by Jenny Manzer
Her smile disappeared. She was wearing the baseball earrings she liked to put on for games.
“I’m sorry, Nana,” I said. “Thank you for the bagels. I’m just feeling…” I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Nervous about the game?” she finished.
“Something like that,” I said, tracing my finger through the condensation on the orange-juice glass.
“Win or lose, what’s the worst that could happen?” asked Nana.
I thought about it. Everyone laughs at me. I let my team down.
“Mascot fight?” I said, to make her laugh. We’d seen a YouTube video of two minor-league mascots, an otter and a black bear, duking it out, except they were both too fat in their costumes to land a punch. It ended up being really funny.
“Just try your best, Caz. That’s all anyone can ask. Hold your head high. Cadmans never give up, you know. Remember what pressure makes?”
“Pressure makes diamonds,” I recited, reaching for the bagels.
When we got to the game, the first of the regular season playoffs, I asked the coach to write my name on the lineup as Caz Cadman, because I didn’t want to hear “Cassie” over the loudspeaker. Everyone knew something was up. The announcer said my name but pronounced it in this funny tone like, “Heeere’s Caz,” and a few people laughed. My mom and dad and Nana Cadman just sat there in the stands, looking confused.
“What kind of name is that?” I heard someone mutter. “Didn’t number 3 used to be a girl?”
I knew then, standing at home plate, that most of the Lightning players weren’t really my “through thick and thin” friends. They had tolerated a girl on their team when my arm helped them win, but now? I froze at the plate, just long enough.
Strike one.
I replay that strike sometimes, because that is when I knew. Caz, you are on your own. Then it happened. The second pitch was coming straight for me—not my bat, but my head. I spun fast and got struck on the top of my shoulder. It felt as if someone had dipped it in fire.
The pitcher was glaring at me. He was heavyset and at least a head taller than me, with chocolate freckles and an overbite. His name was McGillan, but everyone called him Big Mack. I knew he was friends with James. They played on the same hockey team.
Sorry, Big Mack mouthed, then smiled.
That smile showed one thing—the hit was intentional. Since I’d been hit, it was a dead ball. I took a base. No one made a stink about me getting a beanball. No one clapped when I walked to first base. The whole diamond was silent, like the sound of snow falling. Then, when the next Lightning got a base hit, I ran to second base wondering if anyone besides Matt still had my back.
Was it wrong to cut my hair and ask to be called Caz? I was so tired of feeling like nothing about me felt right—my hair, my name, my clothes. I had thought my team would understand. I’d known most of the Lightning since we were little. They must have all been put in the right bodies when they were born. Why was it so wrong that I wanted the same thing?
Matt was up to bat and managed to get to first on a line drive. I ran to third, beating the throw. Big Mack was getting rattled. Too many batters were getting hits off him. Eddie was up to bat now, and Mack lobbed a wild pitch. The catcher bumbled it and then went lumbering off in pursuit, super slow, like some Stone Age tortoise.
“Caz!” I heard Nana Cadman yell. “Run like ya mean it!”
I fell back into my body, and I hightailed it for home, kicking up the dust. I slid and made it, just before the catcher swooped in for the tag. I heard my mom and dad cheering and Nana loudest of all.
I stood and dusted myself off. My run had nudged us into the lead of the first playoff game. I had done something. I had helped my team. I let myself feel a flicker of pride.
“You’re still just a girl,” the catcher said to me, as if reading my mind.
And things just kept going downhill from there. We won the game, but my teammates acted weird around me, like they couldn’t look at me. The day before my tenth-birthday party, my mom fielded a flurry of emails from parents canceling. We’d booked a party at the batting cage and invited the whole team—ten players—as well as two girls from class that I’d known since preschool. It ended up being just those two girls and Matt. Everyone else on the Lightning suddenly had something else to do.
“More chances for us to hit,” said Matt, but even he couldn’t pretend it didn’t suck. The saddest thing was seeing the enormous ice-cream cake my mom had ordered, back when she anticipated a crowd. It was shaped like a baseball. My new name was written on it in red icing. We barely made a dent in it. I can still picture that big melting cake. I told myself not to cry, and I didn’t, mainly because I knew how sad it would make my mom.
It turned out my dad had already been offered the new job with the airline in Washington, and my parents had been weighing the pros and cons. Just before the school year ended, I went to class and found my desk stuffed with boys’ underwear. It was supposed to be funny, I guess. I stared and left it all there. I heard a roar of laughter. Everyone saw and no one said a thing—not Matt and not my teacher. I ran from the room without even asking permission. I didn’t tell my parents about it until a full day later.
I was just sitting there, staring at my dinner.
“Caz,” my mom said, standing up from her chair and reaching to clear my nearly untouched plate, “tell me what is going on with you.”
I burst into tears, and I told her. The next day my parents drove me to school, both of them wearing ironed clothes and proper shoes. We drove in complete silence. I don’t know what the principal said, or what my parents said, but when I got home that night I could tell they weren’t happy. That made three of us. I went straight to my room, in case they wanted to talk. I heard my mom slamming drawers in the kitchen as she started dinner. She was so angry that I could hear her fuming even from my room. Apparently the principal had told them that perhaps I should try to “toughen up.”
When they called me for dinner, I came and sat down at my place.
“Let’s go. Let’s just go,” I said. My parents knew exactly what I meant.
And two weeks and one Blue Jays game later, we left.
Fourth Inning
“I have a question for you,” Coach Vijay said. Coach Vij was usually the one with the answers, not the questions. That’s what I liked about him. I had too many questions. Like, how much longer would J.R. live? And what if my body started to look like a girl’s? There was medicine I could take to stop that from happening, Miss Linda had told me. Mom said she had found a new Miss Linda at a clinic in Seattle and would set up an appointment in a few weeks.
I took a gulp of air. Could Coach Vij tell I was different? I wanted to be good different. Was I ready to explain? I could only say it the way I knew how—I was a boy. I knew that deep down in my body—the same way I knew when a clothesline throw would make it to first base. I just knew.
“Hey, Caspar, focus,” he said, making the eye-to-eye point with his index finger. “Okay, here’s the question. Or suggestion. I think you should pitch. Patrick and A.J. are both solid, but we could do with another arm.”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “I mean, pardon, Coach?” My dad and mom had taught me to always be polite to the coach or that was it, I’d be outta there. They basically told me they’d keep driving me to games and practices, but I had to be a good sport and respect the game.
“I think you can do it. You’ve got the arm strength. You’ve got the accuracy. You’re tall, which helps. You just need to get on the mound and practice getting it over the plate and into the strike zone. Then we can work on some fancier stuff.”
“Really?” I asked, and realized I was smiling. I liked pitching, but it would mean a lot of eyes on me. Coach Vij thought I could do it.
“Really. Practice with your dad or mom, okay?” he said, in an Earth-to-Caspar voice.
I had a secret for Coach Vijay. I actually did know how to pitch. Heaters, curve balls, sinkers and eve
n the weirdo slow Eephus, a junk pitch that confused batters. I hadn’t ever pitched in a game though. Had that been because I was the only girl? I would never know. It would be a lot of pressure. But pressure is what makes diamonds, right?
The Ravens had improved to three wins, three losses. The summer playoffs were within striking distance. And here was the thing—we were getting better and better. Gus could always hit, but now he was making fielding plays. Oscar was getting on base with a combination of making contact and a fast dash to first. We didn’t have big sinkholes in our lineups anymore. There were no players who always struck out and killed rallies. There was reason for hope. Coach Vij sensed it.
“Ravens, I’m thinking of taking our training up a notch. I’d like to add an extra practice on Monday afternoons, as well as our Wednesday and Sunday sessions. Would you like to do that?”
“Yes, Coach!” shouted Oscar.
“Thanks, Oscar,” said Coach with a smile. “Actually, I was looking for a show of hands.”
I put both my arms up. The only thing better than baseball was more baseball.
Coach Vij pretended to count the hands, but it was unanimous.
“Well then. I’ll see you all at my Super Sunday practice. I’ll have a surprise for you too.”
Hank looked at me, eyes wide. Sometimes he was just like a little kid. He didn’t worry as much as I did.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked my mom. She’d left her job doing marketing stuff for a Toronto golf course when we moved, so now she could worry about me full time. I kinda hoped she’d find another job in Redburn eventually. For now, she said, she was going to chill with me for the summer. Her words.
“If I say no, it will hurt Hank’s feelings,” I said. I had already packed my new favorite pajamas—striped bottoms and a top with a baseball glove and ball stenciled on it.
My mom and dad had met Hank’s parents, and they had been approved as nice people. I think Hank had been planning the sleepover since the first day he met me at the park. There had been no more talk of Grandpa and Grandma Ames visiting. It made me sad. I wanted to see them, but it seemed to me they wanted to forget about us.
“Okay, Caspar. That’s very thoughtful of you,” said my mom.
“I want to go,” I added. I missed having sleepovers. The emails from Matt had tapered off a little. He was busy with the team, with camping, with all the things we used to do together.
I had my bag ready to go, even though it was only lunchtime. I would drive with Hank’s family to their house after our Ravens practice for a swim in their pool, pizza, videos, and then to sleep in a tent in the backyard. It sounded awesome.
“Caspar?” my mom said, trying to sit down on my bed. She stood up again and tossed three comics, a roll of Mentos and a pack of baseball cards to the floor. Hey, I never said I was neat.
“Yes?” I picked up the pack of cards and tossed it in my bag. I wanted to show them to Hank.
“Are you going to tell Hank?” Her voice wobbled just a touch.
I thought for a minute.
“Not yet,” I said. I knew my parents planned to tell the principal at my new school. Maybe I would tell Hank someday. But it didn’t seem like the time.
“Oh no!” I said, slapping myself on the head, knocking off my Ravens cap. “Hank said to bring swim trunks.”
My mom paused. She was probably thinking the same thing I was. We’d donated my last suit, a navy-blue one-piece, to the Salvation Army before we left Toronto.
“Well, we’ve got two hours before your practice. Let’s go to Hardy’s and buy you some trunks. We can get you another pair of baseball pants too. Look good for the playoffs.”
My mom was smiling, but I could see a tear in the corner of her eye. I tried to remind myself that this was new for my mom. For a long time she’d thought she had a daughter, despite all the hints I had given her. In third grade I’d asked to race with the boys at a cross-country meet and everyone had let me, no questions asked.
My mom and I got in the car to go to Hardy’s Sports World. J.R. was crushed that we left him at home, but it was too hot for him to wait in the car. In the air-conditioned store, I chose my first pair of swim trunks. They were surfer style, with a drawstring, and bright orange with a decal of a palm tree on the side. I found some baseball pants too. Then I spotted an awesome blue skateboard and managed to talk my mom into an upgrade. “Okay, why not?” she said, like some alien with an enormous bank account had entered her body.
“Does your son want to enter a draw for Mariners tickets?” the clerk asked as he rang up the goods.
Your son! He’d called me her son. It was like hearing the pock of a home run being hit.
“Pardon?” asked my mom, fumbling for her credit card. “Oh, Caspar, what do you think?”
“Sure,” I said. It wasn’t disloyal to the Jays to watch a Mariners game, especially if it was free. That was letting fate decide. My mom paid and then filled in the little slip. The clerk stuffed it in the contest ballot box. You could win tickets for yourself and ten friends. Did I have ten friends?
“You play for the Ravens?” asked the clerk, nodding at my cap. He looked to be about seventeen or eighteen.
“Yes,” I said. I was learning it was sometimes better not to say too much when you were new.
“I used to play for the Rockets. You’d best practice up,” he said, winking. He seemed pretty full of himself. Full of the glory of being a Rocket, I guess.
“Heading there right now,” I answered, keeping my tone friendly. Baseball teams were like family tribes or something. You wanna know something about someone, you look at the hat.
My mom and I were pretty quiet on the drive to practice. She still sometimes got lost in Redburn and had to concentrate. I knew from experience that sometimes having everything be unfamiliar and new sort of hurt, like having a sunburn. I could only imagine what the first day of school would be like. My mom and I had gone to the school grounds a few times, walking J.R. She’d tried to get me to talk about school, what I expected and what I was afraid of, but each time I changed the subject. I don’t like to talk much. I like doing. It was good hanging out with Hank. He did the talking—for everybody.
“Excited for the sleepover?” my mom asked as she made a left turn.
I nodded.
“A little nervous too?” she asked.
I nodded again. My mom knew me well.
We arrived at the park where our practice was scheduled, a bigger park that had two ball diamonds, washrooms and a playground with a spinning merry-go-round—the kind you hop on to ride. I used to love that. I saw that Rockets player, Kyle, jumping out of a minivan driven by the man I’d met in the score booth my first game. Mr. Budworth waved at me, a friendly salute, and Kyle pretended to wave too but mouthed, You suck. Either Kyle hated me or the rivalry between the Rockets and the Ravens was on par with the Rebels and the Empire.
“This is such a friendly town,” chirped my mom, pleased with all the greetings. “Have fun tonight, honey. Make sure you hydrate at practice, okay? It’s hot.”
We’d been having what counted as a heat wave in the Pacific Northwest. My mom knows I have a tendency to get wrapped up in playing and forget to drink water.
“I will, Mom.”
As I shouldered my baseball bag and my backpack stuffed with sleepover gear, I suddenly worried that maybe Kyle had been transferred to the Ravens. He was a skilled player, but he had a hate-on for me, and I had begun to think of the Ravens as my friends. I didn’t want Kyle to ruin that. Kyle was not a champion of the little guy, that’s for sure.
Then I noticed that the Rockets were practicing in the smaller diamond over by the far fence. It was known as the Field of Dreams. (Every town has a ball diamond called Field of Dreams, I figure.) Great. They’d see our strategy and learn things about us they could use against us later. Like the fact that Oscar almost always has a new YouTube dance move to show us during our warm-up.
It seemed Kyle wasn’
t going to let me go peacefully to my practice.
“So, Caspar,” he said, exaggerating the last syllable. “Do you have a dad?”
What did that mean? Kyle was clearly a foe, not a friend, but I was having trouble reading him. He seemed to have no goal except to bug me and throw me off my game.
“Yeah,” I said, walking faster to my diamond. Jerome was there and also Kahlil, the lanky guy who always wore a chunky baseball necklace.
“I’ll bet he’s a florist or something. Or, like, a decorator with those rug samples,” Kyle said, waving his hands around.
Sometimes guys like Kyle were only mean when they were with their meathead friends, but Kyle was doing just fine on his own. I knew he was trying to insult my dad. That was going too far. What was wrong with flowers anyway?
“Or maybe he’s a jazz dancer. Is he a jazz dancer, Caz?” Kyle put his face right by mine. I’d reached my diamond.
“My dad’s a pilot. He flies planes,” I snapped, fed up, and I turned to hang my baseball bag on the fence. I put my backpack next to it. Just seeing my all-star team bag made me feel better. Cadman, it read in black stitching. The Red Devils.
You can do it, Cadman. Way to be, Cadman. How the crowd had cheered when I played for that all-star team. They liked me so much when I was helping them win.
Jerome and Kahlil were standing around shooting the breeze, talking about some Play Palace in a neighboring town where you could zip-line, play mini golf and rock-climb.
“Hey, Jerome, how’s it going?” I asked him, trying to give Kyle the heave-ho.
“Caz, can you keep calling me Jerry? I kind of liked it.”
“Sure thing, Jerry. Hey, Kahlil, Jerry, let’s field some grounders while we’re waiting for Coach. I can toss you some.”
Kyle slunk off to the far diamond, scowling.
“Hey,” I said to Jerome. “What is with that guy?”
“Kyle’s just a mean dude.” Jerome shrugged. “His dad owns a chain of hardware stores and donates money to our school for sports, so Kyle gets away with a lot. Mr. Budworth is okay though.”