I Have Lost My Way(42)

“Wicket-keeper.”

“Not so different from catcher, right?” Nathaniel turns to Finny. “You need a catcher?”

“We’ll take what we can get. We play for beers, so the stakes are incredibly low. Also, you get beer whether you win or lose.”

“How do you know about cricket?” Harun asks Nathaniel. “Americans never know about cricket.”

“I watched a documentary about a team from Afghanistan.”

“You’ve seen Out of the Ashes?” Harun asks. “I loved that movie.”

Nathaniel nods. “And also the one about the West Indian team. My father went through a cricket obsession. Called it the only gentleman’s sport.”



* * *



— — —

Harun’s father has said the same thing. He often said that cricket taught the rules of civility. “Without that, society comes apart.”

Harun tried to teach James the rules once, on a particularly nasty February day, but James wasn’t having any part of it. Not even after Harun showed him photos of Shahid Afridi, not even after he showed him pictures of a young Imran Khan.

Harun does not want to play softball. But Nathaniel knows about cricket. He imagines Nathaniel’s father and his own having a conversation about this over tea.

“The problem is, I don’t actually know how to play beyond what I learned in elementary school,” Harun admits.

“No worries. We’ll plug you in as catcher,” Finny says. “Just catch the ball and throw it to me.”

Harun stands the chance of being humiliated, or laughed at, or making a total hash of it. But Nathaniel hasn’t asked for one thing this whole day. And it felt so good to do something for Freya before. Cowardice and selfishness get so very tiresome.

“Look, we really don’t care if you do anything,” Finny says. “We just need bodies on the field till our guys arrive.”

Harun turns to Freya. It’s all or nothing. He’s not sure when it became that. But it has.



* * *



— — —

“Oh no,” Freya says. “Don’t look at me. I don’t play sports. I play music.”

Played music.

“I’m not doing it if you don’t,” Nathaniel says.

“We’ll stick you in center field,” Finny tells Nathaniel. “You in right field,” he tells Freya. “He’ll cover for you.”

“But I don’t have a . . . what’s it called? Glove?”

“We’ve got gear.”

“But I’m left-handed,” Freya says, the softball version of a Hail Mary pass. “Don’t I need a different glove?”

“We’ve got left-handed gloves.”

Nathaniel, Harun, and Finny all look at Freya, a triple whammy of puppy-dog eyes. “That’s not fair,” Freya says, “to put that much pressure on me.” But she’s smiling.

“I did just commit a crime for you,” Harun says.

“And I flirted with that awful assistant for you,” Nathaniel says.

“And hey, I just met you, but you’d be doing me a solid,” Finny says.

“So the assistant was awful, was she?” Freya asks Nathaniel, utterly embarrassed by how much this snipe pleases her.

“Wasn’t her fault,” Nathaniel says. “She just wasn’t you.”

And that does it. Freya’s a goner. She’d go skydiving if he asked, and she’s terrified of heights. Moments later, she’s unrecognizable in someone’s battered lefty glove and someone else’s baseball cap. Standing in right field, she wonders: How did I get here? Only she’s not thinking about the ball field, specifically, but here with Harun and Nathaniel. Also the ball field. She’s never played softball in her life.

How did I get here? she asks herself again. But the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is that she did.



* * *



— — —

As Harun squats behind home plate, his phone buzzes with a text. The dinner in his honor is not due to start for a while yet, but Ammi always gets nervous if you’re not at least a half hour early.

He can picture his family sitting around the dining room table, the extra leaf added to make room for all of them and all the dishes Ammi has been preparing. Ammi will pace. She won’t stop until they’re all seated and eating. The longer his absence goes, the faster she will pace. She will check the clock over the mantel, she will wring her hands. “Fikar nahi karo,” Abu will tell her. “Don’t worry.” The trains are late, the traffic is heavy, children lose track of themselves. It will go on like this until too much time passes for these excuses to be believable, and even Abu’s face will begin to furrow with worry.

“We’re a full roster now,” Finny is telling the glaring lawyers in pinstripes. “So step the hell off. This field is ours until seven.”

Harun’s phone buzzes again. Finny lopes back to the pitcher’s mound. “You ready?” he calls to Harun.

“No.”

Finny grins. “Batter up.”



* * *



— — —

“You know I have no idea what I’m doing?” Freya tells Nathaniel from the safe recesses of the outfield.