Free A Long Pitch Home by Natalie Dias Lorenzi

mostly in English and I answer him mostly in Urdu, especially when I’m tired.Thinking in English hurts my brain after a while. I know Jalaal is trying to be helpful, but I also think maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking Urdu anymore—kind of like a favorite T-shirt you used to wear everywhere, even to bed, and now it just doesn’t fit.
    We throw our bags into the back, and Jalaal starts the car. “You ready for tomorrow?”
    I nod. Ready for camp to be over.
    Jalaal slows the car at a stop sign and then rolls through the empty intersection. “We can throw some pitches in the backyard later, if you want.”
    â€œSounds good.” As long as we just pitch—no batting.
    â€œYou’ll blow them away tomorrow, Bilal.”
    I look at Jalaal. “Blow who away?”
    â€œThe competition, my friend. No doubt you’ll make the team.”
    â€œWhat? But I didn’t write my name down,” I say.
    His smile returns. “Don’t worry—I signed you up.”
    â€œJalaal!”
    His eyes open wide with pretend innocence. “What?”
    â€œI didn’t sign up on purpose.”
    â€œBilal, you’re kidding. You’re an amazing pitcher.”
    But I’m also amazingly bad at batting. I guess Jalaal knows, because he says, “We’ll work on the batting. You’ll be fine.
    â€œThe travel team is called the Fairfax Cardinals, but they’re opening up a developmental team this year, too.”
    â€œCardinals?”
    â€œThey’re birds.” Jalaal glances out his side window. “I don’t see any now, but they’re red—at least the males are. The females are brown.”
    Birds don’t sound like a very ferocious mascot. But I think I have seen the kind of bird that Jalaal is talking about—they like to eat from Auntie’s bird feeder in the backyard.
    â€œWhat is the developmental team?”
    Jalaal looks both ways before cruising through another stop sign. “The developmental team works more on basic skills. No official games, only scrimmages—kind of like practice games that don’t count.”
    Games that don’t count? I just want to play cricket, and that is all.
    I roll down the window and prop my elbow in the open space, leaning my head against my hand. The houses gliding by remind me of the plastic pieces in the Monopoly game we played after dinner last night—each house looks the same, except for their color. Every garden is neat and trim, and I’ll bet someone sweeps the streets every morning, because there isn’t any trash. No one beeps their horn or passes anyone on these streets, which are wide enough for four cars. Almost everyone stops at the stop signs, even when no cars are coming. A man and his daughter hose off their already-clean car. There are no donkeys pulling carts or skinny, stray dogs sniffing for food—these American dogs have collars and leashes and families.
    â€œBilal?” Jalaal sounds concerned. “You okay?”
    I shrug, and Jalaal sighs.
    â€œI got you,” he says. “I missed Pakistan at first, too. But you’ll get used to it here.”
    I am not so sure I will ever get used to America.
    â€œAnd hey, once you make the team, you’ll get to know all the guys even better.”
    I know he’s right, but making friends in English is exhausting. I pretend to understand everything they say, but they talk too fast, use words I don’t know, and use words I do know in ways I don’t understand. At least Jalaal mixes in some Urdu every once in a while, and he teaches me new English words.
    â€œBesides,” he says, “baseball is a totally American sport. It’ll help you fit in.”
    I’m not sure I want to fit in. I mean, I do, but I don’t. If I become American, will I still be Pakistani?
    Jalaal glances in the rearview mirror. “In a few months, you’ll be as American as mom,