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jogs over.
    â€œThis is Kyle,” Coach Matt says to me. “He’s one of the high school camp trainers who’ll be helping us out.” He turns to Kyle. “This is Bilal.”
    Kyle sticks out his hand and says, “Good to meet you, Bilal.” He narrows his eyes. “Wow, nice shiner.”
    â€œThank you,” I say, wishing I knew what a shiner is.
    Coach Matt adjusts his cap. “Bilal is Jalaal’s cousin. Just got here from Pakistan.”
    â€œRight.” Kyle nods. “Jalaal told us you were coming. We play together on the high school team. You play baseball in Pakistan?”
    â€œNo, it is my first time.”
    I don’t tell Kyle this is actually my second time; Black-Eye Day doesn’t count.
    â€œOkay, Mad Dogs!” Coach Matt claps his hands and rubs them together. “Have a seat, gentlemen!”
    But when I look around, there are no seats. Tennis shoes squeak on shiny wood as the boys gather closer and sit on the floor. I sit, too.
    â€œFirst of all, Mad Dogs, welcome to baseball camp!” Coach Matt sounds very excited about this day. The other boys clap and yell things like “Yeah!” and “Woo!” and pump their fists in the air. I pretend to be happy, too. I even yell, “Yeah!” like the others, but secretly I am praying I will get through the day without another black eye.
    Coach Matt continues. “I remember most of you from last year’s camp and the regular season. We’ve got a few new faces this time, so let’s go around and introduce ourselves. Give us your name and the position you like to play best.”
    I stare at Coach Matt. He talks too fast for me to understand all of his words. He points to one boy and asks him to stand.
    â€œJake, second base.”
    The next boy stands and says, “Akash, catcher.”
    They are saying their names. That much I know. And of course I know catcher is a position in baseball. One I will never play.
    The boys continue to stand, one by one:
    â€œCarlos, second base.”
    â€œJack, shortstop.”
    â€œAiden, left field.”
    And it goes on this way until it is my turn.
    â€œBilal,” I say, and now I need to pick a position.
    In cricket I play the gully position most, but I didn’t hear anyone say this one, so I don’t think it is a baseball word. I try to think of what the boy next to me just said.
    â€œUm, third base?” I sit down quickly and hope third base is something like the gully position.
    â€œGreat!” Coach Matt nods. “Okay, Mad Dogs, here’s how we’ll run the day.”
    I figured there would be running, which I don’t mind. But as Coach Matt talks and talks, I only understand a few of his words. How can this be? I can speak English. But Coach Matt’s American English does not sound the same as the English I learned from Madam Sughra last year. The other kids laugh at some things Coach Matt says. I laugh along, too, so no one will suspect that I do not understand the jokes.
    All at once the boys scramble to their feet and head outside with their bags slung over their shoulders. I am the last to follow.
    We skirt around an asphalt-covered area where other kids are gathered, listening to a coach who is the tallest man I have ever seen. Coach Matt leads us up some concrete steps with dry grass poking through cracks. It is hard to grow grass in Karachi, but here grass grows all over the place.
    At the top of the steps is a field so green it hurts my eyes. I watch the other kids so I’ll know what to do. They dig into their bags and pull out their gloves before flinging their bags onto the bottom bench of the shiny metal bleachers. I do the same, then jog out to where Coach Matt and Kyle are waiting.
    After showing us some throws, the coaches pair us up for practice.
    Coach Matt waves a kid over. “Akash, this is Bilal. He’s from Pakistan. Isn’t that where you’re