by Ann E. Burg
Coach Robeson looks
deflated—like the
wrinkled remains
of a balloon
that’s had all the air
let out.
He nods at Coach Chambers
and then turns to walk
across the field
and away from us.
From the back,
Coach Robeson looks
sad and solitary.
I won’t let anyone know—
especially Rob—
but a ball of tears
is stuck in my throat.
My mother is waiting
for me in the car.
Are you okay?
I nod.
She watches me,
disbelieving,
her clear eyes
a flashing bolt of light
that sees straight
through me.
Was that Coach Robeson?
Did he come to today’s practice?
I nod again.
How did he seem?
Okay.
Where’s Tommy? I ask.
I left him with Mrs. P.
Dad’s going to be late,
so I thought we could
grab a hamburger.
Just the two of us.
I look at her.
Her open, kind face.
Her encouraging smile.
She tries so hard.
All the time
she tries so hard.
Sometimes,
when I’m doing my homework,
she brings me cookies,
or an orange, already peeled,
broken into small pieces.
Here, take a break, have a snack,
she says.
A hamburger sounds good,
I say.
I’m hungry.
On Wednesday,
Coach Williams
is waiting for us
on the field.
Baseballs, mitts,
masks, helmets,
all sorts of sports stuff
are scattered on the ground.
It looks like somebody
robbed the athletic office,
then panicked,
and dropped everything
as they ran off
across the field.
What happened here,
a tornado? Billy says.
I’m not cleaning it up, Rob says.
Ignoring the mess
and the comments,
Coach Williams
partners us up.
My name is called first,
then Rob’s.
After what happened
on his first day,
something must be wrong with
Coach Williams’s brain.
Rob glares at me
and mouths the words
No way, Frog-face,
but Coach Williams
is already wheeling around,
using some kind of
cane with claws
to shift the equipment,
a little to the left,
a little to the right,
like there’s a pattern.
If there is,
I don’t see it.
We wait for some direction.
We’re going to try
something new.
Coach Williams’s voice is husky,
but his words are clear.
He calls one kid
from each pair
to get a bandanna
from a bag
he has clipped
to his chair.
Rob gets called for us.
When everyone is
back with his partner,
Coach Williams
instructs each person
holding a bandanna to tie it tight
around his eyes.
I don’t want you to see any light,
he says.
Rob mumbles something
I can’t hear.
Everyone else is laughing.
Hey, that’s not tight enough …
double it up … you’re cheating …
how many fingers am I holding up? …
wrong …
Enough!
Coach Williams says sternly.
Everyone shuts up.
On the ground, there are
seven baseballs, seven footballs,
and seven soccer balls, he says.
Seven helmets, seven catcher’s masks,
seven bats, and seven mitts.
We have seven teams of two.
When I say Go,
those of you wearing bandannas
need to gather one of each—
one baseball, one football, one bat—
you know what I mean.
Those of us without bandannas
look around.
If you paid close attention,
you might remember
where you saw things,
but after a while
it isn’t going to matter
what you remember.
After you’ve turned around
a couple of times in the dark,
you’ll get disoriented.
Eventually your partner
will need to be your eyes.
When you pick up all seven items,
work your way back to the bleachers,
sit down, and wait
for the rest of your teammates.
Any questions?
There’s some grumbling
and one What does this have to do
with baseball?
spoken under Rob’s breath,
but if Coach hears,
he doesn’t answer.
When Coach says Go,
Rob starts walking
ahead of me
using his right foot
to guide him.
I try to look like
I’m doing something,
but really I’m just
following behind.
Rob picks up a football,
a bat, and a mitt.
When it’s too awkward
to hold them and still search,
he reaches for me.
Without a word,
he holds out his hand,
feels my presence,
and drops the football
and the mitt into my arms.
He uses the bat
to feel around the ground.
Whatever Coach Williams’s
reason is for this game,
Rob has made up
his own challenge—
getting through it
without saying
one word
to me.
He might have done it too—
the baseball and helmet
are just inches from each other,
and two soccer balls have rolled
alongside them.
The only kids who aren’t
at the bleachers already
are me and Rob,
and Michael V. and Alex.
We can hear Alex telling Michael
where to walk for the soccer ball.
Rob follows his voice.
I follow Rob.
Our last item
is the catcher’s mask.
Alex must feel sorry for Rob,
or for me.
The catcher’s mask
is way out in right field,
he calls as he and Michael
make their way
back to the bleachers.
Still, knowing where the mask is
won’t help much
if I can’t get Rob moving
in the right direction.
Everyone on the bleachers
is laughing and heckling us.
If I don’t help Rob,
we’ll be walking
in circles till midnight.
We’re moving
in the wrong directio
n.
I clear my throat.
Rob, I whisper loudly.
Just let me lead you.
If you don’t let me help,
we’ll be out here all afternoon.
I’m never
gonna need your help
for anything,
Frog-face.
I can’t see Rob’s eyes,
but I think they might
burn holes
right through
his bandanna.
I hate you,
he says.
My brother died
because of you.
His words hit me
like a fastball
in the pit of my stomach.
I think I might crumble
right there on the field
with Rob stumbling along
in his own private darkness
and the voices of
Coach Robeson and Dad
talking about war and cancer
stuck in my head—
The war was worse
than this cancer I’ve got.
Some cancers are sneaky,
they creep up on you.
Over and over
I hear Caveman Joe spending
the rest of his life pretendin’
and Jeff calling me a Vietnamese kid,
the one who reminds everyone
of the place they all want to forget.
I hear the laughter in the bleachers
and the sound of her voice shrieking
Bui Doi, you cannot stay here
while helicopters whirl
and babies cry.
In the distance,
bombs fall,
dogs bark,
and then I hear her voice,
like warm honey, softly singing.
There is darkness on the water.
There is darkness on the land.
There is darkness all around us,
but I will take your hand.
I will sing to you of morning,
I will stay until it’s light.
I will sing to you of laughter
on the other side of night.
I take a big gulp of air,
a big gulp of sunlight.
You’ve gotta play your best even if you’re losing.
You’ll always be our MVP.
What kind of faith is that? What kind of love?
I force myself to breathe.
I want to find that place.
I lost my brother too,
I say, and
my words
surprise me.
He isn’t dead,
but he’s gone just the same.
And it’s my fault.
My mouth is saying stuff
I don’t even know I’m thinking.
I’m sorry that your brother died.
I’m really sorry.
I know how you feel.
You don’t know anything,
Rob says, but his voice
is more sad than angry.
He still has his bandanna on,
and I can’t see his eyes,
but I don’t think they’re
bullets anymore.
Every Friday night,
he’d take me to Rosie O’s,
he says.
His voice is quiet,
like he’s talking to himself
and letting me listen.
Just the two of us.
Sometimes we went to the movies
or to the sports department at Sears.
He came to all my games too.
When he came back,
we were going to get
Yankee tickets.
That was the last thing
he said to me:
When I get back,
we’ll get season tickets.
I’m sorry
is all I can think
to say.
My brother was younger
than me, six years
younger than me.
We walk toward the outfield.
Rob follows my voice.
There are so many things
I don’t remember, but
I remember that my mother—
my mother in Vietnam—
left us to check on
this old man and woman
who lived down the road.
Sometimes she helped them
with their laundry
or we brought them cooked rice
and vegetables.
I keep talking,
like a bicycle tire
with a slow leak.
The lady’s face was burned—
her whole face was burned black
so that her eyes were just slits.
And the fingers of her hand
were fused together.
Her husband was sick too,
so people in the village
took turns helping them.
Every night we’d hear
popping sounds and dogs barking
in the distance,
but we’d just go on eating
and not even look up.
Sometimes the old man and
woman ate with us.
One night, the popping
grew close.
A low hissing sound
came from the sky over us.
Down the road
red and orange flames
chased giant clouds of black smoke.
I thought I’d forgotten everything,
but I hadn’t.
I remembered.
I remembered everything.
The next day, my mother
went to check on the old man and his wife.
Watch your brother, she said.
Stay inside, it isn’t safe.
But I didn’t want to stay inside.
Sometimes the soldiers dropped stuff.
Once I found a metal cross,
another time a silver coin.
I told my brother to wait inside.
I told him I’d be right back.
But he followed me.
He followed me everywhere.
Just be careful, I said.
But three-year-olds
don’t know how to be careful.
It was quiet outside.
Everything smelled of
spoiled eggs and smoke.
The heat was pressing down.
It was hard to breathe.
I knew it would start to rain soon.
I wanted to look for things
before the water
washed everything away.
He wandered away from me,
and before I knew
what was happening,
he was screaming.
There was blood
everywhere.
The rain started slamming down.
I lifted him up
and carried him home.
He was so heavy
that it took a long time.
When I got there,
she was waiting.
She made a long wailing sound
when she saw us.
All those years,
I heard bombs and guns
and people screaming,
but I never heard
a sound like that.
I never heard a sound
like the sound
she made that day.
Finally she got the bleeding to stop,
and we saw that both his legs were gone.
They just weren’t there anymore.
The fingers on his hands
were missing too.
His hands were small
mangled stumps.
And even though
she told me it wasn’t,
I knew it was all my fault.
When I stop talking,
we stop walking.
The catcher’s mask
is at our feet,
but I don’t say anyt
hing,
and Rob doesn’t feel for it.
We both just stand there.
It’s strange—
in my dreams,
I can never
see her face,
but when I tell Rob,
I see it all—
like a movie—
I see her face,
open and clear,
her dark eyes
holding me.
I hear her voice,
like on a tape recorder.
It’s not your fault.
The mask is by your left foot,
I finally manage.
You’d better pick it up.
Rob pulls off
the bandanna
and looks at me.
His eyes are red.
Are you okay? he asks.
I nod.
He gives me
the bandanna
to wipe my face.
When we finally make it
to the bleachers,
everyone starts cheering.
But not Coach Williams.
He looks at Rob
and then at me.
I hope you and Matt
can figure out for yourselves
the purpose of this hunt,
he says
and wheels away.
Dad picks me up
from practice.
Are you okay? he says.
You look tired.
I’m okay.
It was a long day.
He fiddles with the radio
but doesn’t sing.
Every time
he changes the station,
he sneaks a glance at me.
I remember when Jeff
introduced me
at the VV meeting.
Afterward Dad asked me
if I ever thought
about Vietnam.
It’s okay
if you don’t want
to talk about it right now,
he said.
But someday,
I hope you will.
I need to tell them.
But will I find
the words again?
And what will happen
once I say them?
When we get home,
Tommy and my mother
are outside.
She is raking out
the dead leaves
from the garden.
He is walking
his wooden turtle.
He waddles over
when he sees me.
I put down my books and