Fffffff. Fffffff. Fffffff.”
Coach Harrison was blowing up a huge inflatable globe. He pushed the plug in place, balanced the ball on his fingertips, and held it aloft for his players to see.
“We are on our way to the World Series,” he said solemnly to the boys gathered next to the chartered bus that would take them from Bristol to South Williamsport. He silenced their cheers with a lift of his other hand. “On the ride to Pennsylvania, I want you all to think about where the other teams come from.”
He spun the globe and pointed to a spot in the Southern Hemisphere. “Australia.” He moved his finger up, across the equator. “Chinese Taipei.” His finger shifted farther north. “Japan.” He rotated the globe a half turn and tapped a spot in the Northern Hemisphere. “The Netherlands.” A quarter turn more and his finger touched three spots near the equator and one far above it. “Venezuela, Curacao, Mexico, and Canada.
“Plus,” he added, tracing a zigzag across the United States, “there are the seven other teams from the U.S.: Massachusetts, Florida, Michigan, South Dakota, Colorado, Wyoming, and Southern California. And then there’s us.”
He touched the state of Pennsylvania. “Forest Park is right about here. And South Williamsport is here.” His finger didn’t move.
“So here’s what I want you to think about. Our families and fans can jump in their cars in the morning, drive to see us play, and then return to their homes at night. You can see them in person practically every day, even if it’s just a wave and a shout.” He twisted the globe back and forth. “How many fans from these other countries do you think will be here? Heck, how many from the U.S. are likely to make the trip?” He tossed the globe to Coach Filbert, who popped the plug and let out the air.
“My point is this,” Coach Harrison continued. “Many of these players will be far away from their countries, their parents, everything that’s familiar to them, for the first time in their lives. You won’t be. You’re not the hosts of the tournament, but you’re the closest thing to a home team it has. So I ask you to reach out to players from other regions, other countries. Talk to them, trade pins with them, play video games with them.”
Keith raised his hand. “But, Coach, what if they don’t speak English?”
Coach Harrison smiled. “You all know the same language: baseball! Right?”
“Right!” the players shouted.
“Good. Now hop on the bus. We’ve got a tournament to get to!”
After the excitement of winning the Mid-Atlantic region, Carter was hoping for a quiet ride to South Williamsport. His hopes faded when Ash plopped into the seat next to him holding a three-ring binder.
Ash’s favorite hobby was collecting facts and figures about different Little League teams. He read game results and recaps online, recorded pitching and batting stats, noted fielding errors and great plays, and listed team records.
Carter once had a page in that binder. Before they’d met, Ash had followed Carter’s progress through the previous year’s tournaments up through the U.S. Championship. He’d shown Carter his page, using it as proof that Carter wasn’t a good pitcher—he was a great one. That binder was gone, however, the pages ruined when Ash dropped it in a puddle. Now it seemed Ash had started a new one. Carter groaned when he saw it.
“It’s not what you think,” Ash said. “I thought you might like to see pictures of my dad.”
Carter blinked. Until recently, he hadn’t known anything about Ash’s father—hadn’t asked, to be honest, too afraid his questions might stir up some troubling emotions. As far as he knew, Mr. LaBrie wasn’t in the family picture. He’d figured Ash’s father had died or divorced Ash’s mother, or maybe just left. The truth was, Mr. LaBrie was in the military and stationed away from home for months at a time. When Carter found out, he felt silly for having avoided the topic for so long.
Now he leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s see.”
Ash opened the binder. Beneath a plastic sleeve was a photo of a man who looked a lot like Ash. His blond hair was cut much shorter than Ash’s, but it was the exact same shade. He had the same intense gaze as Ash, too. That gaze used to make Carter squirm when he was pitching and Ash was catching. But now he found it helped him focus.
The photo on the next page showed a younger Ash and his father on a beach, kneeling beside a series of channels dug in the sand. Ash and Andrew and their massive sand construction! the photo’s caption read.
“That was taken a few years ago, when we lived near the beach in North Carolina,” Ash said. “We spent all morning digging it, and then we ate lunch and watched as the tide came in and covered it.”
“It’s awesome,” Carter said. He sneaked a look at Ash. “You miss him?”
Ash kept his eyes on the book. “Yeah. We thought he might be home by now, but…” He shrugged and turned to the next page.
They looked through the rest of the photos, and Ash explained where and when the pictures had been taken. Carter was amazed at how many different places his friend had lived. Only the last photos showed familiar locations and people. Shots taken during the Hawks’ season filled several pages.
Carter laughed out loud when he saw one Hawk photo. He and Ash were sitting in a dugout with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Their smiles were forced, as if the photographer had posed them and made them say “cheese.”
What made the photo funny was the girl behind them. She had jumped into the shot just as the picture was taken. Her long brown ponytail was in midswing. Her arms were raised high in the air, her Hawks jersey bunched up at her waist. Her eyes were crossed, and she had a huge, mischievous grin on her face.
Ash was cracking up at the photo, too. “Rachel,” he said.
Rachel Warburton had been the lone girl on the Hawks roster. A good player with a great arm and an equally great sense of humor, she’d helped Carter stay loose during tense games with her lame jokes and silly antics. Still did, thanks to an illustrated book of jokes she’d made for him to take to tournaments. He carried it with him in his gear bag and peeked at the pages when he needed a good laugh.
“She’ll be at the World Series, too, you know,” Carter reminded him.
“For the Challenger Game. Yeah, I know,” Ash said.
The Little League Challenger Division fielded teams of developmentally and physically challenged players. All Challenger players were paired with “buddies,” boys and girls who helped them during games. Rachel was one of them. Her team was one of two chosen to play the annual exhibition game during the World Series.
“Think we’ll see her?” Carter asked.
Ash snorted. “She’s so loud, we’re sure to hear her at least!”
Laughing again, they turned the page to find only blank sleeves.
“What goes in here?” Carter asked.
“Future photos, I guess,” Ash answered. He grinned. “Like us holding the World Series champions banner!”
“Yeah!” Carter agreed enthusiastically. He flipped back through the binder, pausing now and then when a photo caught his eye. When he reached the first page, something dawned on him. Ash had moved around a lot. Did that mean he’d move again? And if so… when?