A Long Pitch Home by Natalie Dias Lorenzi Read Free Book Online

like it doesn’t matter. But it will matter if I make a fool of myself in front of everyone.
    We form two lines across from the two targets.
    â€œOkay, Mad Dogs! Remember what I said about sportsmanship.”
    I have no idea what sportsmanship means, never mind what he said about it.
    â€œWe’re here to support each other—boost each other’s spirits. We’re here to have fun, and to learn to play ball. Let me hear you now, Mad Dogs—we’re here to have fun and to . . .”
    â€œPlay ball!” everyone shouts. Everyone except me, because I did not know I was supposed to yell these words.
    The first boy in each line stands behind a rope, and when Coach Matt blows a whistle, they each launch a baseball at the target. One ball misses, and the other smacks the top.
    Coach Matt writes something on a clipboard. “Nice effort, Andy and Carter! Next up!”
    The boy whose ball hit the target jogs to the end of his line, but the boy who missed goes off to the side to watch.
    Two other boys step up to the rope, and Coach Matt blows his whistle again. As more players take their turns, I figure out that whoever hits the target goes back in line for another turn. Those who miss gather on the side to yell good things to the boys who are still in.
    My turn comes up, and I hit the target easily, just to the right of the center. When all of us have had a turn, Coach Matt and Kyle move the rope back about a meter, so now we’re farther away from the targets.
    I make it through the next round, and the round after that, until the rope puts us twice as far from the target as when we started. Only two of us are left. Akash yells, “That’s it, Bilal! You got this!”
    The rest of the boys clap and hoot, some yell my name, and others yell the name Jordan. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and it’s like I’m back home on the cricket pitch. I breathe, open my eyes, and turn my attention to the target.
    Coach Matt’s whistle pierces the air. I draw my arm back and then let the baseball fly. Jordan’s baseball thwacks the center of the target a split second before my ball lands—too far to the right.
    The boys erupt into cheers.
    I decide second place is okay. For now.
    I turn to congratulate Jordan, but he is already surrounded by some of the other kids.
    â€œNice, Bilal!” Akash calls, and the others head toward me, their hands ready for high fives. It is when they leave Jordan behind to congratulate me that I realize Jordan is not a “he” at all.
    Jordan is a girl.

 Six
    W e’ve only been home from camp twenty minutes when I find Jalaal out on the porch, slumped on the front step like a half-empty sack of rice. He passes a baseball from one hand to the other, elbows propped on his knees. He’s not watching the ball, though; he is staring at the driveway of the house next door, like he’s hoping it will notice him.
    â€œ Salaam , Jalaal,” I say, and sit down. He looks like he could use a buddy.
    â€œHey, Bilal.” His eyes don’t leave the driveway, and his hands don’t stop passing that ball back and forth, back and forth.
    â€œDo you want to play catch?” This is brave of me to offer, considering. But it might make Jalaal feel better, and maybe it would help me forget about losing to a girl today.
    â€œNah.” He shrugs. “Too hot.”
    Jalaal hands me the ball, and I continue his back-and-forth ritual. It is kind of relaxing. “What are you doing out here?”
    Jalaal sighs. “Just hanging.”
    He says this in English, and although it doesn’t look like he’s hanging on to anything, I nod anyway. Sometimes men don’t need to explain everything. It makes me think of Baba and my uncles, who can sit outside the tea shop down the street and not say anything for ten minutes—they just sip and look out at the sea.
    Jalaal finally looks at me. “So what’d you think of