almost forgot that we'd lost. I knew the Ravens weren’t used to winning much, and maybe that was okay. My parents extended my bedtime a bit later than usual, after I had a big bowl of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.

  “Have a good sleep, Caspar,” said my mom, coming in to give me a kiss. “You earned it. That was quite a game.” She smoothed the back of my hair, where my braid used to be.

  “Thanks, Mom.” It was always safe to talk about baseball. We talked a lot about baseball in our house. My dad came in next, and after he left I heard them murmuring in the living room. I wondered what they said when I wasn’t there.

  Once I finally got into bed I couldn’t fall asleep. My mind kept churning over things: what Kyle had said to me, the eagle eating the mouse in the outfield—which was kind of amazing and horrible at the same time—and everything that had happened back in Toronto before we moved.

  Rain Delay

  You may be wondering what happened after that haircut. I wore my ballcap to practice as usual, so it took a few minutes for my teammates on the Lightning to notice. In theory, girls were allowed on the team, but I was the only one that year. Most of the girls who had started in baseball had switched over to softball by my age. So if I bobbled a throw, I felt that everyone in the stands was rolling their eyes. If I hit a ground-rule double to the fence, everyone seemed super surprised, like, What a novelty! The fact that I was a girl was a big deal, even though everyone pretended it wasn’t. When it was my turn to bat at practice, I pulled off my cap so I could fasten on my helmet.

  “Cassie,” said James, the first baseman for the Lightning. “You sure did a number on your hair. You totally look like a boy.”

  “I like it,” said Matt quickly. “It’s better for wearing a batting helmet.”

  Matt knew I felt like a boy. Actually, I’d told him I sometimes felt like a boy. I hadn’t wanted to tell him the whole truth, that I always felt like a boy.

  “I think she looks like a boy,” said James, standing his ground as usual. I didn’t know James that well, only that that he was stubborn and sometimes lost track of his strikes and balls when he was batting—but he would never admit this. He also played hockey, and sometimes I wondered if his heart was really in baseball like mine was.

  “Can you guys call me Caz all the time instead of Cassie?” I asked, all in one big breath, afraid of what they’d say.

  “Totally like a boy,” said James, as if we hadn’t heard him the first time. I wanted to look like a boy. I just didn’t want everyone talking about it.

  “Girls can play baseball, you know,” said Eddie, who was usually the catcher.

  Of course I knew that. Girls could play baseball. I just didn’t feel like a girl. I realized it was going to be impossible to explain all this to them. They were never going to get it—get me.

  “Just call me Caz, okay?” I said, and then it was my turn to bat.

  That’s when it started. While I was batting, someone started singing that “Dude (Looks Like a Lady)” song, which didn’t even make any sense but caused me to miss my pitch. The day before, we’d been working together on our run to win the championships. Now they were making fun of me. How could that happen because of one haircut?

  Pressure is what makes diamonds, Nana Cadman once told me. That and carbon dioxide. She said something special often comes from being in a situation where you have to tough it out—like my mom being in labor for eleven hours, and eventually out came me! Nana was no geologist, but she did usually have good advice. She said your best friends will be there with you through thick and thin. So I finished the practice, and the one after that, despite the whispers. We didn’t need the distraction. The regular season playoffs were coming up.

  Our coach planned an extra practice the day before our first game. It was hot, but it went well. No one said anything strange, and I thought maybe they were getting used to the new me. We finished the regular practice, the coaches packed up and went home, and a few of us stayed behind to play a game of 500. My parents often picked me up a few minutes late, because they knew I loved 500—playing just for fun as the summer night cooled down and the sky began to fall dark.

  The way we played was simple. One person batted, and the others tried to catch their shots. You got different points for your catch—100 if you grabbed it clean, 50 for grounders and so on. Once someone reached 500, they switched places with the batter. James put on his batting helmet over his long brown hair—he was growing it all feathery. Obviously he was going to bat first. We played for a few minutes, just four of us, as James batted. The ballpark was rimmed with backyards, and I heard a mom calling a kid home. Someone else was playing a radio on a porch.

  “Nice hit, James,” I said as I caught it in my glove. No bounce. That was 100 points. James just scowled at me. I should have known something was wrong then.

  I caught a couple of fly balls, and Eddie caught a few, and Matt got some grounders. I picked up two grounders. Then James hit a line drive, thwick, right between Eddie and me. I dove for it into the grass and snagged it in my glove.

  “Five hundred!” I called, standing up to dust myself off. That meant James could play while I batted.

  “You’re really a show-off, Cassie,” said Eddie. “That was my mine to catch. You didn’t even call it.”

  “That’s not my name,” I said, confused. I looked over at Matt. He shook his head, but I didn’t know what that meant—no, don’t say anything or no, that’s not your name?

  “Yeah, and I think you have trouble with math since you cut your hair, because there’s no way that’s 500.”

  “She’s cheating. She didn’t used to cheat when she was a girl.” There was so much wrong with that sentence that I couldn’t think of what to say. I actually couldn’t even speak. I felt as if a p
anicked horse were galloping on my chest, trapped there, trying to find its way out.

  “Guys, we’re supposed to be a team,” said Matt, walking over from right field.

  “Tell that to Cassie the show-off,” said James, glaring at me. “Oh, sorry—Caz.”

  “What did I do?” I asked, staring down at my glove as if the answer might be there.

  Something had changed. I had changed. And they didn’t like it.

  “Let’s just go, Caz,” said Matt, tapping his sports watch. “It’s time anyway.”

  We walked home in silence, the sound of my baseball cleats ticking against the sidewalk. Each step reminded me of the new names I had been called—show-off, cheater.

  Finally, just as we reached the junction where we went our separate ways home, Matt cleared his throat.

  “They’re just jealous, Caz, because you’re a better player than them.”

  I nodded, trying not to cry. You’d never see Joey Votto cry. I just wanted to get out of there.

  “How was practice?” called my dad from the living room when I finally got home.

  “Great,” I lied. I could not tell them what had really happened. I could not begin to explain.

  “Want to watch the game with me, pal?” asked my dad.

  “Nah,” I said. “Too tired.” I admit it—I went to my room and cried, burying my head under my pillow as if that could make my thoughts go away. J.R. bumped the door open and barged in to see me, as if he knew I was sad. I fell asleep in my baseball clothes and had a dream that I was trapped in a steamer trunk—the heavy kind with buckles that you take on long journeys. I tried knocking on the lid from the inside, and even though I could hear footsteps around me, no one helped me.

  Nana Cadman appeared at our front door the next morning, carrying a paper bag of bagels from the bakery. The bagels were still warm.

  “Fuel for the superstar,” said Nana, smiling and placing the bag on the kitchen table next to my untouched glass of orange juice.

  “Please don’t call me that, Nana,” I said.