Cherry Blossom Baseball

by Jennifer Maruno

  “Did you bring your wedding shoes with you?” Michiko asked. Her aunt had worn the most beautiful pair of white satin pumps on her special day.

  “I couldn’t,” Sadie said, turning to her without a smile. “I only owned part of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  One hand went to her aunt’s face while the other fingered the robe. “Before I got married, four of the teachers discovered we all wore the same size shoe. Each of us put in $1.50 to buy those satin pumps. Whoever got married next wore them.”

  “Who got them next?”

  Sadie shrugged. “Someone who is more suited to be a wife.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Eiko asked, putting down her cup with a small thud.

  Sadie fingered her hair. “I told you I am not talking about it anymore.”

  Sam withdrew his attention from the radio and came to sit at the table. He rattled his teacup. Eiko reached for the pot and refilled it.

  Sadie pushed a bowl of dry cereal toward him.

  “Where’s my rice?” he asked.

  “This is rice,” Sadie said, “toasted rice cereal.”

  Sam lifted the spoon to his mouth. “Pah,” he said, pushing the bowl aside. “It tastes like crackers. Give me a bowl of rice.”

  “I am not preparing rice for breakfast anymore,” Eiko said, pushing the sugar bowl toward him. “Try it with a bit of sugar.”

  Sam shoved the bowl of sugar away. “A meal without rice is not a meal.”

  Sadie pushed it back. “Do you like your children being laughed at by others?”

  Sam frowned. “No.”

  “They are Canadian,” she said quietly. “Canadian children eat cereal for breakfast. Pour some milk over it and see what happens.”

  Sam poured milk over the crispy nubs in his bowl and perked up. He put his ear to the bowl. “Listen,” he said. “The cereal is talking.”

  “What?” Hiro said, his slice of toast stopping halfway to his mouth.

  “It is saying, ‘Don’t eat me, don’t eat me.’”

  Michiko leaned her head close to her bowl of cereal. It was true. Her cereal was also making a faint crackling sound. “It’s asking me how long you are going to stay, Aunt Sadie.”

  Hiro looked into his empty cereal bowl, puzzled. “Why did it talk?”

  “So you won’t be lonely at breakfast,” Sadie said. “Mine just said, ‘I’m going back on Saturday.’ That is if Sam can give me a lift?”

  “He’s going to drive you to B.C.?” Michiko’s mouth fell open.

  “To Toronto, silly,” her aunt replied. “That’s where I live.”

  “You do?” Michiko had no idea her aunt had been so close all this time.

  “I got a part-time job in a department store,” Sadie said, refilling her own teacup. “In fact, I was just suggesting to your mother that you visit me at the store.”

  “Really?” Michiko asked, turning to her mother. She couldn’t believe her ears. Her aunt had just invited her to go to Toronto. I’ll bet Mary’s never been to Toronto, she thought. But when she saw her mother’s tight face, she knew it was not the time to talk about it.

  Eiko rose to the sound of a knock at the door.

  Mrs. Palumbo stuck her head in the door and beckoned Michiko outside with her long, bony finger. From behind her back, the woman pulled out a pair of beat-up black-and-white shoes.

  “Scarpe,” she said, handing them to Michiko. Then she took a stance and pretended to whack a ball with a bat. She pointed her finger and said, “Home-a-run.”

  Michiko threw her arms around the woman’s aproned waist and hugged her tight. They couldn’t be more perfect. They were boy’s runners.

  DEAR GERALD

  Michiko could hardly take her eyes off her feet as she pedalled toward the schoolyard. Who would have thought she’d be wearing the shoes of champions? What did the advertisement in the newspaper say? “In every game where you have to cover ground fast, athletes play in the shoe that is build for speed.” She grinned. Her mother was so impressed with their tough, springy soles and heavy canvas tops, she’d bought Michiko a new pair of laces.

  The glorious Saturday sun that stretched out across the bright blue sky made Michiko glad to be alive and even gladder to be heading to a baseball practice. A cloud shaped like a cake made her laugh out loud. Perfect, she thought, a cake to celebrate getting on the team.

  At the front of the school, her nose filled with the scent of lush lilacs. The willows in the back waved their new budding greenery as she and Billy dropped their bikes and walked to the crowd of players. She recognized Donald Maitland, Kenny Spencer, and Mark McAndrew from the class at the other end of the hall. Bobby Wells, the next grade up, had made the team for a second year, which didn’t surprise her. The others were what Billy called “Other Towners,” meaning they lived in the country but went to school in the village.

  “Everyone gather around,” Coach Ward called out as he waddled over to the worn, initial-carved bench and dropped the battered duffle bag he had dragged across the grass. From it he pulled a bent catcher’s mask, some ragged shin pads, and a quilted chest protector that reminded her of her mother’s worn oven mitts. Four bats, each a different colour and size, landed on the grass next to a pile of baseball gloves. Everyone grabbed a mitt, leaving the worn, unravelled lefty for her.

  “Ready to toss?” the coach hollered.

  Billy kicked at the grass. “Lost my ball,” he said.

  The coach nodded in the direction of the bag. Billy searched the interior to find a ratty one tucked in the far corner. The rest of the team had formed two lines and was tossing balls back and forth. Michiko stood alone, not knowing what to do.

  “We throw the ball back and forth until the coach blows the whistle,” Billy said. “If neither of us has dropped it, we move back two steps. Otherwise, we stay put until the next whistle.”

  Michiko nodded. It seemed easy enough.

  Coach Ward walked to the bench, pulled a newspaper from the equipment bag, and sat down. Michiko soon realized that he’d blown the whistle before he turned to the next page. She and Billy moved apart with each short, sharp blast. The coach didn’t seem to notice that they were farther apart than any of the others when he finally finished reading his paper. He threw it into the duffle bag, pulled out a newer, larger bat, and waved them into the field.

  At the plate, Coach Ward tossed the ball into the air and hit it with a loud thwack. The ball soared into the air as the players lifted their arms and opened their gloves.

  On his third hit, the ball headed in Michiko’s direction. Kenny was close by. Michiko moved away to let him have it, but the ball ended up on the grass.

  “Call the darn ball,” the coach bellowed. He bent over, picked up another ball from the pile, and belted it into the air. This time it came straight for her. “Mine,” she yelled and opened her glove. She squinted her eyes against the sun as it rushed toward her. The ball hit her mitt with a thud and then rolled onto the grass.

  Michiko looked at it and scowled. This time the coach blew his whistle twice. “Line up at the mound,” he said, tossing the first player a ball.

  Coach Ward tied the catcher’s apron around himself and pulled on the mask. He crouched behind home plate and punched the mitt to let them know he was ready for pitching practice.

  Michiko threw easily at first, making sure she warmed up the way her Uncle Kaz had taught her. As she felt her arm loosen, she threw harder, threw straight through the strike zone, right into his mitt.

  “Wow,” someone said, making the team gather around to watch.

  The coach dropped his hand and pointed two fingers to the ground. Michiko held the ball and looked at Billy.

  He cupped his mouth with his hands and yelled, “It means throw a fastball.”

  Michiko rolled the ball around in her hand before putting it into her glove. Then she blazed it across the plate. When it landed in the coach’s glove, everything felt so good.

  Mr. Ward bl
ew his whistle and the players dropped to the grass. He made notes on his clipboard while they waited.

  Please don’t put me in centre field, Michiko pleaded as she raised her eyes to the sky. A tiny bead of perspiration formed on her forehead and started to make its way down her nose. She wiped it away with her sleeve. She desperately wanted to take off her hat and shake her hair free.

  She picked a dandelion but threw it down quickly. Boys don’t pick flowers, she reminded herself.

  “That’s all for today,” the coach announced, walking away dragging the equipment bag.

  Michiko looked around. The only one left in the field was Billy. So what was her position? She had spent so much time daydreaming, she hadn’t heard.

  “Maybe your dad will buy you one,” Billy said, as he walked toward her.

  “One what?”

  “A pitcher needs a glove,” Billy said.

  Michiko did a cartwheel.

  A single letter waited inside the metal mailbox at the top of the lane.

  Dear Michiko,

  Army food isn’t too bad. Sausages for dinner, bacon for breakfast, but the eggs are powdered. Classes are from 8:00 to 4:30 and 7:00 to 9:00 at night. Wednesday afternoons are for military training. There’s a kind of recess break at 3:30 where we get sent outside no matter what the weather. It’s supposed to keep us alert, but some of the guys complain.

  At 11:00 it is “lights out,” the army’s way of getting us used to the darkness of war. All of the J-C’s find this funny since we lived by lanterns and candles in the ghost towns. It’s easy for us to study by flashlights. Some of the guys use the nightlights in the washrooms.

  We have courses in reading, writing, and speaking Japanese. They gave us seven books. All of us start with a school primer. We also study geography and mapping.

  I got 100 percent in my elementary language test and they bumped me to the advanced class. Now I work at translating selections from Japanese middle school texts, essays, magazine articles, and even plays. I have to carry a heavy Japanese dictionary with me everywhere I go. We have study periods from 9:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m., four nights a week, with examinations every Saturday.

  I’m also training as a radio announcer and speech writer. Sadie should be the one here for that as she could always come up with cleverer sayings than me.

  To put your mind at rest, not all graduates of the Language School are sent into combat, even though I had hoped for some real action. Some of us will remain at school for further training. They keep saying our weapons are language, skill, and intelligence, not machine guns and bayonets. You remember that.

  Kaz

  Michiko couldn’t wait to tell Uncle Kaz she was pitcher on the baseball team. She could just see the smile creep across his face when he read her news. She folded the paper and slid it back inside the envelope. Should I tell Kaz about Sadie moving to Toronto when I write back? A black squirrel that had climbed down from the tree near the fence sat statue-still on the grass, as if it was waiting for her answer. She stuffed the letter into the pocket of her overalls, looked at the squirrel, and shrugged. Her father’s voice echoed in her head: “This is adult business, you stick to kid business.”

  “There’s twelve on the team,” she told them all at the dinner table. “Coach Ward calls us his dirty dozen.” She knew her mother would frown when she heard that, and she did, but Michiko just kept on talking. “Only six of us are from the village. The rest of the team comes from farms roundabout. Our practices are behind our school. The first game is next Saturday at three o’clock.” Michiko knew she was talking fast, but she had to get all of the information out of the way before she made her big announcement.

  “Coach give out positions yet?” her father asked.

  Michiko picked up her chopsticks, lowered her eyes, and waited.

  “Everyone is important,” he said with concern in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter what it is.”

  “I know,” she said, but couldn’t stand her own suspense. “I’m just the pitcher.”

  “Just the pitcher?” her father repeated with a huge smile. He stood up and clapped his hands. Hannah looked up from the bits of food on her tray and copied him.

  “Come-grat-you-lations,” her father said. His eyes shone.

  “I just need to get a glove,” Michiko announced in what she hoped was a casual voice.

  “Those are expensive,” her mother said. “We’ll have to think about that.”

  “Can’t you borrow one?” Sadie asked.

  “Doesn’t matter where it comes from,” Michiko said, looking at her father. “A pitcher needs a glove, right, Dad?”

  Her father gave a solemn nod but made no promises.

  After dinner, Michiko spotted Eddie in the yard and went outside to tell him.

  “Congratulations,” he said as he pulled his bike away from the tree. “Maybe they’ll win a few games.” He took something from his pocket and tossed it toward her. “Have a look at this. It’s a Spalding, and the centre is cork.”

  Michiko caught the cold, white leather ball that was so perfect and clean. She ran her thumb over the seam. The stitching was bright red. The baseball reminded her to ask. “Is there such a thing as a one-armed pitcher in the league?”

  “Yup,” Eddie answered. “Pete Gray, number 14 for the St. Louis Browns. I read about him on the sports page.”

  “How did he lose his arm?” she asked as she handed him back the baseball.

  “Truck accident,” Eddie said. “He tosses the ball into the air, tucks the glove into his armpit, catches the ball, and fires it off.”

  “What about hitting?” Michiko’s couldn’t contain her amazement.

  “He plants the knob of the bat against his side and bunts.” Then he rode off.

  Michiko’s father often said Eddie was a good worker. She hoped Mr. Downey would give him more to do so he would hang around, but in the meantime she had the information she wanted. She’d be able to tell all her soldiers about this amazing ball player.

  Michiko placed the thin piece of blue airmail paper over a page of her workbook. She liked to use the shadow of the lines underneath to keep her writing straight. She had just finished telling Gerald about Pete Gray when her aunt stuck her head around the corner.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Michiko’s hand slid to her overall pocket to make sure Kaz’s envelope was safely tucked out of sight. “I’m writing to a serviceman,” she said.

  “Really?” her aunt said as she came closer. “Why is that?”

  “Servicemen need to get mail, even if it’s from a stranger.” She paused for a moment and said, “It’s really hard for them to be far away from their family and friends.”

  Her aunt put her hand to her throat and fingered the top button of her blouse. “What kinds of things do you say?”

  “I just give them the news from home, what we kids are doing for the war effort … things like that.” She pointed to the letter she had just begun. “Gerald asked me about the one-armed baseball player in the American League. He says the news they get is old and all mixed-up, and I’m telling him all about Pete Gray.” Michiko looked her aunt in the eye. “You could tell Uncle Kaz about him. I’ve got extra paper if you want.”

  Sadie’s lashes fluttered.

  Michiko looked down, pretending to be interested in her work. “Don’t forget to tell him that I’m pitcher for the team.”

  Sadie left the room.

  Michiko opened the little blue box on her desk and slid Kaz’s letter underneath the others before going back to her writing.

  A lot of the baseball players are in uniform like you. Joe DiMaggio is my dad’s favourite player. He had a picture of him on our kitchen wall, but my mother made him take it down. I have an uncle in uniform who loves baseball, too. Thanks for asking the question about Pete Gray. Now I can tell my uncle all about him, too. We have a junior league and a senior league in town. Both of them are called the Bronte Braves. One of the boys that works on our f
arm plays for the senior league. He just got a Spalding baseball. He said the middle of it is made of cork.

  Her mother popped her head into her room. “It’s getting late,” she said.

  I am running out of space. I hope you’ll write back. I’ll try to find the answers to all your baseball questions. I hope the war isn’t too bad for you.

  Millie

  She signed the letter with a flourish, folded it, slid it into its envelope, and addressed it. On Monday morning she would give it to Mrs. McIntosh for the collection bag.

  THE FIRST GAME

  Michiko saw the white paper edge sticking out of her mathematics book when she returned to her desk after recess. Will it be another nasty drawing? she wondered as she pulled at the paper corner. The postcard of a little doll holding an announcement card surprised her. She turned it over and read:

  Because it’s my birthday there’s going to be

  A party at our house just for me!

  Here is the time (2–4 P.M.)

  And here is the date (May 5)

  Please come and help me to celebrate.

  Mary Margaret Adams

  For a moment Michiko couldn’t breathe. Was it really what she thought it was, or just another trick? She glanced around to see if Carolyn was around. She wasn’t. Michiko slipped the card into her exercise book.

  On the bus she leaned back and closed her eyes. A birthday party at Mary’s house. Mary, checking to see if she had received it, told her she would get to meet her mother since she already knew her father and her brother. She felt her heart beat faster and her face flush at the thought of Eddie being there. Whenever she saw him, a warm, feathery feeling came over her.

  Michiko showed the invitation to Aunt Sadie that night.

  “How nice,” Sadie said. “Do you know this girl well?”

  “She sits beside me at school,” Michiko explained. “I can’t believe she invited me. She’s one of …” she faltered, not quite knowing how to put it, “… of the girls in town.”