My Life as a Diamond

by Jenny Manzer

  Between our warm-up drills, Gus walked over to me. Everything about him was big. He had this mass of curls and wide brown eyes, and he was broad-shouldered and strong. The loudspeaker was playing the song “Centerfield” by John Fogerty to get the crowd fired up. I’m ready to play.

  “Put me in cold,” Oscar sang along, slightly off-key.

  The word is actually coach, not cold, but I had other things on my mind. I let it go.

  “Caz, I’m really nervous,” Gus blurted.

  “Nerves are good—shows you care,” I said, echoing Nana. I thought for a second. “Don’t think about the people watching. Just think about your job on the field—and do it.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his big chest expanding as he exhaled. “You’re right.”

  “They are zeroes, we are heroes,” piped in Oscar, who’d been eavesdropping.

  “That’s not quite it,” I said, but then my dad called me over to hit a few. All dads and moms were on deck for the playoffs. Coach Mira was there too, tossing fly balls to a group of Ravens. It felt so nice, my dad throwing and me hitting the balls into the fence, that I almost wished we could forget the game. I loved the tink of a Wiffle ball hitting the metal fence while we warmed up. It meant something ahead. The crack of a game ball meant something happening.

  I saw Kyle approach Coach Vij, who was warming up A.J. to pitch the first inning. Coach listened, nodded, then pulled a sheet of paper from his clipboard. We’d won the coin toss to be home team, so that was an advantage. Everyone seemed to think we needed it. I was tired of hearing how many championships the Rockets had won.

  Then the announcer cut the music. Five minutes to game time. Coach called us all in, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Nana, Mom and Dad sitting side by side in the bleachers. Nana had binoculars, a padded seat back, and a Blue Jays cap on her head. She knew the drill and didn’t wave or blow kisses or anything. I was getting my head in the game.

  “What did that guy Kyle want?” I whispered to A.J.

  “Batting lineup to take to the scoring booth,” he said.

  That made sense, I figured, since Kyle’s dad helped with the scoring.

  We all took a knee by the dugout. This time we did it right. My brain was churning with thoughts of the game ahead.

  “You’ve all worked hard to get here,” said Coach Vij. “Now I want you to go out there and challenge those Rockets. Be on them. Support your teammates. Talk to each other. Focus. We’re not letting anything go without a fight, right?”

  “Right, Coach!”

  “Let’s do our cheer and play some ball!”

  “Ravens rule!” we shouted, raising our fists in the air.

  Hank accidentally bumped Gus.

  “Watch it!” Gus said, clearly anxious.

  My own playoff jitters sent me to the bathroom. I heard footsteps behind me and thought it would be Jerome, who had a nervous bladder too. I always used the stall, and no one had ever asked me about it. These bathrooms looked new. The whole park had recently been given a makeover, Coach Vij said. The town had been fundraising for years. There were two bathrooms, side by side, but both had a boy icon in pants and a girl icon in a dress, a line between them. The signs read Restroom. They were for everybody.

  “Hey, wait—which one are you using, Caspar?”

  The footsteps behind me had been Kyle’s. I hated how he said my name. Hank claimed Kyle just liked to stir things up—that he’d always been that way, even in kindergarten. A.J. said Kyle regularly teased him about his lunch at school, saying it was smelly. Great. Something else to look forward to in September.

  “They’re the same,” I said, pushing on one of the doors. I couldn’t miss the start. I closed the door behind me to end the conversation, but my hands were still shaking when I stood at the sink to turn on the tap. Pre-game nerves. I was pitching later in the game—lots of time to get jumpy.

  When I opened the door again, Kyle was still standing there, dragging one cleat on the ground and making hatch marks.

  “Have a good game, Kyle,” I said, turning back to the home dugout.

  “You too, Cassie,” he said, still watching his own toe drag in the dirt.

  I froze, arms at my sides. I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn’t. I looked over and saw my mom watching me. She gave a half wave for luck. Nana was cleaning her sunglasses with a cloth. My dad had gone to the dugout, helping Coach by calling out the assigned positions for the Ravens. The umps stood at home plate, talking and waiting. They appeared to be teenagers, one girl and one boy, but they had special navy shirts with collars.

  “That’s not my name,” I said, forcing myself to use a big voice, like an ump.

  “Sure it is,” he said. “I saw the fancy baseball bag you kept showing off, and so I looked up the Red Devils U-11 team. On the Internet. Did you have Internet in Canada?”

  I waited, not breathing. Something in my rib cage hurt like I’d been smacked with a fastball. It wasn’t really a question, so I didn’t answer. The game. I had to get into the game. Kyle was like a piece of gum stuck on my brain instead of my shoe. I needed him out of my head.

  “There was only one girl on that team. Cassie Cadman. There was a photo in the paper and everything. You’re not a boy. You’re a girl. And a liar.”

  I remembered the photo. It had run in the Toronto Observer. Nana Cadman had kept three copies.

  I looked at Kyle. He had small eyes that were close together and a thin angular face like his father, Mr. Budworth. Kyle hardly ever smiled. He smirked. He sometimes pumped his fist if he scored a run or to make fun of someone’s error. Even then he didn’t seem happy. I glanced over and saw that my nana had given up playing it cool. She was tapping her wristwatch in an exaggerated way. Game time.

  “Caz, get the lead out!” she yelled.

  A few people in the crowd turned to stare, first at her, then at me. What Kyle said was sort of true, and I was someone who liked to tell the truth. But Kyle was also mean just to be mean. I had never met anyone quite like him.

  “Kyle, I have to go. It’s game time.”

  Steel and oak.

  “I’m ready to play,” I said, louder than I needed to. I was telling myself. I broke into a run, my jellied legs carrying me to the dugout, not letting me down.

  “Caz, I don’t know what planet you teleported to in your search for a bathroom, but please get your behind to left field in short order.”

  “Yes, Coach,” I said, but it came out shakily.

  Coach Vij looked at me again.

  “Cadman,” he said, putting his face to mine. I could see how much A.J. looked like him. “Who’s going to win?”

  “We are, Coach!” I squeaked, then jogged to my place in the field.

  “Oscar,” Coach shouted. “Put your glove on the right way!”

  “Play is to first, no outs!” yelled Jerome, who was shortstop.

  The announcer called the first batter, number 11, Carl Daigle. A.J. threw the first pitch, ball high, and the game was on. A.J. used his curve ball to confuse the batters and held the Rockets for the first inning, allowing just one hit—a hopper to second. The runner was left stranded, and it was our turn to bat. I heard Coach Mira cheering as we jogged off the field. My knees felt a bit wobbly as I reached the dugout—but it was a good nervous. Like I was excited for the team.

  Maybe we can actually win this thing, I thought.

  And then everything went wrong.

  Hank was our leadoff batter.

  “Up next, number 8, Hank Ottenburg,” read the announcer.

  “Let’s go, Hank the Tank!”

  Hank looked around, surprised, trying to see the source. My nana could be embarrassing, but she meant well. If I’m here, I cheer, she always says.

  Hank’s helmet had slipped down a bit, and I worried that he couldn’t see.

  Strike!

  “Hank, push back your helmet!” shouted Coach. “And step into the box!”

  Hank did both and hit a line drive. Kyle, playing
shortstop, just missed the ball, leaving it to the second baseman. He scooped it up and hucked the ball too hard, and Hank reached first—just barely. We were going to have to hit better than that to make it a ball game.

  Oscar was next. The pitcher had him chasing junk, and Oscar was swatting the air with his bat like King Kong trying to grab airplanes.

  You’re a girl. And a liar.

  No. Caz, get him out of your head.

  Oscar somehow managed to get hit by a pitch while he was dancing around. The ball bounced off his leg, and now we had two runners on. But it was as if we’d forgotten everything Coach Vij had taught us. I felt as if Kyle was watching me—like all the Rockets were watching me. I walked out to get on deck.

  Gus, batting third, swung at two pitches nowhere close to the zone and then hit a pop fly deep into center field. Don’t run, Hank. Wait to tag up.

  Hank ran. The ball was caught. Gus popped out, and Hank was tagged out at third. The third baseman triumphantly raised his glove in the air as if it held the Lion King. This was going to be a long game. Oscar was nervously watching a wasp zip around the base, so he’d stayed put on first, thank goodness. One on, two outs.

  “Next up, it’s number 3, Cassie Cadman!”

  I stopped right in the middle of my practice swing. I heard someone gasp, maybe my dad. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mom’s hands fly to her mouth. The microphone gave off a snarl of feedback. A different voice came on.

  “Sorry, folks, I think that must be wrong. It’s number 3, Caspar Cadman.”

  I stepped away from the plate and took another practice swing. My hands were sweaty.

  “Nice cut, Caz!” Nana Cadman. There was no mistaking her.

  Then I heard a snatch of words from the field.

  “A girl?”

  “He’s a girl?”

  “Dude, what the what?”

  Kyle, from his position as shortstop, was pointing right at me. Shortstops were supposed to call out the plays, not talk about the players. Kyle pointed at me again.

  “He’s a girl named Cassie.” I think Kyle meant to shout, but his voice came out in a squeak like a rusty screen door.

  “Ball’s in!” shouted the catcher. No one seemed to know what was going on.

  “Is he really a girl?” asked the second baseman. “Wait, why should I care?”

  Then this figure came at us from the dugout. It was Coach Cronck, the guy with the big beard, kicking up dust as he charged onto the field. He was dressed all in navy—cap, baseball pants, jersey. His fists were balled up at his sides. I wondered why he was so angry. Was he angry at me? I stepped away from the plate, watching. The ump seemed to hold his breath too.

  Caz, take a practice swing. Do it.

  It was shaky, but I did it. Everyone was waiting. The crowd started booing. “Play ball!” someone yelled. Not Nana Cadman, for once.

  Coach Cronck was hissing at Kyle and waving his arms, kind of like he was showing what a big fish he’d caught. And the fish was a sturgeon.

  Then Coach Vij left our dugout to check out the situation. He shuffled toward third base, looking confused. The booing got louder.

  “What’s going on?” shouted Oscar from first base.

  I don’t know, I mouthed.

  Coach Cronck started yelling then, and we could all hear him, even above the booing.

  “No shenanigans on game day!” I heard him tell Kyle. “You’ve been warned. You’re distracting your team. If Liam wasn’t sick today you’d be out.”

  Then he turned to Coach Vij, who was standing off to the side by third base. “Sorry, Coach. I apologize for my shortstop.”

  Coach Cronck returned to the Rockets dugout. Coach Vij stayed near third to do some base coaching as needed.

  “Ball’s in!” shouted the catcher.

  I stood at the plate, stunned by everything that had just happened. A pitch came at me. I swung. I missed.

  “You got this, Caz!” My mom. But it wasn’t a good swing. It wasn’t a good pitch either. The pitcher had me chasing.

  I let one fly past me.

  Strike.

  I swung.

  Strike.

  At least I went down swinging.

  I left Oscar stranded on first, and that closed the inning. I lowered my head as I walked back to the dugout. I didn’t want to see Coach, my mom, my dad or Nana. It took Oscar a second to realize what had happened.

  “The inning’s over, dummy,” the Rockets first baseman told him.

  Timeout

  Coach Vij had never called a timeout in a game before, but we had never been in this situation. We had played badly for four innings and were close to having the mercy rule called on us. The score was 12 to 5 for the Rockets—in the fifth inning. Everyone had expected them to win. Perhaps they hadn’t expected them to murder us and leave our carcasses scattered on the field for an eagle to feast on. A.J. and Patrick had pitched well, but our fielding had been a comedy of errors—except it wasn’t funny. We bumbled grounders and served up hefty overthrows to the Rockets. They gorged on our mistakes. Gus got knocked on the head when he was trying to trap a fly ball, and at least half the Rockets on the bench laughed.

  We were running out of time. Even Nana had gone quiet, which was chilling. The sun cowered behind the clouds, as if even it knew the game was a lost cause.

  “There’s still time,” Coach Vij insisted as we huddled, kneeling in the dirt by the dugout. “You are all great kids, and you are usually great players too.”

  He paused and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening out there.”

  “They said something about Caz,” said Jerome.

  “Yeah, they did. But do we care what they say?”

  “No!” said Oscar, as loudly as ever.

  Coach turned to me. “Caz, are you okay to pitch? You’re up for the fifth inning. We can sub in Jerome if you want.”

  “Coach, about what they said…” I began. I twisted the band of my hat, which I held in my hands.

  “Caspar, you don’t need to say anything. We all know who you are. We know you. Remind me, what’s the first rule of Ravens baseball?”

  “Have fun?” I suggested in a small voice.

  “No, it’s that Coach gets the biggest brownie after the game. Of course it’s to have fun!”

  Hank clapped his hands together. “I think we’re getting brownies,” he whispered.

  Coach Vij wasn’t finished. “Ravens, you are not playing well. You are not having fun. I want you to get out there and do both. Right now! Okay?”

  “Yes, Coach!”

  “All right then. Team cheer,” said Coach.

  “RAVENS RULE!”

  I swear I could feel the eyeballs sticking to me as I walked up to the mound. Hank lay in the grass while Coach helped him into the catcher’s gear. The announcers in the booth played a Bruce Springsteen song, the one about the days that pass you by. Some of the spectators had already left, declaring it game over for the Ravens.

  I took my five practice throws, and Hank lobbed them back. After the pummeling we’d taken, it seemed amazing to me that my legs could still hold me up, that my arm could still throw. But they did. The Rockets fans, normally a chippy bunch, were mostly silent, as was customary at a funeral.

  The first batter, well, I didn’t even hear his name called. He was tall with red hair and copper freckles. I threw a curve ball that I thought was right down the line.

  Ball.

  I looked at Hank. He mouthed, What?

  Deep breath. Focus. One pitch at a time.

  I threw another strike, a sinker that dropped just within the strike zone. As a pitcher I didn’t throw wicked hard, but I was precise—and I knew it. I waited to hear the ump say, Strike! but he didn’t. Making matters worse, the batters were just standing there.

  And so the red-haired boy walked, and Rocket number 14 after him.

  “I know a great optometrist!” I heard someone yell right after the ump called ball four and pointed for numbe
r 16 to take his walk. Nana Cadman could only stay quiet so long.

  Mound Visit

  Coach Vij signaled to the ump and walked toward me on the mound. Hank sprang up and also trudged over, robot-like in his catcher’s gear. He didn’t like to miss anything.

  “Look, Caz. You’re throwing strikes. But you’re painting the corners. The ump is calling all the low ones as balls. You’re going to have to change your location. Get the pitches higher. Because these batters aren’t chasing.”

  The bases were loaded, all with my walks. I felt my eyes begin to itch, and my lip trembled. Yep, I was going to cry. I never cried. Well, hardly ever. Once when I dumped a mug of soup on my lap. And also during that last Jays game I watched in Toronto. Okay, sometimes I cried.

  “The strike zone is like, the size of a Skittle,” said Hank, shaking his head.

  I laughed, just one sharp bark. I felt myself breathe again.

  “I think it might be half a Skittle,” I said, warming the ball in my hand. Like it or not, I had to get back at it.

  “Ball’s in!”

  I threw a fastball, high in the zone. That fastball was gonna get a nosebleed, it was so high.

  Strike!

  Then I threw another, high.

  Strike!

  Then I threw one right down the line. The batter still wasn’t swinging. It was like he’d forgotten how.

  Strike! The ump made the “out” pump.

  That was my first strikeout.

  The crowd started chattering again, awakened by this turn of events. The next batter stepped up to the plate, and I tried it again—another strikeout. The batter walked away slowly, looking confused. The Rockets had seemed ready to walk their way to victory.

  The next batter up was one of the Rockets’ pitchers. He was heavyset and low to the ground. He knew the ump was calling strikes. He had a beauty of a swing. We reached a full count. The ump was letting me paint the corners. I decided to try a slider, hoping it would travel down and away.

  “Crush it, Andy!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Let’s stick a fork in this thing.”

  Bases loaded, two outs. One strike could end the inning. One swing could be a grand slam. Kyle was on deck, but instead of taking practice swings, he was watching me. He might have thought I was watching him, too, but I was keeping an eye on number 16, who had sidestepped off first base, leading off to run the second the bat connected with the ball. I spun around and whipped the ball to Jerome on first base, who shot up his glove like he knew the answer in math class.