is forced and sad.
My feet are heavy as mud.
That night, after dinner,
Dad and I clear the dishes
while Tommy takes his bath.
Then Dad sits in the kitchen
and reads the paper.
I go in the den
and watch TV.
But it’s not a good
TV night
so I lie on the couch
and think instead.
My parents say they love me.
He says
I’ll always be his MVP.
She says
I’m safe, I’m home.
But what about
my mother in Vietnam?
Didn’t she say
she loved me too?
And didn’t he say
that he loved her?
And didn’t he leave
and never come back?
And didn’t she
give me away?
And didn’t I love him
even though
his hands and legs
were mangled stumps?
And didn’t I leave anyway?
Maybe love is like
a monsoon rain.
When it rains
really hard and heavy,
it seems like
it will never end
and we’ll swim in mud
forever.
But then the wind shifts,
and the earth grows
dry and cracked.
Every gurgle and ooze
tiptoes away
and we’re left wishing
and waiting
for rain again.
Maybe love is like that.
Maybe the wind shifts
and love just tiptoes away.
I’m going to study more.
I’m going to practice
the piano more.
Maybe if I get all A’s
and master the B major scale,
if I pitch better,
if I keep my room neater,
and take out the garbage,
and clean the garage,
if I pick up Tommy’s bus people
and farm animals,
and teach him
how to write his name,
maybe then they’ll keep me.
At least I think they’ll keep me
until the end of baseball season.
My father likes baseball
too much to let me go
before the season’s over.
Partner up and start throwing,
Coach says when I get to the field
on the day of our first game.
I partner up with Alex, as usual.
If he minds being partnered
with me, he never says so.
He just pushes up his glasses,
nods, and starts tossing the ball.
My arm feels good.
Loose and powerful.
Arms are stretching,
balls are flying,
mounds of dirt
are kicked and spit on.
Finally the whistle blows.
We’re ready.
The game between
the Lynbrook Lions
and the Plymouth Pirates—
our biggest rivals—
is about to begin.
The top of the inning
is perfect.
Michael V. gets a base hit
on the first pitch.
Rob’s the next batter up.
The first ball whizzes by him
for a strike.
The next ball follows the same path.
This time Rob is ready.
He pulls back
and swings hard.
The ball bounds deep
into left field
for a double.
Billy strikes out,
and so does Michael L.,
but Daniel’s home run
drives in the runners
on second and third.
Three runs for the Lions!
Alex gets out on a fly,
but it doesn’t matter.
The Lynbrook Lions
are roaring.
We take the field.
The first batter
is a round boy
with short legs
who looks like
he’ll be a slow runner.
I take a deep breath
and sneak a look
at Coach Robeson.
His nod pushes down
the butterflies
in my stomach.
I twist the ball
in my glove,
pull back my right arm,
and let the ball fly.
It takes off
like it has wings,
and then, just as it reaches
home plate, it drops.
Strike one, the umpire signals.
I pull my hat down,
look around,
and let go another sinker.
Strike two.
I always feel power
in my arm,
but sometimes between
the windup and the release
there is time enough
for something else,
for the smallest
flick of my wrist.
These pitches
sail through the air
and drop at the batter’s feet
like a wounded bird.
Strike three.
The boy with the short legs
shakes his head
and kicks the dirt.
The second batter
approaches the batter’s box.
I feel my shoulders tense.
This kid should play football
instead of baseball.
Coach Robeson nods again.
I take a deep breath
and twist the ball in my glove.
I kick my leg up,
rock my arm back,
and hurl the ball forward.
It looks like a perfect
home run pitch, but just
when the ball and bat
should make contact,
the ball falls,
and the bat slices the air.
Strike one.
I do it again.
Strike two.
And again.
Strike three.
The third batter is stiff.
He doesn’t move his head
or blink his eyes.
He swings at
the first three pitches
even though the second is low,
and the third is wild.
In less than five minutes,
the Lions have pounded
the Pirates to dust.
Just keep doing what you’re doing,
Coach Robeson says to me.
Coach Louis pats me
on the back and smiles.
Great job, Matt.
Wow, Michael V. says,
that was unbelievable.
They didn’t even get one hit,
Alex says.
Billy glares,
then turns away.
Rob doesn’t say a word
either.
Not even after
the second inning
or the third.
Not even when
I strike out
the final batter,
or when people
from both sides
of the bleachers
cheer wildly for me,
and we crush
the Pirates
11–0.
After the game,
everyone goes to
Rosie O’s Pizza Planet
to celebrate.
Everyone is talking
at once.
What a game!
Did you see the look
on number five’s face?
He’s their star player.
My father is glowing.
My mother has hung
her purple-blue shawl
from a wooden peg
and is busy handing out
slices of pizza.
Tommy is with our
neighbor Mrs. Pennotti.
I look over at Rob.
He’s breaking his crust
into little pieces and
leaving it on the plate,
not talking to anyone.
On Wednesday,
I sit at the piano
and play for Jeff.
Isn’t that supposed to be
a lonesome ballad?
my mother asks.
She’s on her way
upstairs, but stops
and puts down
her blue plastic
laundry basket.
Jeff smiles at me.
It’s hard to play slow
and full of sorrow
when you’ve pitched
a perfect game.
I smile too.
At least Jeff knows
there’s something
I do well.
Coach Robeson starts
the next practice
by reminding us
what we’re capable of
when we work
together.
It’s all about teamwork,
he says.
then looks at me
and smiles.
Matt was focused.
He did a great job.
But you all did.
You all worked
together.
That’s what makes
a championship team.
Working together.
After that,
it’s practice as usual.
Some stretching.
Some bunting.
Some base-running drills.
When we are
getting ready to leave,
Rob stops
to tie his sneaker
right where
I’m standing.
He gets up with his back
to Coach Robeson.
Proud of yourself, Ace?
he hisses quietly.
Hey, even a Frog-face
can get lucky, I guess.
On Saturday, my parents
have to go to a funeral.
The father of one of
the hospital nurses
Dad works with died.
I’m on my stomach,
trying to get a stuffed
elephant that Tommy
has wedged between
the wall and the piano.
I hear my father
and my mother
talking in the kitchen.
He lived a good life,
Dad says.
I’m sure he’s at peace.
I wonder what happens
to people if they don’t
live a good life,
if they do something terrible.
Do they ever find peace?
Mrs. Pennotti is going
to watch Tommy.
Jeff will bring me
to the game
and take me to lunch
afterward.
It’s a good thing
I’m not pitching.
How can I focus
on pitching when
I’m riding in Jeff’s
silver Corvette?
We beat the Titans 5–2
even though I bobbled a hit
and cost us a run.
My knees were bent,
my eyes on the batter.
The ball landed
safe inside my glove,
but then—
I looked back
to make sure
Jeff was watching
—I fumbled.
I dropped the ball
and by the time
I picked it up
and threw it,
the runner on third
had advanced home.
When we walk
back to the dugout
at the end of the inning,
Rob whispers,
What’s the matter, Frog-face?
Lose your focus?
Chrome wheels
and leather seats
don’t cheer me.
A burger
and french fries
don’t cheer me.
I’m slumped
in our booth
at the diner
rearranging
my food.
Hey, even Ron Guidry
makes mistakes,
Jeff says as he opens
the bottle of ketchup
and squeezes some
onto his open hamburger.
He stares at the thick
red blob a long time,
like he’s trying to make
sense of something,
like somehow
the splattered ketchup
holds the key.
Matt, he finally says,
I’d like to talk to you
about Vietnam.
Fear shivers
down my spine,
a silver shot
that explodes
inside me,
shattering everything
and right there
in that moment,
rain,
like a thousand
scattered bullets,
bounces
around me.
I’m running in the mud,
running but not moving,
and I can scarcely
breathe for the pellets of
rain spraying everywhere.
I hear him scream
when he steps
where he should not step.
I push through the rain
and make my way over
to where he lies.
I lift him
and carry him home,
falling deeper and deeper
into heavy, thick mud
that sticks to my skin,
and weighs me down,
and makes him
so heavy
even though
I carried him
on my back
so easily
just yesterday.
I carry my brother’s
bruised and wailing body
in my arms
and all the colors—
the green paddies
and the pink lotus,
the blue sky
and the silver moon—
wash into a red mud.
And she’s there too,
her eyes closed,
cradling him,
telling me
it isn’t my fault,
it isn’t me
who leaves traps
for small children
or rains down bombs
that fall like dead crows.
It’s not your fault,
she repeats,
holding him in one arm
and me in the other
holding me
and rocking me.
It’s not your fault.
You’re safe, Matt.
You’re safe.
It’s going to be okay.
There is darkness all around us,
but you will never be alone.
His voice is gentle
and low
like a lullaby.
His arms are around
my shaking shoulders,
his chant so steady and soft
that my heart gradually
calms,
and I breathe deeply
and slowly.
What’s
happened?
Jeff is sitting
on my side of the booth.
The afternoon sunlight
washes through me.
Her voice
fades to a whisper,
and all I want to do
is sleep.
My mother and father are home
when we get back,
but Tommy is not.
I wonder where he is.
How was the game? my father asks.
We are barely
through the door.
I just shrug.
Matt played great, Jeff lies.
They won again.
Dad beams.
Later, would Jeff tell him
the truth? Would he tell
him I dropped the ball,
that I started shivering
at the diner,
shivering and shaking
for no reason at all?
I thought I’d ask him,
Jeff says, but he got upset.
Ask me what?
My father’s look
jumps across the space
between us as if he’s
scooping me into his arms.
Let’s go into the kitchen.
My mother looks
at my father
and then at me.
She takes a deep breath.
Okay, let’s get everything
out in the open, she says.
So this is it.
That’s why Tommy’s not here.
My head hurts.
I feel dizzy
and so tired
I could sleep forever.
Sit down, Matt,
we’ve been meaning to talk to you,
she says.
I sit down.
I concentrate on the table,
studying the lines
in the wood,
how some rings are thin
and perfect
like they were painted by an artist,
and some are thick and jagged,
shaped like little sideways mountains.
I’ve sat at this table
so many times
but never noticed
the sideways mountains before.
I wonder how long it takes
to get placed in foster care.
I wonder how many more
lime Jell-Os I’ll have.
How many more piggyback rides
I’ll give Tommy.
How many nights at my desk?
How many nights asleep
in my own bed?