If the striker should hit the ball in front of him, he will decide whether he and the non-striker will try for a run. If the ball should be batted behind the striker, then the non-striker will decide. This calls for each to judge the skills and speed of the fielders and the possibility of each reaching the opposing popping crease before the ball is thrown back and the batsman “run out.”
varsity cricket team gathered around the Butler, and I said, “How did you do that?”
He was a little out of breath. Portly.
“Young Master Carter,” he breathed, “as I have before observed, one uses one’s connections appropriately and judiciously. Now, Team Britannia has the opportunity to complete its overs—assuming that the good Vice Principal DelBanco can be persuaded to hold himself from instructing his players to storm the field of Longfellow Middle School. So can Team India marshal a creditable attempt at making forty-seven runs to win?”
“Nope,” said Singh.
The Butler looked at Krebs.
Krebs looked back. “My father is the new A.D.?” he said.
The Butler nodded. “As has just been announced.”
“How did you do that?”
“The game is afoot, Master Krebs. Are you prepared to captain?”
“I can’t believe you did that,” said Krebs.
“Call your side,” said the Butler.
Krebs grinned and nodded. “Chall and Hettinga, you’re openers,” he said. Then for the first time I’d seen him while he was holding a cricket bat, Krebs looked like he was somewhere else, and wherever that somewhere else was, it was a pretty happy place.
But everyone in the stands looked like they were right there. The two old guys in white sweaters were pretty excited. They were leaning halfway over the fence and one of the guys was waving this wooden cane and calling something I couldn’t hear. And Emily and Charlie and Annie were pretty excited. They were screaming their heads off. And maybe even my mother was pretty excited. She was standing and clapping with the blanket still around her shoulders.
The little kid was asleep in his father’s arms.
But you know the Butler was excited too. He looked like Christmas morning.
“August?” I said.
“A noble name, descending in my family from my grandfather’s grandfather.”
“It’s kind of a stupid name. I mean, it’s sort of like being named ‘September.’”
“Of course, it is nothing like being named ‘September.’ It is, however, something like being named after a noble Roman emperor.”
“Weren’t they all assassinated?”
“Young Master Carter, the historians Will and Ariel Durant have written a wonderful if lengthy set of books—The Story of Civilization—that stretches to multiple volumes. They are in your proximate future. Now, shall we play?”
“You didn’t tell me Krebs’s father was the new A.D.”
“The right moment had not appeared.”
“So how—”
“There are times, many times, young Master Carter, when we find ourselves in a position of great purpose. It may be that the apt word, spoken at the apt moment, leads to great good in the world—and most often, that is a word of kindness and encouragement. And now, I believe your immediate role is to offer encouragement to Masters Chall and Hettinga, who are batting for your team.” He turned to the eighth-grade varsity cricket team. “Team India in,” he called. “Team Britannia on the field—with dispatch. Master Krebs, your batsmen require bats. Masters Singh and Jenkins, you’re our bowlers, correct?”
Krebs handed Chall his bat, and I ran the other out to Hettinga—you know, Krebs looked like Christmas too—and Singh stood on the wicket, ready to bowl, and Team Britannia stood out in the field, leaning forward, ready to catch, and the stands were cheering—especially the old guys in their white sweaters—and the cold wind was blowing—you can’t believe how good it would have been right then to have a cup of hot tea with milk and sugar—and Vice Principal DelBanco was scowling, and Singh was trying to rough up the ball a little bit until the Butler called that illegal and took that ball out of play, and Coach Krosoczka was standing on the track clapping his hands, and Chall was swinging some practice swings, and we had six overs, thirty-six balls, to score forty-six runs—no, forty-seven runs—and you know what? It was just about perfect.
It was so perfect that when Singh delivered his first ball and Chall swung high—probably because he didn’t keep his arm straight—and the ball skipped past him and hit the stumps square and knocked the bails six feet away, I was still okay. Even Krebs was still okay—because, you may remember, his father was the new A.D., and Krebs was looking like Christmas too.
Because not all the bails get knocked down.
I looked over at my mother. I wonder if she knew that not all the bails get knocked down.
I looked over at my sisters.
Not all the bails get knocked down.
They don’t.
But even though he was looking like Christmas, Krebs was still captain of Team India. And you remember that when you’re playing cricket, you pay attention. So Krebs stood not far behind the wicket, scribbling on a pad, and I knew what he was figuring out. We needed forty-seven runs and we’d already lost our first batsman.
That is, if all of us got to bat before the Longfellow Minutemen took back their field.
Krebs looked a little less like Christmas.
Hettinga scored eleven off fifteen, and then Briggs scored six off four—until he was caught out. He batted for eighteen minutes, because Jenkins didn’t hurry with his bowling.
Minutemen sprinting up and down the sidelines, sort of growling.
Yang came in next, and he struck balls like he’d been born to it. He scored twelve easily off six balls, and might have scored a lot more except he thought a spin was coming inside but it was going outside, and he slapped it off the end of his bat and was caught out.
He batted for fourteen minutes.
Vice Principal DelBanco stalking up and down the sidelines, sort of growling.
Krebs scribbling on his pad. Looking less and less like Christmas.
The Longfellow Minutemen and the Seton Badgers throwing passes along the sidelines.
We had twenty-nine runs.
The Minutemen and Badgers gathering in packs in the end zones.
Eleven balls to score another eighteen runs.
And then Krebs handed the bat to me.
“You’re the next batsman,” he said.
I looked at him. “I’m a sixth grader,” I said.
“Obviously,” he said.
I looked at the stands. I looked at Team India, huddling together against the wind and the score.
“Shouldn’t it be . . .”
“Pay attention, Carter,” said Krebs. “You started this. So pay attention.”
The sound of high birds screeching—but you know what? Maybe they weren’t screeching. Not anymore. Maybe they were calling to each other. Maybe each one was trying to tell another one where he was.
They were calling.
Dang, they were calling.
And I turned to defend my wicket to the death.
You remember the name on my hoodie?
Virender Sehwag.
You know about Virender Sehwag, right? You know he scored 130 against New Zealand—which would win us the game on the Longfellow Middle School football field. He scored 250 against Sri Lanka, and 319 against South Africa. No kidding: 319. And he did it fast. He got his first century with just sixty balls.
That’s the guy whose name was on my hoodie, in case you forgot.
Virender Sehwag.
The crowd in the stands was on their feet.
The two old guys in white sweaters were probably ready to have a stroke.
Annie and Charlie and Emily screaming.
My mother standing with the blanket around her shoulders.
Coach Krosoczka still clapping his hands—probably to keep them warm.
Virender Sehwag.
Me.