See No Color (21 page)

I shoved my mitt under my arm and jogged out to my spot in center field, right.
If we can hold them here, there's only one more inning to go
. I put my hand in the glove and let my fingers find the tunnels they had carved out in the leather. I punched the mitt's palm with my right hand, noticing that its color was not so different from the mitt's.
Just a few shades lighter
. I peered toward the plate. The next guy up, their on-base guy, was short and skinny, but I could see he was also muscular.

Logan went into the windup, taking a short step behind him. Then as he pivoted his stride foot, lifting his knee to his chest, he brought his hands down between his belt and chest. He cocked his throwing arm back as far as it would go, and shifting his weight forward, he brought his throwing arm over the top and released. The skinny guy stayed crouched, tapped his toe on the dirt to get his timing, and strode toward the ball, fighting off the inside pitch with the handle of his bat. The ball blooped over third, slapping down just inside the outfield grass.

“Damn,” I said, running toward Darren, our left fielder, to back him up. I looked toward Dad in the dugout. Sure enough, his arms were crossed, and he was pacing. I shook my head. Then I peered into the bleachers, trying to find Mom and Kit. Grandma Kirtridge and Aunt Gwen had even driven down from Saint Paul to see the game, but I couldn't spot them either.

On the mound, Logan took off his hat and wiped his brow. His blond hair was curly and slightly unruly, spilling out in all directions. I remembered when we were nine and his mom had cut it in the shape of a bowl and we all teased him. I stifled a laugh. Watching him flex his hands and kick at the dirt on the mound, I saw that he was the same person I knew seven years ago—he had just gotten bigger and allowed Dad to nurture the side of him that was an amazing pitcher so that it grew and grew and almost eclipsed every other part of him. But I knew that Logan loved to draw as much as he loved pitching. He had a sketchbook he had shown me on a few road trips, and the drawings were actually quite good.

The next hitter came to the plate. He looked like he was Latino. He crossed himself. I remembered the scouting report on him then—Hector Sanchez. Shortstop. Led the league in doubles and triples. Dad had given the infielders a shift just for him. I glanced toward Jason to see if he was ready, if he knew who we were dealing with, and I could see from the forward torque of his upper body that he knew, that he would run at the blink of an eye. Which would be exactly what Dad expected, demanded.

Logan went into the stretch, and the pitch was in Jerry's glove before I could see it. The umpire called a strike, and I exhaled. When Logan was on, most hitters had no idea what was happening—their whole at bat was over before they knew it. He worked fast and threw hard.
Half the battle is showing the hitter who's in charge—him or the pitcher. Once you have that decided, the rest is like a big boulder rolling down a hill. It's all just gravity and momentum, and who can stop them?
How many times had I heard Dad say that?

Hector stepped into the batter's box once again, not appearing flummoxed at all. He waved his bat around in back of him, like a bee circling something it wanted to sting. My attention had flagged for only a second, but it was enough. When I focused again, Logan was already finishing up his follow-through, and Hector was swinging, this time at a high fastball. I felt my breath catch in my windpipe, and I crouched down, getting ready.

But all Hector got was air. His bat swung around, and when he blinked again, the ball was safely in Jerry's glove, untouched. I grinned; apparently, Hector was not all his scouting report said he was.

On the mound, Logan took off his hat again and wiped his brow. The sun felt relentless on my back, even though I knew that we had only been out on the field for about ten minutes for that inning. I wanted water and somewhere to lie down and sleep. It was exhausting out here—the dull roar of the crowd deafened your ears if you didn't know how to tune it out. Seven innings seemed too long, somehow, to stand it. Logan put his hat back on and licked his lips.
Come on Log, you got it. I know you do
. He stretched his arms above his head, brought his hands down, and pushed off from the pitching rubber. Hector tensed up as the pitch came at him, brought his bat around a little quicker and a little higher than he had before, and connected this time. The ball went flying toward third, and the runner took off from first, already halfway there when Jason dove into the dirt, and the ball bounced off the edge of his mitt and bounced into short left field. Hector bolted for first and made it there easily, right as Darren picked up the ball in short left. The short, skinny guy, who also happened to be fast, slid into third a moment later, and there we were, the bottom of the sixth, no outs and the go-ahead run at the plate. I sighed.

Dad took a time-out and walked onto the mound to consult with Logan. Even though we were playing at home, Eau Claire had somehow managed to pack the stands with their fans. I suddenly noticed them, standing and shouting.

I pounded my mitt and glanced into our bullpen. Bill was warming up. Dad had probably had him warming up since the beginning of the inning, just to be on the safe side. Dad usually wasn't one to panic and pull a pitcher early.
A winner fights through the jam
, he'd said countless times. But it was clear this game was different.

On the mound, Dad was patting Logan's back and nodding. Logan looked both sad and resigned as he handed Dad the ball and jogged toward the dugout.

Bill emerged from the bullpen as Logan walked to the dugout. I zoned out for Bill's warmup tosses, and before I knew it, the ump yelled, “Play ball.” I looked around, startled, making sure I was in position relative to everyone else. We were all standing left of center, so I shifted myself a bit.

Eau Claire's next hitter was a big righty pull hitter, which was why we all were shaded left. He had a wide stance, and looked to me like he was crowding the plate. But I knew Bill would cure him of that affliction soon enough, throwing him something that would come close enough to knock him on his ass. Bill stood sideways on the mound, peering at Jerry for what felt like the longest moment of my life, holding the ball in his right index and middle fingers. Jerry gave him a few signs, and Bill shook his head. I crouched down, conscious of the sweat rolling down my chest, in between my breasts. The heat and my thirst were brutal and my vision flashed double for a second. Jerry gave Bill another sign and this time, Bill nodded. He shifted the ball in his hand behind him a bit, dragged his arm and glove over his head, and then reached back behind him. Bill's motion was like a huge wave, and his follow-through always seemed like it would knock him over. He rattled a lot of batters the first time they faced him.

This hitter didn't blink, though. He didn't jump at the ball. He took his time and waited for the ball to come to him. It was the perfect pitch to hit, right down the middle, and he hit it hard and deliberately, straight to center field, straight to me. After almost two hours, I was finally part of the game. As the ball tunneled through the air and sped further and further back, I could see that this was a play Terry Kirtridge's daughter had made a million times before, one which would get the first out of the inning, and maybe the second if the runner on third was foolish enough to test her arm.

I ran toward where I knew the ball would drop, just a few steps to my right. If I just held out Terry Kirtridge's daughter's glove, the ball would fall right into it and that would be that. As it sped toward me, I saw Dad congratulating his daughter on her heads-up play, I saw him and Jason slapping backs and exchanging hugs, I saw every game Terry Kirtridge's daughter had ever played in her life—wet, rainy, sunny, clear, endlessly long, brilliantly short—and I saw them blur into each other until they were all the same in their perfection and disappointment. And then, I saw myself step away from the ball. It landed inches from where I stood and fell on the grass. I watched its red stitching roll over, roll over, roll over, and then finally stop.

CHAPTER THIRTY

F
all was always my favorite season. The air cooler, crisper, the sun dimmer through the dying leaves. And yet, even through these smaller endings, everything in my world always started back up again with a burst of energy: School. Baseball. Friendships. The thrill of the new was so liberating every year, but this year especially. This year I was a senior. And this year I would not be playing baseball.

Even though we lost the quarterfinals and therefore, the tournament, it was not my fault. Yes, I intentionally missed the catch. Yes, Dad was possibly more pissed about this than I have ever seen him. He benched me for the rest of the game, and I still watched them fumble everything to a loss. They even got ahead for half an inning, but then buckled in the seventh after our pitcher handed their third baseman a triple with a man on base. Maybe they were unfocused, or maybe they didn't want it bad enough. Maybe Eau Claire just wanted it more. But they lost. Sitting there on the bench, what I realized was that I didn't even care.

Afterward, over a long and painful father-daughter lunch at Elle's, Dad told me that he knew I was under a lot of pressure, and that he understood everything. He said it was because of Keith's letters they had kept from me; he said that it was the stress of trying to negotiate my first romantic relationship; he said I had done it because I was angry about my body changing. But these were not reasons to quit playing ball. Not really. I told him he was right, and that the reason I was quitting was that I just didn't want to do it anymore. Of course he didn't listen. Of course he argued—he's my dad. But he was gradually coming to accept it, mostly because he didn't have a choice. It was my decision, after all.

To watch a leaf fall, to feel it glide all the way down, that was what I wanted this season. Not for the landing but just for the push and pull of the current, the unexpected flip. The detour that turned out to be the destination. I was ready for organic chemistry, couldn't wait for AP English, and to let my arm really rest while holding
Crime and Punishment
. High school would be over before I knew it and before I left, I wanted to suck it dry of everything I could get. Perhaps I would do it alone, perhaps with a few intimate others like Kit, but I would no longer feel the need to eschew what had brought me into being, and what I still could neither explain nor answer for. I would not apologize for the shame I felt in my skin. At the same time, I recognized it and tried to see its value. I would no longer assume that my safest starting place in all things was my parents or my family, but the dream that some softer other space existed to hold me—all of my different, conflicting parts—was now dead, as well. What had taken hold instead was a longing for some kind of ever-shifting community, which I would have to carry with me wherever I went because there was no way it could ever exist all in one place. I was mixed. I was black. I was adopted by white people and loved by them. And I loved them back, even though they didn't know so much of me, and even though this hurt me. I was a child of my birth father, but maybe not his daughter. And once upon a time, I had played ball. And once upon a time I had let it go. All these pieces had cracked me open and brought me to this place of danger and possibility.

I was ready.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people and communities have supported the evolution of this project, and I am deeply indebted to each and every one of them.

A huge, larger-than-life thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Andrew Karre, whose hard work, keen insights, and affinity for this story were invaluable to its development. Seldom have I worked with a sharper mind.

Thanks to Betty Tinsel and Swati Avasthi, who put me in touch with Andrew Karre, and to Carolrhoda Lab and Lerner Publishing Group, for all the resources you marshaled to bring this book into being.

Thank you to all my readers, whose candor and encouragement kept me going even when I was sure all the narrative threads would not come together: Karen Hausdoerffer, Patrice Johnson, Christopher Cross, Kenna Cottman, Tayari Jones, Dana Johnson, Tony Ardizzone, Sarah Dahlen, Bobbi Chase Wilding, Sara Buckwitz, Elaine Kim, Kurtis Scaletta, Kathleen DeVore, Beverly Cottman, Mary Lou Iroegbu, Kathy Solomon, and Evelyn Fazio, the first commercial editor who really “got” the story, believed in its potential, and gave me key suggestions for revision; the students and faculty of the Indiana University MFA fiction program who read and critiqued very early and very rough drafts; (then) teens Lucie Barton, Srija Sen Chatterjea, and Abdishe Dorose, whose feedback and support were essential to me during a time when I was sure that this story had no real audience; and the Bush Foundation, who gave me the time, space, and funding to dig deeper.

Thank you, Jae Ran Kim, for your expertise in all things child-welfare related.

Thanks to Kevin Haebeom Vollmers and Adam Chau of CQT Publishing and Land of a Gazillion Adoptees, for first taking a chance on this manuscript.

Thanks to my husband, Ballah Corvah, son, Boisey Corvah, and daughter, Marwein Corvah, for giving me the space and inspiration to write.

Thank you, Jim and Sue Gibney, for always believing I would get it done.

And last, but hardly least, thank you, global transracial adoptee community, for the revelation that this story is not mine, but ours.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shannon Gibney is a writer, teacher, and activist in Minneapolis, where she lives with her family. Her critical and creative writing regularly appear in a variety of publications; this is her first book. She was adopted into a white family in 1975.