Cherry Blossom Baseball (18 page)

Carolyn and Mark approached Billy as they walked to the bus.

Mark put his face in front of Billy's. “She has to quit,” he said. “Or none of the other teams will play us.”

Billy backed up. “Maybe
you
should quit. That might make the team even better.”

“Maybe both of you should quit,” Mark said.

“Wanna make me?” Billy asked as he put up his fists.

The boys squared off like boxers.

“Fight, fight,” resounded across the playground as a crowd formed a circle around them.

Billy launched himself at Mark and sent him to the ground. Mark jumped up with his fists flying, and this time Billy went down. Michiko put her hand to her mouth at the sight of blood flowing from his nose.

Out of nowhere the coach grabbed Mark by the collar. “You both want to get thrown off the team?” he asked. “Fighting is a good way to make it happen.”

“Billy started it,” Carolyn said as the coach marched the two boys away.

Michiko followed Annie onto the bus. She was going to have to quit playing baseball. It was already causing too much trouble for everyone.

NO GIRLS ALLOWED

“Y
ou
look lovely,” the saleslady said as Michiko stepped out of the change room.

Michiko modelled the navy blue dress with fitted sleeves that her aunt had picked out. Other than a white scalloped collar, it was plain. And the waist seemed to be in the wrong place; in fact, there were two waists, one halfway up her chest.

The saleswoman turned to Sadie. “You were right,” she said, “it is a good choice.”

Sadie smiled. “I know my dresses,” she said, indicating with her finger that Michiko was to turn around. “The wide band draws attention to your slim waistline.”

“I look like a stick,” Michiko said. “I want a full skirt and puffed sleeves.”

“No, you don't,” Sadie chided. “You want something timeless.”

Michiko looked at the ceiling and rolled her eyes.
“What is time?”
her grandfather would say. He'd expect her to answer with mountains, oceans, and pine trees and nod in approval.
“But what about baseball?”
she'd once asked.
“Baseball is seasonal sport,”
he had replied with a grin,
“not much time to be wasted.”

“Growing up is taking too much time,” Michiko complained.

“Time will always be on your side,” Sadie responded, giving a wink to the saleslady. “You just watch. The most popular girl in the class will end up fat while you stay beautiful.”

Michiko giggled at the thought of Carolyn growing fat.

The saleslady gave her a big smile.

“Can I wear silk stockings?” Michiko asked with a knowing grin.

Sadie looked at her niece's feet. “I can see I'll have to buy you something decent for your feet, or you'll wear those baseball shoes.” She turned to the saleslady. “We'll take the dress.”

Michiko didn't have the heart to tell her aunt she needn't worry about her baseball shoes. She was thinking of hanging them up.

“The last time I bought you a dress was for Easter a long time ago,” her aunt said as they waited for the dress to be boxed. “You were so cute with a big pink ribbon in your hair.”

Michiko vaguely remembered painting hard-boiled eggs.

“Everyone stopped doing all that when the war broke out,” Sadie said to the saleswoman as she handed her the money.

The woman nodded as she passed Sadie the large white box.

Both Michiko and Sadie were surprised to see Mrs. Takahashi sitting in the living room when they arrived home. On her lap lay the small bundle of Geechan's letters and a notebook.

Her mother entered, carrying a tea tray.

After the correct introductions, Michiko watched her mother's guest slurp her tea. When she had drained her cup and eaten the last
mochi
from the plate, she sat back in the armchair and gave a sigh of contentment. “Now we can talk business,” she said.

“You finished translating the letters?” Michiko asked.

Mrs. Takahashi looked down at her lap as if surprised to see them. “Your mother was right,” she said. “They weren't very interesting. A lot of nonsense about people growing up together. But here they are.” She picked them up and handed them and the notebook to Michiko. “That is only part of my business here today.”

“What other business do you have?” Eiko asked. She looked at Sadie and Michiko on the couch, but Sadie just shrugged.

“It's all over town that the Japanese girl from the gladiola farm is playing baseball with the boys,” Mrs. Takahashi said. “It's time to put a stop to such a ri­diculous rumour.”

Sadie's eyes narrowed. “What makes you think it is a rumour?”

“Because,” Mrs. Takahashi said, taking a deep breath and raising her chin, “having a girl that acts like a boy is nothing to be proud of, and from what I know of your sister, she is a proud, traditional woman.”

No one spoke for a moment. Michiko rose from her chair to leave, but Sadie pressed her arm, insisting that she stay. Out of the corner of her eye Michiko stole a glance at the woman's snub nose that always seemed to be looking down on others.

Eiko sat back in her chair and gave a small sigh. “I
am
a proud woman,” she said. “I am proud of my heritage, my home, and my family.”

Michiko lowered her eyes. She had never thought for a moment that playing baseball would be a slight against her family. As if they hadn't had enough problems from the war. Her eyes filled with tears as the thought of the humiliation she must have brought to her mother.

“We were not all that surprised Michiko made the baseball team,” her mother continued.

Michiko looked up when her mother's voice dropped to a low murmur.

“Her father was sought after to play for the Asahi team,” Eiko explained. Michiko noticed her mother's hands gripping the arms of the chair and her knuckles whitening. “He chose his responsibilities to his family and his job over the game.”

Mrs. Takahashi nodded approvingly.

“You know,” Michiko's mother continued, “I think a lot of people live their life backward. They think they choose the life they want, but they usually choose the life they fear.”

Mrs. Takahashi furrowed her thin, pencilled brows.

Michiko glanced at Sadie, surprised to see that the colour had drained from her face.

“My daughter, you see, fears nothing,” Eiko continued. “She isn't even afraid to get hit in the face by a hard ball.” She gave Michiko a tender look. “We are very proud of the fact that she made the team. My husband does his best to attend all the games.”

Mrs. Takahashi frowned. “You do know this will not help her in later life. Does she not know how to sew? Sewing is part of the basic preparation for marriage for all young women.” She looked at Michiko and said, “For centuries, no matter how humble your home, you knew how to sew a kimono. When our grandmothers were girls, they started with raw silk, made the thread, wove the cloth, and dyed it.”

“I can knit,” Michiko replied in a tiny voice, but stopped as Sadie pressed her arm again. She looked at her mother. Eiko's glance was so scalding that she held her breath.

Her mother rose. “You have taken the time to translate my father's letters, for which we are grateful,” she said, “but you needn't take any more of your time to translate our lives.” She turned to Michiko. “You have homework, I believe,” and then she said to Sadie, “Please see our guest to the door. I have to return to the big house.”

Mrs. Takahashi rose and straightened her dress. “I can see myself out,” she said. Then she walked over to Michiko and cupped her chin with her hand. “Young men don't marry girls who do not act like girls,” she said, and then she left the room.

Michiko collapsed onto the couch, surprised at Mrs. Takahashi's words but even more surprised by her mother's support. It was usually Sadie who stuck up for her, but she had been the quiet one this time.

W
hy
, Michiko wondered,
is everyone making kid business their business?

The Braves' second game was against the team from Applegate Collegiate. Michiko felt uneasy now that everyone knew the pitcher for the Bronte Braves was a girl.

The Applegate Arrows warmed up in white tunics and caps with school crests.

She admired the school's manicured baseball field with its canvas bases. The first two rows of the glossy black bleachers had cushioned seats.

“Nice place,” Michiko commented.

“I hate playing here,” Billy said, “but there aren't enough teams to make a competition, so they gotta be part of ours. And they usually win every year.”

At first there were just whispers when she walked by.

One of the Applegate Arrows waited at her team's bench with a cloth. His small, mean eyes squinted at her before he pretended to scour it clean. “Can't have a dirty bench,” he said with a tight grin. “Girls don't like to get dirty.”

Even the boys on her own team laughed.

In her head, Michiko knew she had to ignore it, but in her heart, it hurt.

The Applegate pitcher threw his glove down when Michiko stepped up to the plate. “I'm not playing against a girl,” he shouted.

Their coach pulled him aside. After a short talk the pitcher returned to the mound, but his no-nonsense stare told her she was not welcome. He lobbed the ball, and it fell short of the plate. The second pitch was the same.

Michiko lowered her bat and tapped the base to let him know where it was.

When he threw the third ball, she moved forward in an effort to get a hit, swung, and missed.
Stupid
, she said to herself, seeing the pitcher sneer.

He lobbed the ball again, and she swung. Her bat caught the ball with the tip, and it flew upward and came down right into the shortstop's mitt.

“Yerrrr … out,” the umpire called.

The pitcher threw his arms around his waist and doubled over with fake laughter.

Michiko dropped the bat and headed for the bench.
What am I doing?
she asked herself. She plunked herself down on the bench and put her head in her hands.
I should have let him walk me. At least I would have been on first.

She pulled off her cap and shook her head to let her dark, shiny, pigtails fall to her shoulders. “I should have done that long ago,” she said loudly. “It makes my head so much cooler.”

“Don't you think she's got her diamonds all mixed up?” a voice called out from the crowd. A group of girls laughed. Michiko knew the voice immediately without having to look. Carolyn sat with her friends in the stands.

The next time she was up at the plate, the pitcher lobbed the ball to her again.

“Let it come to you,” Coach Ward yelled. “Stay at the plate.”

The third and fourth pitches fell short and Michiko walked. As she headed to first, the pitcher turned to her and bowed. “I didn't want to
hurt
you,” he said. “My mother taught me never to play rough with girls.”

The boys on his team bench laughed and thumped their thighs.

“A run is a run, even if you walk on it,” Michiko said to the first baseman after she touched the base. “Your pitcher just loaded the bases.” She turned to see the other team's coach approach the mound.

It only took one hit from Bobby Wells to bring all three of them in.

At the end of the fourth inning, Michiko could tell the other team's pitcher was getting tired by the way he dropped his arm at the end of a pitch and started missing the strike zone. She leaned over and whispered to Mark McAndrew, the boy next to her. “You're up next, you gotta bunt.”

Mark, the catcher for their team, looked at her with disdain. “What would you know about bunting?”

“The pitcher's too tired to run up for the ball. It's a good idea.”

Mark turned away from her and went to the plate. The pitcher tossed the ball. Mark swung and missed. “Strike one,” the umpire called.

Mark frowned at Michiko over his bat. She nodded vigorously to let him know he was to bunt.

Mark shrugged and positioned himself again. He missed for a second time.

The pitcher gave a huge stretch and yawned. He positioned himself and sent the ball Mark's way. Mark struck out.

But they won the game. And according to Billy, that had never happened before against Applegate.

As the players left the field, a tall man in a blue suit and fedora walked up to Coach Ward and took him to one side. The two of them walked about the field, talking. To Michiko's astonishment, when the man left, Coach Ward returned to the team and pointed at her.

“Can't use that lefty mitt at the next game,” he said. “Come prepared or don't play.”

Somehow Michiko knew it had nothing to do with owning a mitt; it had something to do with that man. Her throat squeezed shut as a feeling of sadness brimmed up inside her. She had to hold her breath to stop herself from crying as she left the field.