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from?”
    Akash shakes his head. “I’m from here.” He shrugs. “My parents are from India.”
    â€œClose enough, right?” Coach Matt says. He pats Akash on the shoulder and walks away to pair up more kids.
    India and Pakistan are close—they are right next to each other—but for some reason Akash does not look happy about Coach Matt’s words.
    I pull on my glove. “You move here from India?”
    Akash shakes his head. “Never been.”
    I stare at him. “Never?”
    He stares back, like a challenge. “Nope.” And he goes back to tossing the ball and catching it in his glove.
    I want to ask him what it’s like to be from a different country than his parents, but I do not know him well enough to ask such a question. Plus he doesn’t look like he wants to talk. Maybe if we become the kind of friends who punch each other’s shoulders and call each other by nicknames, then I will ask him this question.
    Akash backs up a few steps. “Ready?” He holds up the ball like the point of a question mark, and I nod even though I am not ready, even though I will never be ready. I glance around to be sure no one is behind me if— when —I miss the ball.
    I give my glove a few punches with my left fist like I’ve seen the other boys do.
    Akash pulls his arm back and lifts one knee. He lets the ball fly, and I jump for it.The ball hits my glove near the thumb, then skips over the edge and drops behind me. I scoop up the ball. When I turn back, I think I see Akash rolling his eyes.
    Looking around at the others, I can tell I am the worst player out here. I must have been terrible at cricket when I first learned, but that was too many years ago to remember. Back then I wasn’t the only one learning to play, so we were all bad at cricket together. But when I think about it, even Omar Khan, the greatest cricket player in the history of the world, wasn’t born knowing how to play cricket. He had to start somewhere, and I guess now I do, too. With baseball.
    Akash punches his glove, waiting for me to throw the ball. I know now that I am supposed to pitch the ball, not bowl it as I did in cricket. Eyeing Akash’s glove, I pull back my arm and take a step as I let the ball fly. Akash barely has to move, because the ball finds its way right where I told it to go—into the soft leather center of his glove.
    Akash stands up straight and pushes his hat back. “Man! Nice one, Bilal.”
    The compliment fills my chest. “Thank you.”
    Now it’s his turn to throw, but as soon as Akash lets the ball go, I have an idea—a lightning-quick thought. I whip off my glove and let it drop to the ground as I reach up, a little to the left, and snatch the ball out of the air.
    Akash shakes his head and grins. “I cannot believe you caught that.”
    I smile even though my hand stings.
    He points at the glove lying at my feet. “You’re not gonna use that?”
    I shake my head. “I catch better without it.”
    â€œYou play baseball in Pakistan?” Akash asks.
    I lift the brim of my cap a centimeter. “No—cricket.”
    Akash nods. “My dad’s played before.”
    A spark of hope flickers in my chest. “Here in America?”
    â€œNah. Back in India.”
    The spark snuffs itself out.
    We toss the ball back and forth some more until Coach Matt yells, “Okay, Mad Dogs! Now that you’re warmed up, let’s try a throw-off. We’re going to get some baseline info so we can track your progress from now through the end of camp.”
    Akash must see confusion on my face, because he jogs over and explains what throw-off means. I don’t understand all of his words—he talks fast like Coach Matt—but I understand when Akash points to two targets hanging from a fence.
    â€œYou’ll be good at this,” Akash says.
    â€œI don’t know.” I try to sound