by Jenny Manzer
Out! A small roar erupted from the Ravens’ side. Jerome looked as if he’d been blasted with a stun gun. Then he smiled. It was likely his first successful pick-off.
“C’mon, boys, let’s hit the sticks,” called Coach Vij.
Jerome, Patrick and Hank all slapped me on the back as I left the mound. I felt a tiny half smile crack my face, my first of the game. As I walked back I thought, I won’t let them take baseball from me. I didn’t even know who “them” was. I just knew I wouldn’t.
I’m ready to play.
Put Me In, Coach
Jerome’s successful pick-off at first base seemed to have invigorated him, as if he’d conquered a video game, slammed down a chocolate shake and been handed a new dirt bike, all in one go.
“It’s our last inning and our last at bat,” said Coach. “Let’s make the most of this.” As home team, we batted last, and the inning was open-ended. There was no run limit. Getting a base hit would be a good start. I blinked at the scoreboard, hoping it would change. Nope. Still 12–5 for the Rockets. Judging from the trash spread across the bleachers, the fans remaining had tried every food item at the concession, from cotton candy to corn dogs. They wanted some action or an ending.
“Just make contact, Jerome,” said Coach, giving Jerome a pat on the shoulder as he headed to the plate.
The pitcher looked like he was six feet tall. I knew he wasn’t really, but the dude was big. He had long brown hair to his shoulders, which seemed to be a pitcher thing these days. I wondered if they believed their long hair had power, like in that myth. This guy had a crazy-long windup and a funny kind of sidearm delivery.
“That’s different,” said Coach Vij. “Guys, watch the pitcher.”
Jerome was so thrown by the guy’s style that he let two strikes go by without even swinging.
“C’mon, Jerry!” I yelled. “TRY!”
Jerome turned and stared at me. Coach turned to stare at me too. I’d never shouted during games except for a small cheer or two.
“YOU HAVE TO TRY!” I shouted again. It seemed like my last chance. If we were going to fall, we had to at least go down swinging. It drove me nuts when someone struck out looking at a good pitch. “Give it a rip!”
Jerome nodded, his black helmet bobbing. He swung on the next pitch and made contact with a convincing crack. I saw Coach Cronck’s head jerk a bit, surprised. The hit took Jerome all the way to second. A double.
Coach Vij sent us up to bat quickly after that, cycling through our order—probably not wanting to lose momentum. A.J. was next. He battled for a long at-bat, fouling off five times before earning a walk. I noticed Coach Cronck holding his head in his hands after that. I could guess what he wanted. He wanted this game done so the Rockets could sail on to the finals. He wanted to save his pitchers, rest their arms, go home and have a beer or whatever—then plot the Rockets’ winning lineup for the finals.
“Two on, no outs,” shouted the Rockets shortstop. Kyle was playing second. He’d quieted down, and I wondered what his coach had said to him.
Patrick, a solid pitcher and fielder, was not a great batter. I thought he was heading for a strikeout, but then he got hit hard with a pitch. He hopped to first and stood there, rubbing his ankle. Then he sat down on the base, rocking in pain. He was really hurt.
“Caz,” asked Coach Vij, “can you run for Patrick?”
“Yes, Coach,” I said, springing up from the bench. My voice sounded normal, steady. I sounded like me.
I jogged to first. Coach followed behind and helped Patrick back to the dugout. My mom was already there, waiting with an ice pack from the cooler she carried to every game. As Nana would say, it wasn’t my mom’s first rodeo.
As she made her way back to the bleachers, Mom gave me a thumbs-up.
“Any base! No outs!” shouted the shortstop. We were back to the top of the order.
“C’mon, Rockets! Strike ’em out! What the hell are you doing?” yelled someone in the crowd.
Then something unexpected happened. Hank hit a line drive that burned right down the left foul line and deep into the field. Coach Vij waved us to run. Coach Cronck seemed to think it would be called foul, but it was fair, and the infield was an eggbeater blur of Ravens running. Jerome scored, A.J. scored, and I made it to third. Hank rested on second, wobbling off the base, then back on.
The Rockets appeared stunned by this turn of events. Oscar was up next. The way he wriggled around seemed to rattle the pitcher.
“Caz,” he said, turning to me, “Coach Mira brought brownies!”
I gave Oscar a thumbs-up and pointed to my eyes. Focus.
Strike three!
Oscar turned toward the dugout, but then the catcher bumbled the block, dropping the ball and losing it in the dirt over by the fence. Passed ball!
“Oscar! RUN!” I shouted at the same time as Coach Vij.
“Caz, GO!” Coach Vij pointed toward home. I jetted from third, kicking up the dust, but halfway there I saw the catcher find the ball. I’d be out for sure. I did a U-turn and sprinted back to third.
“Slide!” yelled Coach.
I did, hearing a rip slice into my new baseball pants. Then, while I was down, I felt a fireball hit me in the shoulder. I lay on the ground in the dirt, hot tears squeezing out of my eyes. It felt like I had been shot with a rifle or even a flamethrower. My stomach lurched, and I thought I would vomit, the pain was so intense.
The third baseman cleared out of the way, and then Coach Vij and Coach Cronck were there, kneeling beside me. I still couldn’t figure out what had happened. I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t. My shoulder was blazing.
“Caz,” said Coach Vij. “Where were you hit?”
“Shoulder,” I gasped.
Coach Vij exhaled. Shoulder was better than head, even with a helmet. Coach Cronck held up some fingers, and I must have answered correctly, because he exhaled too. I pictured my mom, her fingers hooked over the wire fence, clinging there, waiting.
I didn’t think anything was broken. A bone bruise, maybe. I’d had one before. They hurt.
“I’m okay,” I said. The wave of shock passed. Coach Vij helped me to my feet. I wobbled a bit. The crowd clapped, even the Rockets fans, because you had to when a kid got up. Coach Cronck went to talk to the ump and then returned to third.
“Ump says you’re out,” Coach Cronck said.
“What? Your catcher drilled him!” Coach Vij said.
“Not on purpose,” Coach Cronck said. The two men stood face-to-face, ballcaps nearly touching.
“Caz had already made the slide!” Coach Vij said, nearly shouting. “He was safe.”
“Ump says the third baseman made the tag.”
“Yeah, after the catcher disabled my player, and well after the slide.”
“BOOOOO!” I heard. Great. Nana Cadman was going to get herself thrown out. Again.
“I’m challenging the call,” said Coach Vij.
But it stood. I had beaten the tag, but nobody got a good look at my slide, because everyone was distracted by Oscar. I was out, according to the ump. And the ump is the boss.
Are you okay? my mom mouthed to me as I staggered to the dugout. I nodded, head down, so she couldn’t see that I had cried. Another ice pack got passed along to me.
“One out, play’s to first!” the shortstop called. He really was short and had a high, chippy voice that was beginning to bug me. I was mad. I did not like to play angry—but I would. The score was 12–7.
“Ball’s in!”
Gus was up, and I was never so glad to see his wide, friendly face. He glared at the pitcher, stomping the dirt like a bull in baseball cleats. Even his curls looked angry.
Ball.
Hank was still fidgeting on second, leading off a couple of feet. The pitcher decided Hank was about to steal, but the third baseman wasn’t paying attention. The pitcher’s throw to try and catch Hank stealing landed deep into center field.
“GOOOOO!” the Ravens in the dugout yelled.
Hank took third, and Oscar took second.
“You morons!” shouted Kyle from his position in right field. The Rockets were turning on each other now.
Then Gus swung at a fastball, and by the crack, I could tell it was going deep. Kyle ran for it, but it bounced off the fence and shot back to center field. I laughed as Gus pedaled his sturdy legs around the bases. I was happy. Hank scored, Oscar scored, and Gus made it home to beat the tag. Now it was 12–10, with one out.
“Caspar, are you sure you’re okay to bat?” I nodded at Coach Vij.
The long-haired pitcher seemed twitchy now, shaking his hair from his shoulders.
Ball, ball, ball.
I would wait for my pitch. I’d been playing baseball since I was five years old. I could wait. I had known there was something different about me even then. I was the Joe DiMaggio of waiting.
Strike.
No, that wasn’t the one. I saw Coach Vij pacing in a circle. Nana Cadman had her hands clasped in front of her. My dad and mom were sitting side by side, staring at home plate.
Strike.
A hush fell over the crowd as if an avalanche had fallen down, silencing us all with snow. Full count. This was the last inning and a big out, and everyone knew it. I didn’t want to walk. Not today.
A high, hanging slider.
Crack!
The ball went soaring to left field and then just popped over the fence, like a diver arcing into a pool.
Moonshot.
I ran, my shoulder thumping with pain, my cleats touching every bag. I watched my own feet running. I heard my nana shouting, my mother.
“That is no girl!” I heard one of the Rockets say.
“Back-to-back jacks!” hollered Hank, pumping his arm wildly. He looked like he’d just been at an espresso bar with free samples. Man, he was happy.
As I rounded toward home, alone, I heard my whole team chanting my name. Caz. Caz. Caz.
Three at-bats later, it was A.J. who hit a single to drive in the winning run. The Rockets left the field, dragging their feet, looking shocked. Kyle had a special message for me as the teams lined up to shake hands.
“You still suck, Cadman.”
“Good game, Kyle,” I said. “There’s always next year.”
For his RBI, A.J. was honored with first pick from his mom’s tub of brownies. Coach Mira refused to let us dump Gatorade on him because his pants were new too. We listened. No one really wanted to annoy Coach Mira or waste Gatorade anyway. We hadn’t used the Stingray yet. That was the great thing about baseball. There was always another game.
My mom and dad and Nana packed up the car while I hung out with the Ravens. We stretched out on a grassy hill next to the ball diamond. Coach Mira let us all have two brownies each, which we inhaled. We were already covered in grass stains and dust and now chocolate. My mother marched over and handed me a floppy blue ice pack.
“Good game, Caz,” she whispered, then headed back to the car.
I think none of us could quite believe we’d done it, including Coach Vij. Especially Coach Vij.
“I knew we could do it,” said Hank, his mouth full of brownie.
“The ump’s call was wrong—you weren’t out,” Coach Vij said to me, not mad but thoughtful. He was a guy who thought a lot, it seemed to me. “But we did the only thing we could do.”
“Just keep playing,” I said, brushing a crumb off my pants. I was going to hear about the tear in the knee later.
The greatest thing about winning was that we didn’t have to listen to the Rockets doing their dumb cheer. I placed the ice pack on the grass and then leaned back, resting my shoulder on it. I stared up at the clouds while Hank the sportscaster replayed the game highlights.
Rockets can fly, I thought, but Ravens can too.
Eighth Inning
I spent the next four days going to practice and visiting with Nana Cadman, who was flying home just before finals. We all piled into the car to drive her to the airport. We’d moved so quickly from Toronto that we’d paid some company to drive our car all the way from Ontario to Washington. I was kind of jealous of our car, getting to see all those places. I mean, I guess the person driving got numb bum and was maybe a little lonely and bored, but I still thought driving coast to coast would be exciting. I wanted to do it someday. Once we got to the airport, I realized how much I didn’t want Nana to leave.
“I am so proud of you, Caspar. I am so proud to be your nana. You’re my diamond,” she said, hugging me goodbye. She held me so close I could barely breathe.
I just nodded, my eyes filling with tears.
The next day the Ravens met at the same big ballpark to face the Kinsburg Knights. We went to extra innings, but the Knights were better than us that day. I’d hoped we’d take the crown. But we’d done better than everyone expected. Way better. When we got our silver medals, Hank shook his fist in the air and made a sound like Chewbacca when he got the medallion for helping the Rebels. Everyone laughed, even though some of us were trying not to cry.
I cried on the car ride home. I admit it. My mom insisted on trying to cheer me up. She knew I didn’t like to lose. In fact, I had to battle my bad self—I pictured him sitting on my shoulder—to not be a sore loser.
“It gives you something to look forward to next year,” my mom pointed out, turning around to face me.
“You’re just trying to be positive, Mom!” I said, hugging myself. I knew my face was blotchy and red like a little kid’s, but I didn’t care.
My parents exchanged a look. They’d been through these losses with me before. I admit it: I could get sulky when I lost. When we got home, I hugged J.R., wrote an email to Matt and checked baseball scores online. The Jays had won and the Mariners had won too, so that made me feel a little better. It was always good when your teams were winning. I had started to root for the Seattle Mariners—just a little.
My mom came into the office, holding the phone.
“It’s for you. It’s Hank. He wants to know if you want to go skateboarding.”
“Tell him yes,” I said.
“I think you can do that yourself,” said my mom, handing me the phone.
Clearly the post-loss coddling was over.
Hank and I met at the park. It was the same one where he’d tried to show off his batting skills with a baguette. A lot had changed. He could definitely get a hit with the bread now.
“Caz,” he said, sitting down on his skateboard, “are you really a girl?”
He was wearing a T-shirt that read Caution: Full of Awesome.
What really made you a girl? I didn’t feel like a girl. I didn’t want to be a girl. I did not think I was a girl.
“No,” I said. “But everyone thought I was. It was a mistake. It made me kinda miserable.”
Hank thought about that for a second. I was really worried he was going to ask about my equipment.
“I used to be allergic to hazelnuts,” he said, standing up. “But I outgrew it. But I still don’t like them.”
He did a couple of moves on his board, slaloming from side to side.
“What would be your favorite walk-up song?” he asked, squinting in the sun under his helmet.
I’d thought about this before but couldn’t make up my mind. The personal music played before you batted had to show you meant business and also get the crowd amped up. Get you amped up.
“Wow, Hank, that’s a tough one. I’ll need more time on that.” I got on my board and tried to practice tic-tacs—quick little twists back and forth.
“Caz, I’m glad you moved here.”
I thought for a second. “I am too,” I said.
“You want to try skateboarding down the slide?” Hank asked, pointing to the playground.
Why not? It was the off-season now. We could take a few risks.
The next week, with baseball in hibernation until Fall Ball began, my parents decided I needed some “structure,” so they put me in a day camp. One of the Westlake Jets players was in
it, the girl Brooke—and guess what? She was nice. In fact, she was pretty cool. She really knew her baseball. I liked her so much that I was tempted to tell her about the Stingray—but I didn’t. She went to Redburn Elementary, just like I would be. I was counting down the days. I was still dreading it.
I would be at Redburn Elementary for one whole year before moving on to middle school. It might be the longest year of my life. I was getting used to being summer-grubby in my board shorts and baseball shirts. But school was coming, ready or not. My parents had booked an appointment with my new counselor, who was named Mr. Miles. We would meet him just before classes started.
In Toronto, late August was the sweltering season. In Washington State, summer was cooling down, sort of like barbecue coals after a big cookout. My mom and dad took me for a walk to show me my new school. It was one of those not-optional outings. We’d driven past it before, but I hadn’t really seen it close up. J.R. came along on the walk too, stopping to sniff every second shrub. My dad made jittery talk about our Redburn neighbors and the Jays’ chances in September.
“Dad,” I said. “Why do you wear that Cubs cap all the time? You aren’t from Chicago.”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I like the Cs. They’re your initials. C.C.”
“Don’t make your dad cry now,” said my mom.
I smiled. I had to admit, the school was nice. It had big playing fields, a tetherball post and an epic new basketball court. I could only hope that Kyle would leave me alone. But I knew I had friends now. I had teammates. They would stick up for me, and I would stick up for them.
When we got home, my mom checked messages in the hallway, as she always did. I think she hoped there would be something from her parents, saying they would come and visit soon. Mom said they still loved us but needed more time. Sometimes I forgot that Mom had left all her friends behind in Toronto too—Matt’s mom and her friends from work. She must miss them sometimes.