A Long Pitch Home by Natalie Dias Lorenzi Page B

position.
    Aiden takes his helmet off, turns it over in his hands, puts it on, takes it off, and puts it on again. He tosses his bat from one hand to the other three times, draws a line in the dirt with his toe, then grips the bat.
    Number Ten whispers, “Aiden’s ritual never works.”
    Coach Pablo pitches. Aiden swings—and misses.
    â€œStrike one!” Kyle calls, but he sounds sorry about it. Aiden cringes.
    Number Ten keeps his voice low. “He tries all these new lucky moves, but it doesn’t work that way.” He shakes his head.
    â€œWhat is the good way?” I ask.
    Number Ten sighs. “You can’t just make up any old goodluck ritual, you know?”
    I don’t know, but I nod anyway.
    â€œI mean, do you think Joe DiMaggio randomly invented his good-luck routines?” Number Ten shakes his head. “Man, they were inspired.”
    I shake my head, too, but I have no idea who Joe Di . . . whatever-his-name-is is. Did Omar Khan ever have a lucky ritual before cricket matches? Maybe Baba will remember from his cricket-playing days with Omar Khan.
    â€œStrike two!” Kyle calls.
    I wince—partly for Aiden and partly for myself, because I know I won’t do any better. This time Aiden doesn’t do any of his lucky movements. He just stands there, bat over his shoulder. He might even be praying, judging by the way his lips are moving.
    Coach Pablo tosses the ball underhand this time. It traces a lazy upward arc, falling right where Aiden can’t miss it. Ball and bat connect with a hollow thunk. Aiden drops the bat and takes off toward first base like he is being chased by a mad rhinoceros. The ball rolls a slow path toward Coach Pablo. He scoops it up, waits a few seconds for Aiden to reach Jordan at first base, and then signals to Number Ten.
    Kyle nods. “You got this, Jack.”
    Jack—now I remember Number Ten’s name. From all Jack’s talk about good-luck rituals, I should have known he’d have one of his own. He jogs clockwise around home plate, reverses direction and jogs around once more. He spins his bat like a baton, passing it from one hand to the other. It seems like he won’t ever stop until Coach Pablo yells, “Jack! You are batting today, yes?”
    Could Jack choose to bat tomorrow, instead? Could I?
    But Jack doesn’t choose tomorrow; he chooses today. He barely catches his spinning bat, almost dropping it before holding it high over his shoulder. He nods.
    Jack hits the pitch on his first swing. Flinging his bat aside, he sprints toward first base while the ball rolls straight to third. Jack is already past first and heading for second when the kid on third throws the ball like a bullet to second.The kid on second catches it right before Jack slides into him.
    â€œOut!”
    Jack picks himself up and brushes off the seat of his pants, shaking his head.
    Kyle calls, “Nice, Jack!” He adjusts his face mask as he squats down for the next pitch. Kyle shakes his head. “Risky, though,” he says, keeping his voice low. “He should have stayed on first.”
    I wouldn’t know, because I have never been on first. Or second. Or third. And I’m only ever on the home base when I’m batting.
    â€œYou’re up, Bilal,” Coach Pablo calls. I silently command my stomach to stop flip-flopping as I hurry over and grab a bat. When I walk around to the lefty side of home base, Coach Pablo shifts back a step. I position my feet and raise my bat, hoping no one notices that it’s trembling. Before I steady myself, Coach Pablo pitches the ball. I am not ready, but I swing anyway.
    Too soon. My bat whooshes into nothing a half second before the ball speeds past my nose and thwacks into Kyle’s glove.
    I swallow, and reposition my feet.
    Kyle’s voice comes from behind me. “That was just a warmup. You got this, Bilal.”
    I take a shaky breath. I didn’t have a lucky