For my brothers,
Joseph & Michael

My name is Matt Pin

and her name, I remember,

is Phang My.

His name

I will never say,

though forever I carry his blood

in my blood,

forever his bones

stretch in my bones.

To me,

he is nothing.

If he stumbled on me now,

I wonder,

would he see himself in my eyes?

And I?

Would I recognize the dragon

who went beyond the mountain

and never came back?

I carry her too,

her blood in my blood,

her bones in my bones.

Eyes I will not forget,

though I see them

only in dreams,

in fog,

through thick clouds of smoke.

I hear her voice,

thin, shrill staccato notes,

her words short puffs of air

that push me along,

inch by inch, breath by breath.

In choking mist

and wailing dust,

through sounds

of whirring helicopters

and open prayers,

I hear her.

You cannot stay here,

she says.

Here you will be like dust.

Bui Doi.

Dust of life.

You cannot stay here.

I remember little,

but I remember.

There were babies crying

and mothers screaming,

begging soldiers to take

their children.

Take her, take him.

Please let them live!

Pushing, praying, pleading.

I would rather be dust

on the road

than leave her.

But it is not enough.

She pushes me forward,

through screaming madness

and choking dust,

through fear and fog,

through smoke and death,

through whirring sounds

of helicopter prayers,

and night falling like

rain-soaked stars.

Survive,

she says.

Remember

not this shame.

My father says

when I am older,

there are places I can go

to find him,

but I won’t.

What good would it do?

He never saw my face.

But she was already swelled

with love for him when he left,

taking with him

his blue-eyed promise

that it would not end there,

with the smell of burnt flesh

and the sound of crying children.

I will come back,

you said,

and she believed you.

Why not?

You shared her home,

she called you husband,

why should she not believe you?

But you did not come back.

What is there left to say?

Why should I find you?

The house I live in now

is big,

but its walls are thin.

At night, when they

think I am asleep,

I hear the news on TV.

I hear them talk.

It’s no wonder

the soldiers are broken,

Dad says.

When they left, they were

high school heroes,

stars of the football team,

with pretty girlfriends.

Now look at them—

hobbling on crutches,

rolling themselves

in wheelchairs,

while people throw things—

tomatoes,

rotten apples,

angry words.

I have a now brother.

He doesn’t look like me.

I’m too much fall—

wet brown leaves

under a darkening sky.

Tommy is summer—

sunlight, peaches,

wide, grinning sky.

Even Tommy’s hair is summer.

Curls cling to his scalp like

the yellow-and-white sweet corn

at McGreavy’s Market.

Only one straight tuft sticks up,

like a clump of sun-scorched hay.

I have another brother.

Dark skin, dark eyes,

straight black hair,

and a laugh like a

babbling, bubbling,

quickly tumbling

brook.

She would not let him come.

If we got separated,

he might not survive.

Who would want a little boy

mangled and deformed,

she said,

with missing fingers

and stumps instead of legs?

Who would want a little boy

like that?

I would, I begged.

But no, she said.

You are strong, she said.

You go.

When you are grown,

if you still remember,

you can come back.

How can I go back?

Where would I look?

What would I say?

If I remember.

How can I forget?

My now mother

is small like me.

Her hair is long

and yellow.

She fills my room

with the smell

of summer.

When I wake

in the middle of the night

full of screams

and flashes,

she sits on the edge

of my bed,

her pale hands move

gently across my face.

Her voice is soft,

like warm honey.

She sings a quiet song.

There is darkness on the water.

There is darkness on the land.

There is darkness all around us,

but I will hold your hand.

You are safe, my precious child.

You are safe now, you are home.

We have found you and we love you.

You will never be alone.

There are no mines here,

no flames, no screams,

no sounds of helicopters

or shouting guns.

I am safe.

How can I

be home?

My father

has chestnut-colored eyes

and short brown hair

that is starting

to wear away in front.

His well-scrubbed hands

are square and strong.

Every Saturday afternoon,

if it is not too cold

or rainy,

we go to the park.

My father and I

toss a ball.

I catch it

in my oversized glove.

Again and again,

he pitches,

I catch.

I pitch,

he catches.

Back and forth,

back and forth,

until dusk creeps in

and the ball

is just a swiftly

moving shadow

fading into darkness.

Every time at the park,

I remember the first time.

What is this place? I thought.

I was small.

Small, but not young.

I was almost ten,

but I looked much younger

than the other boys my age.

There were two boys

on a swing

and a little girl

bouncing

on a pink elephant

with gray spots.

There was a painted

ladybug seesaw,

a shiny slide,

and monkey bars.

Even now,

sometimes

I cannot believe it.

I cannot believe

so different a place.

A place made

just for children.

I think about him.

I wonder where he is.

He would like it here.

Tommy is too young

to play ball.

When he comes

to the park,

we put him

on the swing.

Higher, he says,

and I pull him

back as far

as I can reach

and then let go.

Higher, he says,

laughing.

His small fists

squeeze the chain.

His perfect toes

dangle

inside

bright red sneakers.

In school

for Veterans Day

we write essays

on freedom.

I write,

Freedom is the color

of bright red sneakers.

What is this? the teacher asks.

Does this make sense?

The first two years,

I went back to the

adoption agency

every Saturday morning

to learn English.

Once a month,

my mother and father

came with me.

We spent

the day reading

legends and fairy tales,

how Au Co was

a beautiful mountain fairy

who married

Lac Long Quan,

a daring dragon prince.

We celebrated Tet

and Tet Trung Thu.

We ate banh giay

and played danh phet.

We did not talk about

the American War,

how tanks lumbered

in the roads

like drunken elephants,

and bombs fell

from the sky

like dead crows.

For two years,

I learned about Vietnam,

but it wasn’t any

Vietnam I remembered.

The teacher

was a tiny woman

with small eyes

who always stayed

in one spot

when she talked,

but whose words rolled

up and down,

up and down

the classroom walls

like a glass marble.

She told happy stories

of people and places

I did not know.

Colorful costumes

and carnival dragons

live in another Vietnam,

a Vietnam

that I do not remember.

I close my eyes.

I listen.

I try to remember

the colors,

but I cannot.

I try to form

dragons from

dust,

but I cannot.

I try again.

But I cannot.

My Vietnam

is drenched

in smoke and fog.

It has no parks

or playgrounds,

no classrooms

or teachers.

It is not

on any map

or in any book.

My Vietnam is

only

a pocketful

of broken pieces

I carry

inside me.

The children in that class

look at me strangely.

My lashes are not flat

and straight like theirs.

Their hair is not thick

and brown like mine.

We are all children

born in Vietnam.

Most of us

have two names.

A new name

to welcome us,

and an old name

to remind us.

Still, I am different.

My face

is part American.

But anyway,

twice a year

we get together.

We celebrate

Tet or Tet Trung Thu.

These customs

are strange to me,

but still

my stomach aches

with sadness.

I want to go back.

The agency classroom

is decorated with

red and gold streamers.

There are fresh fruits,

flowers, and sticky

little rice cakes

on the teacher’s desk.

Are you all right?

my mother asks.

She feels my forehead.

She touches my face.

She compliments my

paper dragon and my

folded lantern.

I shrug.

I’m just not hungry.

I give her my dragon

and my lantern.

Here, these are for you.

Maybe he’s getting too

old for all this,

my father says.

He needs to experience

his culture,

my mother answers.

At night,

when I try to sleep,

I hear her cry.

Music is soothing.

My mother’s words

float through

the thin walls.

Maybe music will help

soothe his monsters.

Let him play baseball,

my father answers.

He has a good arm.

I turn out the light

and keep listening,

but it’s quiet now,

darkness on the water,

darkness on the land.

In the day,

Jeff Harding works at

the same hospital

as my father.

At night,

he teaches piano.

Jeff was supposed

to go to a school

for music,

a special school

in New York City.

Instead,

he went to Vietnam.

He rode the

helicopter ambulances

that rescued

the wounded.

He took care of them,

right there

on the helicopter.

Maybe one day

Jeff can show you

his Dustoff patch,

Dad says

Saturday during breakfast.

But I know he won’t.

Jeff’s Vietnam

is my Vietnam,

the Vietnam nobody talks about

on Saturday mornings.

On Wednesdays,

an hour

before dinner,

I sit at the piano.

My fingers stretch

across the keys

like a soundless

spider.

Jeff stands

beside the bench

as I play.

He crosses his arms

and smiles.

You can hit the keys a

little harder, he says.

Let’s look at the notations.

He points to the fancy S.

That’s the treble clef.

Each line and space is lettered

so we’ll know what note to play.

Let’s learn the lines first.

Here’s a way to remember them.

He puts his foot up

on the bench

and taps each line

with a pencil.

Every good boy deserves fudge.

He smiles and

taps them again.

Every good boy does fine.

The next day,

after school,

I practice piano

for half an hour.

Some kids complain

about practicing piano,

but not me.

Notes are like numbers,

never changing.

Staccato or sustained,

pounded or tapped,

notes always stay

the same.

Ten divided by two

will always be five.

Every good boy

will always do fine.

I like that.

That night,

when Dad comes home

from work,

we practice baseball

in the backyard.

For the past two years,

we’ve gone

to the rec field

to watch the kids

pitching, hitting,

running bases.

They are my age

but bigger.

Every year, Dad says,

You have a good arm, Matt.

You should try out.

Maybe next year,

I always say.

You have a good arm, Matt,

Dad says as

a high ball crackles

through the branches

in a darkening sky.

You should try out

for the school team.

Outside the school gym,

the sign-up sheet shows

forty kids.

Forty kids

pitching,

hitting,

running

for fourteen spots

on the team.

This year,

I surprise him.

One of those names

is mine.

Open practice

before tryouts

is every day this week

from three until four-thirty.

Tommy and my mother

pick me up

in the Impala.

I throw my stuff

in the backseat.

Tommy climbs on my lap,

babbles,

and pulls my ears

the whole way home.

Leave Matt alone,

my mother says.

She shakes her head

and smiles at me.

Her hair moves

like sunshine.

He misses you

when you’re at school.

At home,

I quickly shower

and practice my scales

before Jeff comes.

One–two–three–under,

one–two–three–

four–five.

Five–four–three–

two–one–

over–three—ugh!

Why do I always stumble

going back?

At the door,

Jeff and my mother talk.

Tommy plays with the pots

in the kitchen.

My fingers tap the air

while I wait.

Go ahead, Jeff finally says.

Let’s get started.

Every week, I nod and say,

Okay, and every week, I wait.

Even with Tommy’s clatter,

I don’t want to disturb them.

My fingers stumble

through the scales

and through

“The Gypsy Camp.”

They crowd the keys,

landing in two spots

at the same time.

They slip, clank, and clash

into sounds

that aren’t music.

Watch, Jeff says calmly

when my fingers freeze

in frustration.

Jeff’s fingers are

bigger than mine,

but they know how

to touch each key,

one at a time.

They unlock each sound

separately.

Jeff doesn’t make mistakes.

His fingers brush

across the piano keys

like branches

of the tamarind

swaying in the wind.

How can such big hands

make such quiet music?

I’ve been practicing

a lot longer

than you, he says.

Slow down. Be patient.

I wish I could be.

Jeff is slow, patient,

quiet.

But he isn’t

an afraid quiet.

Just a calm quiet,

like he’s looked into

a closet of monsters

and found empty

candy wrappers instead.

I wish I

could do that.

It’s great being part

of a team, Dad says.

Tommy’s upstairs

taking his bath

and the two of us

are clearing the table.

It’s great being

part of something

bigger than yourself.

I might not make it, Dad.

Forty kids are trying out.

I might get cut.

I don’t see how, Dad says.

You’ve got a great arm.

Coach Robeson’s a great coach.

He won’t let you get away.

Tryouts

are on Monday.

On Tuesday,

we’ll learn

who made the team.

On Wednesday,

fourteen of us

will learn our positions.

The rest of us

will creep home

with our caps

pulled down tight,

slanted way below our noses

so no one can see us cry.

I have my cap.

I have my

hooded sweatshirt.

I’m ready.

But whether I

make the team

or not,

I won’t cry.

All my tears

I left

in Vietnam.

Tryouts start

just like training.

We stretch.

We run.

Coach Louis,

the assistant coach,

hits ground balls.

But the air is jumpy.

Electric currents spark

the gym.

Coach Robeson

is walking around

with a clipboard,

smiling, nodding,

scratching notes

and names.

At first I thought

I heard wrong.

I never bothered

anyone.

Why would anyone

bother me?

But when different kids

get called to bat,

and I’m told to stay

and pitch,

their voices

get stronger.

Someone steps in to bat,

Coach Robeson and Coach Louis

huddle,

and the words hit me

like a punch.

Billy Alden is the loudest.

Hey, Frog-face,

where’d you learn

to play baseball,

in a rice paddy?

Davey Laice grumbles,

Matt-the-rat,

if you make the team,

I’ll quit.

When tryouts

are over,

Rob Brennan

bumps into me.

I fall

into the bleachers.

When I stand up again,

he hisses

in my ear,

My brother died

because of you.

If I drop out now,

my father

will ask questions.

If I tell anyone,

I will be a rat.

Last year Billy

accidentally

dumped sour milk

on a fifth grader

who wouldn’t give him

one of his Twinkies.

Everyone still calls the kid

“stink.”

Who knows what

will happen to me?

I pull my cap down tight

and pray I get cut.

Dad meets me outside the gym

after tryouts.

How’d it go?

Okay.

I bet it went better than that.

He puts his arm

around my shoulder

and we walk to the car.

When he turns the key,

the radio goes on with the motor.

Right away, the Bee Gees

start singing,

Got the wings of heaven

on my shoes.

I wish I did. I’d fly far away

from Billy and Davey and Rob.

Dad starts singing

with the radio.

His voice is low and off-key.

Whether you’re a brother

or whether you’re a mother,

You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive,

he sings quietly,

bopping his head

and his shoulders.

Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’,

’cause we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

Ha, ha, ha, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

It’s hard to worry about stuff

when my father sings.

Don’t worry, he says,

nodding his head to the music.

You’ve got a great arm.

You’ll make the team.

He pushes up my hat and smiles.

Even if you don’t make it,

you’ll always be our MVP.

Whether you’re a brother

or whether you’re a mother,

you’ll always be our MVP.

I’m trying to read Kidnapped

but the Bee Gees are rolling

through my head.

Stayin’ alive,

stayin’ alive.

They rock and roll

through my head

as I wash up for dinner,

as I chew my meat loaf

and my mashed potatoes.

Stayin’ alive,

stayin’ alive.

As Tommy bangs

on his high chair

and squashes

his sliced bananas,

as my mother offers

stayin’ alime

Jell-O for dessert.

Stayin’ alive,

stayin’ alive.

Whether you’re a mother

or whether you’re a brother,

my brother died

because of you.

On Wednesday

the list is posted

outside the gym.

I check it twice.

My stomach drops.

Only four seventh graders

made the team,

and I am one of them.

There’s a note

taped to my locker.

It’s a picture of a rice field

torn from a magazine.

In black marker someone

drew a big-eyed rat

and wrote the words

Matt-the-rat.

I know what the note means.

Because of you

there’s no place for me.

Prejudice is ignorance

in a catcher’s mask,

Coach Robeson says, coughing.

His face is white-angry

and his eyes

are like steel bullets.

I didn’t tell anyone

about the note

but somehow Coach

must have found out.

Alex, Billy, and Rob

are the only other seventh graders

who made the team.

Alex is a quiet boy

with curly hair and glasses

who lives across the street from me.

Sometimes we ride our bikes

together or toss the ball around.

Did he know about the note?

Did he tell Coach Robeson?

There are two Michaels, a Drew,

an Eric, a Daniel, and a few boys

I don’t even know yet.

Did they know about the note?

Would they even care?

I hear one more derogatory comment,

Coach says, looking at everyone

slow and steady,

one at a time,

his sharp eyes

locking their eyes

before they have a chance

to look down,

you won’t play on any team,

in any school, in any town.

Period.

Either plan to play like a team,

or get out

now.

He doesn’t mention my name

or the note.

Sometimes the words people don’t say

are as powerful as the ones they do.

Most of the time

I pitch,

but sometimes

I play shortstop.

Standing between

second and third

is tricky.

Do I shift toward second,

or lean toward third?

Do I trust

that my teammate

wants to win

more than he wants

to hurt me?

I’d rather pitch.

It’s just me

and the ball

and the batter.

Me and my arm

and my eyes.

I face my enemy head-on,

and he’s always on the other team.

The assignment is

easy enough.

Without describing them physically,

choose one member of your family,

and write a brief character sketch

about them. Remember, we learn

more about a character

through their actions than their appearance.

Actions speak louder than adjectives.

I pull a pencil

from my top drawer.

My top drawer

is full of pencils, new,

used, half used, and

all-the-way-to-the-eraser-cap used.

I never get rid of pencils.

I never get rid of anything.

Who knows?

Even a stub

is worth something.

If bombs fall here,

if something so terrible

ever happens

that I get sent away,

I’ll stuff everything

I can fit

into my pockets.

Even the broken pieces

are worth something

to me.

I pull out a well-sharpened pencil

with a high, clean eraser.

My mother, I write.

I draw a box around the word My

and another box

around the word mother.

I color the boxes lightly.

I can still read the words so

I keep coloring them.

Darker and darker.

And darker.

Soon I have just one

long rectangle.

Just a plain,

dark,

black

box.

No one would even know

there’s something inside.

The piano sits

in an alcove

at the bottom

of the stairs,

between the den

and the kitchen,

closer to the den

but in a separate

space.

It’s hard not

to touch the keys

as I pass by.

When I wait

for my mother

to pack a snack

for Tommy, or

when the phone

rings just as we’re

leaving the house,

I pull out the bench,

and zip through the C scale

or “Shenandoah”’s

rolling river.

When I play the piano,

I’m sheltered

in that safe place

where the only thing

that matters

is music.

Something’s going on.

They’re disagreeing

about something.

I hear whispering as I pass

their bedroom door.

I wait. I listen.

It might be better for everyone,

she says.

I’m just not convinced

it’s a good idea, he answers.

But maybe we can’t provide

what he needs, Michael.

Mrs. Mack called yesterday.

Matt’s classwork is slipping.

He’s not doing his homework.

Maybe if he goes, he’ll understand more.

He’s just a boy. How much more

can he understand?

I hear them move toward the door

and I jump.

At the top of the stairs,

she smiles at me,

smiles like my teammates,

like she was just talking about

what color to paint the hallway,

or whether we should have potatoes

or rice for dinner.

Time to wash for supper, Matt,

she says.

I feel something like a cold fish

shimmy inside me.

Maybe it’s time

to let me go.

Now they have Tommy,

happy as summer,

and even starting to say,

Me play ball.

With a cute kid like him,

why do they need me?

If I run away,

maybe they’ll miss me

and want me back.

But where would I go?

And what about Tommy?

Who would he follow around,

saying, Ball, ball, play ball?

In the yard, I want to run,

but my legs are locked.

It is late afternoon.

The sun still shines bright.

My mother watches

from the window.

Her face is in the shadows.

Her hair and her eyes

seem darker than they are.

She studies me.

Her smile

is forced and sad.

My feet are heavy as mud.

That night, after dinner,

Dad and I clear the dishes

while Tommy takes his bath.

Then Dad sits in the kitchen

and reads the paper.

I go in the den

and watch TV.

But it’s not a good

TV night

so I lie on the couch

and think instead.

My parents say they love me.

He says

I’ll always be his MVP.

She says

I’m safe, I’m home.

But what about

my mother in Vietnam?

Didn’t she say

she loved me too?

And didn’t he say

that he loved her?

And didn’t he leave

and never come back?

And didn’t she

give me away?

And didn’t I love him

even though

his hands and legs

were mangled stumps?

And didn’t I leave anyway?

Maybe love is like

a monsoon rain.

When it rains

really hard and heavy,

it seems like

it will never end

and we’ll swim in mud

forever.

But then the wind shifts,

and the earth grows

dry and cracked.

Every gurgle and ooze

tiptoes away

and we’re left wishing

and waiting

for rain again.

Maybe love is like that.

Maybe the wind shifts

and love just tiptoes away.

I’m going to study more.

I’m going to practice

the piano more.

Maybe if I get all A’s

and master the B major scale,

if I pitch better,

if I keep my room neater,

and take out the garbage,

and clean the garage,

if I pick up Tommy’s bus people

and farm animals,

and teach him

how to write his name,

maybe then they’ll keep me.

At least I think they’ll keep me

until the end of baseball season.

My father likes baseball

too much to let me go

before the season’s over.

Partner up and start throwing,

Coach says when I get to the field

on the day of our first game.

I partner up with Alex, as usual.

If he minds being partnered

with me, he never says so.

He just pushes up his glasses,

nods, and starts tossing the ball.

My arm feels good.

Loose and powerful.

Arms are stretching,

balls are flying,

mounds of dirt

are kicked and spit on.

Finally the whistle blows.

We’re ready.

The game between

the Lynbrook Lions

and the Plymouth Pirates—

our biggest rivals—

is about to begin.

The top of the inning

is perfect.

Michael V. gets a base hit

on the first pitch.

Rob’s the next batter up.

The first ball whizzes by him

for a strike.

The next ball follows the same path.

This time Rob is ready.

He pulls back

and swings hard.

The ball bounds deep

into left field

for a double.

Billy strikes out,

and so does Michael L.,

but Daniel’s home run

drives in the runners

on second and third.

Three runs for the Lions!

Alex gets out on a fly,

but it doesn’t matter.

The Lynbrook Lions

are roaring.

We take the field.

The first batter

is a round boy

with short legs

who looks like

he’ll be a slow runner.

I take a deep breath

and sneak a look

at Coach Robeson.

His nod pushes down

the butterflies

in my stomach.

I twist the ball

in my glove,

pull back my right arm,

and let the ball fly.

It takes off

like it has wings,

and then, just as it reaches

home plate, it drops.

Strike one, the umpire signals.

I pull my hat down,

look around,

and let go another sinker.

Strike two.

I always feel power

in my arm,

but sometimes between

the windup and the release

there is time enough

for something else,

for the smallest

flick of my wrist.

These pitches

sail through the air

and drop at the batter’s feet

like a wounded bird.

Strike three.

The boy with the short legs

shakes his head

and kicks the dirt.

The second batter

approaches the batter’s box.

I feel my shoulders tense.

This kid should play football

instead of baseball.

Coach Robeson nods again.

I take a deep breath

and twist the ball in my glove.

I kick my leg up,

rock my arm back,

and hurl the ball forward.

It looks like a perfect

home run pitch, but just

when the ball and bat

should make contact,

the ball falls,

and the bat slices the air.

Strike one.

I do it again.

Strike two.

And again.

Strike three.

The third batter is stiff.

He doesn’t move his head

or blink his eyes.

He swings at

the first three pitches

even though the second is low,

and the third is wild.

In less than five minutes,

the Lions have pounded

the Pirates to dust.

Just keep doing what you’re doing,

Coach Robeson says to me.

Coach Louis pats me

on the back and smiles.

Great job, Matt.

Wow, Michael V. says,

that was unbelievable.

They didn’t even get one hit,

Alex says.

Billy glares,

then turns away.

Rob doesn’t say a word

either.

Not even after

the second inning

or the third.

Not even when

I strike out

the final batter,

or when people

from both sides

of the bleachers

cheer wildly for me,

and we crush

the Pirates

11–0.

After the game,

everyone goes to

Rosie O’s Pizza Planet

to celebrate.

Everyone is talking

at once.

What a game!

Did you see the look

on number five’s face?

He’s their star player.

My father is glowing.

My mother has hung

her purple-blue shawl

from a wooden peg

and is busy handing out

slices of pizza.

Tommy is with our

neighbor Mrs. Pennotti.

I look over at Rob.

He’s breaking his crust

into little pieces and

leaving it on the plate,

not talking to anyone.

On Wednesday,

I sit at the piano

and play for Jeff.

Isn’t that supposed to be

a lonesome ballad?

my mother asks.

She’s on her way

upstairs, but stops

and puts down

her blue plastic

laundry basket.

Jeff smiles at me.

It’s hard to play slow

and full of sorrow

when you’ve pitched

a perfect game.

I smile too.

At least Jeff knows

there’s something

I do well.

Coach Robeson starts

the next practice

by reminding us

what we’re capable of

when we work

together.

It’s all about teamwork,

he says.

He coughs into his sleeve,

then looks at me

and smiles.

Matt was focused.

He did a great job.

But you all did.

You all worked

together.

That’s what makes

a championship team.

Working together.

After that,

it’s practice as usual.

Some stretching.

Some bunting.

Some base-running drills.

When we are

getting ready to leave,

Rob stops

to tie his sneaker

right where

I’m standing.

He gets up with his back

to Coach Robeson.

Proud of yourself, Ace?

he hisses quietly.

Hey, even a Frog-face

can get lucky, I guess.

On Saturday, my parents

have to go to a funeral.

The father of one of

the hospital nurses

Dad works with died.

I’m on my stomach,

trying to get a stuffed

elephant that Tommy

has wedged between

the wall and the piano.

I hear my father

and my mother

talking in the kitchen.

He lived a good life,

Dad says.

I’m sure he’s at peace.

I wonder what happens

to people if they don’t

live a good life,

if they do something terrible.

Do they ever find peace?

Mrs. Pennotti is going

to watch Tommy.

Jeff will bring me

to the game

and take me to lunch

afterward.

It’s a good thing

I’m not pitching.

How can I focus

on pitching when

I’m riding in Jeff’s

silver Corvette?

We beat the Titans 5–2

even though I bobbled a hit

and cost us a run.

My knees were bent,

my eyes on the batter.

The ball landed

safe inside my glove,

but then—

I looked back

to make sure

Jeff was watching

—I fumbled.

I dropped the ball

and by the time

I picked it up

and threw it,

the runner on third

had advanced home.

When we walk

back to the dugout

at the end of the inning,

Rob whispers,

What’s the matter, Frog-face?

Lose your focus?

Chrome wheels

and leather seats

don’t cheer me.

A burger

and french fries

don’t cheer me.

I’m slumped

in our booth

at the diner

rearranging

my food.

Hey, even Ron Guidry

makes mistakes,

Jeff says as he opens

the bottle of ketchup

and squeezes some

onto his open hamburger.

He stares at the thick

red blob a long time,

like he’s trying to make

sense of something,

like somehow

the splattered ketchup

holds the key.

Matt, he finally says,

I’d like to talk to you

about Vietnam.

Fear shivers

down my spine,

a silver shot

that explodes

inside me,

shattering everything

and right there

in that moment,

rain,

like a thousand

scattered bullets,

bounces

around me.

I’m running in the mud,

running but not moving,

and I can scarcely

breathe for the pellets of

rain spraying everywhere.

I hear him scream

when he steps

where he should not step.

I shout his name.

I push through the rain

and make my way over

to where he lies.

I lift him

and carry him home,

falling deeper and deeper

into heavy, thick mud

that sticks to my skin,

and weighs me down,

and makes him

so heavy

even though

I carried him

on my back

so easily

just yesterday.

I carry my brother’s

bruised and wailing body

in my arms

and all the colors—

the green paddies

and the pink lotus,

the blue sky

and the silver moon—

wash into a red mud.

And she’s there too,

her eyes closed,

cradling him,

telling me

it isn’t my fault,

it isn’t me

who leaves traps

for small children

or rains down bombs

that fall like dead crows.

It’s not your fault,

she repeats,

holding him in one arm

and me in the other

holding me

and rocking me.

It’s not your fault.

You’re safe, Matt.

You’re safe.

It’s going to be okay.

There is darkness all around us,

but you will never be alone.

His voice is gentle

and low

like a lullaby.

His arms are around

my shaking shoulders,

his chant so steady and soft

that my heart gradually

calms,

and I breathe deeply

and slowly.

What’s

happened?

Jeff is sitting

on my side of the booth.

The afternoon sunlight

washes through me.

Her voice

fades to a whisper,

and all I want to do

is sleep.

My mother and father are home

when we get back,

but Tommy is not.

I wonder where he is.

How was the game? my father asks.

We are barely

through the door.

I just shrug.

Matt played great, Jeff lies.

They won again.

Dad beams.

Later, would Jeff tell him

the truth? Would he tell

him I dropped the ball,

that I started shivering

at the diner,

shivering and shaking

for no reason at all?

I thought I’d ask him,

Jeff says, but he got upset.

Ask me what?

My father’s look

jumps across the space

between us as if he’s

scooping me into his arms.

Let’s go into the kitchen.

My mother looks

at my father

and then at me.

She takes a deep breath.

Okay, let’s get everything

out in the open, she says.

So this is it.

That’s why Tommy’s not here.

My head hurts.

I feel dizzy

and so tired

I could sleep forever.

Sit down, Matt,

we’ve been meaning to talk to you,

she says.

I sit down.

I concentrate on the table,

studying the lines

in the wood,

how some rings are thin

and perfect

like they were painted by an artist,

and some are thick and jagged,

shaped like little sideways mountains.

I’ve sat at this table

so many times

but never noticed

the sideways mountains before.

I wonder how long it takes

to get placed in foster care.

I wonder how many more

lime Jell-Os I’ll have.

How many more piggyback rides

I’ll give Tommy.

How many nights at my desk?

How many nights asleep

in my own bed?

Last year, there was a foster kid

in our class. His name was Troy.

On the first day of school,

a quarter popped out of Troy’s pocket

and rolled under the radiator.

When Troy knelt down to get it,

I saw the soles of his sneakers.

They were so smooth

they looked transparent.

Jeff is talking,

I can hear his voice,

but his words don’t make sense.

The rolling quarter

is causing some kind

of silver interference,

like a flattened bullet

in my brain.

I wonder what makes

some rings in the wood perfect

and others like jagged scars.

If I go into foster care,

I wonder,

will I get to keep my sneakers?

My mother talks

slowly and gently.

Her fluttery hands

are folded in front of her,

like we are in church.

Matt, you’ve been through so much,

she says, but we want you

to stop running,

or, at least, to find out

what it is you’re running from.

What is she talking about?

I’m not running.

I’m trying to stay.

Dad takes a deep breath.

Let’s start at the beginning.

You know that Jeff

was a medic in Vietnam.

I nod but don’t look

at anyone.

I try to think about

the circles in the wood,

and whether they’ll let me

take my sneakers

and my glove.

I’d like to take my glove.

Dad’s voice

keeps breaking through.

They’re not always pleasant

to look at.

Some of them have missing fingers

and arms

or even legs.

Who is he talking about?

How does he know?

Even the ones who look fine

have scars.

Scars on the inside, Jeff says.

I’ve never heard Jeff talk so much.

Maybe you can help them, Matt.

It might mean something

to see they made a difference.

And maybe, Matt,

my mother says softly,

maybe it will help you too.

So they are not

sending me away?

Veteran Voices, or VV,

meets every other Thursday night

at the Community Center.

The Community Center

is an old school

that got converted

into town offices.

My mother takes me there

to see the room ahead of time

so I know what to expect.

It’s just the two of us

in the car. Her hands

grip the steering wheel.

If you don’t want to do this,

just tell us, Matt, she says.

I feel like I’m riding

in an elevator

that won’t stop climbing.

My heart is rising, pumping

in my head, but my stomach

is dropping down.

I’m okay, I say.

To get to the VV room,

we have to walk through

a long, dark hall

beyond a staircase.

There’s a small

storage room

behind the

janitor’s closet.

Its shelves are packed with

half-empty cartons

of cleaning supplies

and unopened boxes

of tissues.

I try to imagine it

filled with Vietnam veterans,

but all I can picture

are paper lanterns

and fairy-tale dragons.

I still have the elevator

feeling on meeting night.

This time Dad is with me.

It’s strange to see him

in his navy jacket

with the big gold buttons,

and his clean white shirt

and gray pants.

He takes off his tie, but

he’s still all over too shiny.

I couldn’t imagine what they’d look like,

but I didn’t picture them like this.

I didn’t picture them in worn leather vests

or denim jackets with a rainbow peace sign

sewn on the back,

in dirty sneakered feet,

and muddy army boots

that look like they just

stepped out of a jungle.

They don’t look like soldiers.

They just look like

beat-up men.

Jeff is already here.

His face is unshaved,

and he has on a wrinkled

T-shirt instead of his usual

neat white shirt with

the lizard on it.

Even so, Jeff is

different from

everyone else here.

I can’t imagine him

crouched in a trench.

I can’t imagine

his made-for-music hands

holding a weapon

or wiping blood from

someone’s torn-up face.

It looks like there’s been a meeting,

but it’s already over.

People are standing or sitting,

holding cardboard cups

with pull-out handles

and talking quietly.

Jeff is sitting down at a small table,

talking to a guy in a wheelchair,

but he stands up and heads toward us

when we walk in.

Hi, Matt, Michael.

Dad nods.

I want you to meet someone, Jeff says.

He puts his hand on my shoulder

and gently guides me

toward the table

where he had been talking.

I’ll be right there, Dad says. There’s someone

I need to say hello to first.

The room suddenly feels stuffy,

and the smell of old books

and burnt coffee

makes me nauseous.

Usually I like those smells,

but now I feel sick.

The room has gotten quieter.

I need fresh air,

but Jeff doesn’t seem to notice.

Matt, this is Christopher.

I take my hand out of my pocket

to shake Christopher’s hand,

but he doesn’t move

so I pull it back.

Scars run in every direction

on Christopher’s face,

but his eyes are a clear, light blue,

like small circles of pool water

spilled on the craters of the moon.

Christopher’s a baseball fan.

Used to play too—we called him Whirlin’ Will.

He was a pitcher like you—

Until the war came.

Jeff doesn’t say it,

but I know it’s true.

I feel Dad’s hand

on my shoulder.

Hi, Chris, he says.

He reaches out

to shake Christopher’s hand

and when Christopher

doesn’t offer one,

Dad just grabs the stump

that’s there instead.

I hadn’t seen it before.

Why didn’t Jeff warn me?

Dad and Christopher

look at each other a long time

without saying anything.

Finally Dad smiles.

Christopher doesn’t.

Even if he wanted to,

he couldn’t.

His scars move

in the wrong direction.

How’s Elizabeth? Christopher asks.

Dad still hasn’t looked away.

She’s doing well, real well.

You know, Chris, he starts to say,

but stops, leaving his thought

hovering in the air.

I was sorry to hear about Celia,

he says instead,

and his unfinished sentence

floats away.

Yeah, well, it’s not your fault,

Christopher finally mumbles,

and when he speaks,

the lines on his face

move like cracks of dried mud.

Dad never mentioned

Christopher before,

but he must have gone

to high school with him

because he starts telling stories

about all the high school

friends he does talk about.

Christopher doesn’t say anything,

so Dad just keeps on talking

like he does with me,

talking just to fill the silence.

Eventually Dad pauses, like he’s

run out of things to say.

He takes a deep breath.

Matt reminds me of you, Chris,

he says. Sometimes the batter

doesn’t even know

the ball’s been pitched!

Yeah, that’s what

Jeff says,

Christopher answers.

He takes his eyes

off Dad and

for the first time

looks at me.

My nausea

is gone,

but my stomach

feels empty

and floaty.

I want to smile,

but my face is stuck.

On the way home,

Dad is quiet.

A dark quiet.

How come Jeff called Christopher

Whirlin’ Will when his name is Chris?

I ask, trying to fill the silence.

His last name is Williams,

Chris Williams,

Dad says, and then leaves me

for his own thoughts again.

Who’s Celia? I ask.

Chris’s wife, he says without

turning his head to look at me.

Did she die?

No, she left.

We ride in silence

until Dad shakes his head like

he’s waking from a dream.

Chris and Celia were

high school sweethearts.

We all envied their relationship.

But the war changed Chris.

The war changed

all of us, Matt.

Whether we went,

or whether we stayed,

the war changed us all.

When we get back to the house,

we can hear Tommy splashing

upstairs in the tub.

Be right down, my mother calls.

Dad puts his jacket on the banister

and goes to the fridge.

He unwraps some leftover

apple pie, but covers it again

and grabs a beer.

Want anything? he asks.

I shake my head and

he goes right on talking.

Mom, Celia, Chris, and me,

we used to be good friends….

He leaves his sentence

hanging in the air.

Sometimes the words people don’t say

are as powerful as the ones they do.

Until the war came,

I say, finishing his thought.

He nods.

Until the war came

and ruined everything.

Because of you, Matt-the-rat,

there’s no place for me.

Because of you, my wife left.

Because of you, my brother died.

Because of you, I have stumps instead of legs.

My head starts to spin.

The kitchen suddenly feels

as small as the storage room

behind the janitor’s closet.

I’d better go finish my homework, Dad,

I say.

Instead,

I run downstairs

to the basement bathroom

and throw up.

You don’t have to go back

if you’re not comfortable,

my mother says.

I’m here if you want to talk

about anything,

my father says.

If you give it a chance,

I think it will work out

for everyone,

Jeff says.

I will go back,

but I don’t want

to talk about it.

I hope it works

out for someone,

maybe even

for me.

No one asks me any questions,

but I have a question.

Dad, how come you didn’t go

to Vietnam?

It’s Friday night and we

are clearing the table.

He drops the crusty casserole dish

into the soapy water

and sits back down.

Because I went to medical school.

It was a legitimate deferment.

Ever since I was a kid,

I wanted to be a doctor.

When I was young—

younger than you are now—

I saw a small sparrow

fall out of her nest.

I thought she was hurt.

I went to get a towel to wrap her in

and some bread to feed her,

but when I got back,

she was already gone.

I was happy she’d flown away

but disappointed too.

I wanted to help her.

Be a doctor, Grandpa said.

There’ll always be more

than enough wounded people.

Dad taps his hand

on the empty table.

It seemed like

the right thing to do

back then.

But sometimes

I look at Chris and Jeff,

and I wonder,

was it enough?

At night,

through the walls,

I hear them talk.

Stop feeling guilty,

she says.

You did what you thought

was best.

You followed your heart

in a world that had gone

crazy.

I can’t help it,

Elizabeth.

That cold fish

shimmies inside me

again.

Maybe for Dad

I’m like the coin

you drop in the poor box

at church.

Saturday is cold.

Too cold

to play baseball,

but we do.

Tommy is at

Mrs. Pennotti’s house.

My parents are sitting

on the top bleacher

where they always

sit when Tommy

doesn’t come.

The sun is behind

a thick blanket

of clouds.

The warm-ups

don’t warm me up.

My arm feels stiff.

I know it’s cold out here,

Coach Robeson says,

coughing into his sleeve.

Just play your best.

Woo-hoo, my mother calls

when I strike out

the first two batters.

The umpire shakes his head.

The batters are just too cold

to swing their bats.

The third player up

glares at me.

I take off my glove

and stick it under my arm.

I smudge the ball and get ready

to pitch.

The ball sails right down

the middle of the plate.

Crack.

The crowd cheers.

A home run.

I hear my father’s voice.

It’s okay, Matt! You’ll get the next one.

The next batter gets a base hit,

but I do strike out the following one.

It’s early in the game,

Coach Robeson says to me

as we head into the dugout.

You’ll warm up.

Hey, Frog-face,

Rob says on his way

to the batter’s box.

Playin’ for the other team today?

There’s no time to react.

Rob hits a single.

So does Alex.

Daniel drives in a run

on a double.

The score stays tied

until the sixth inning.

Then I hit a single.

Rob follows with a double

and I race home.

We squeak by

with a 2–1 victory.

Lucky little Frog-face,

Billy says.

My mother

is making dinner,

so I need to

watch Tommy.

It’s drizzling outside.

We can’t toss the ball.

Instead I pile

Tommy’s alphabet blocks

and he knocks them down.

I make a barn

for his farm animals

and he oinks and moos.

He climbs on my back

and babbles,

Giddy-yap, Matt,

giddy-yap, Matt.

He kicks the sides

of me with his

soft

bare

feet.

Tuesday just before the final bell,

a huge storm cloud

rolls in unexpectedly.

Squat close to the ground

like a heaving monster,

it hurls heavy black

drops of rain

that bounce rather than fall.

Track is canceled,

the end-of-the-day voice

announces.

The baseball team

should meet in the gym.

Make a circle, Coach says,

tossing fourteen

dirty, ripped, partially split

baseballs into the center.

Everybody grab a baseball;

we’re going to take a peek inside.

It isn’t easy,

but I pull off the leather cover.

Inside is a layer of thin twine.

Beneath that are layers

and layers of wool yarn

specked with small pieces

of red thread.

Start unraveling, Coach Robeson says.

Roll the ball if that makes it easier.

It’s hard not to laugh

as the yarn unrolls

and the unwrapped baseballs

zoom in every direction.

I’m careful to keep my baseball

away from Rob,

but he isn’t paying attention

to me anyway.

He and some of the other guys

have gotten themselves

all twisted and tangled.

Only my baseball unwinds

in a solitary path

across the gleaming gym floor.

When yards and yards of yarn

are unfurled,

small rubber balls

start bouncing everywhere.

Coach Robeson watches for a while

and then calls for everyone

to settle down in a circle again.

How many of you think

you’ve reached the heart of the ball? he asks.

All fourteen hands

shoot into the air.

You haven’t. Coach Robeson laughs.

If you cut deeper, you’d find

the black rubber piece

is just another protective layer.

Inside that is the heart of the ball,

a small molded core of cork.

Coach Robeson talks about

the baseball’s design and

how it helps us to hit farther.

Sometimes it’s useful

to open things up

and have a closer look.

Sometimes it helps

to understand why things

work the way they do.

I don’t think dissecting

a baseball is going to make

me play better or

understand anything better,

but I put all the broken pieces

in my pocket.

Thursday night,

the elevator feeling

is there again

but fainter this time.

Dad comes home early.

We eat quickly—

no dessert—

so we can arrive on time.

When we get there,

Jeff is standing

in front of the room

talking about oranges.

He is asking everyone

to sign a petition

so the government

will do a study

on vets who ate oranges

and got sick.

Dad whispers in my ear,

Agent Orange is a chemical.

It was used to destroy

forests and crops in Vietnam,

but now

it’s making soldiers sick.

I’m glad no one can read my mind.

Agent Orange,

not regular oranges,

a chemical,

not a fruit that soldiers ate.

I wonder if anyone here

ever sprayed Agent Orange on

any of the plants I touched,

any of the places I walked,

any of the people I loved.

When Jeff finishes talking,

all the vets who can

scrape their chairs into a circle.

The ones who can’t—

who have withered hands

or clumsy wheelchairs

with wheels that won’t turn—

are brought into the circle

by the stronger ones.

No one is left out.

Dad and I push back our chairs,

and Chris uses his good hand

to move his wheelchair next to us.

Then the vets and visitors

go around the circle

spilling stories.

Not everyone talks,

but the ones who do

talk a lot,

like an opened fire hydrant

gushing words and tears

instead of water.

Anybody here figured out a way

to turn it off?

Joe, the guy who is talking,

wears a T-shirt that says

box of rain.

He has a red bandanna

wrapped around his forehead, and

his hair is wild and bushy.

He looks like a caveman in a T-shirt.

He looks like he should have a deep,

booming voice, but instead

he sounds hollow,

like a wounded lamb.

I see their faces everywhere, he says,

I hear their screamin’ and their cryin’,

Help me. I don’t want to die.

His voice gets quiet.

I wiped the blood and grime off his face.

I told him he wasn’t gonna die,

to just hang on ’cause he wasn’t

gonna die. I told him the Dustoff’d

be comin’ soon, even though I knew

no Dustoff was gonna find us

in that mud hole.

He was gonna die

right there in my arms.

I knew it, and he knew it,

but we kept holdin’ on,

pretendin’ we could hold on forever.

He knew he was dying, we both knew.

He was already gone when

I took him in my arms,

but we both kept holdin’ on.

Pretendin’. I’m still pretendin’.

For the rest of my life, I’ll be pretendin’.

How ya doing? they ask,

and I say,

Okay, man,

even though I’m not.

I’m not okay,

and I’m never gonna be okay again.

I just don’t get it, how they don’t see my

insides hangin’ out, when it’s all I can do

to put these feelings into words

because words don’t mean

a thing.

There was a silent pause,

a pausa di breve,

like a caesura,

the railroad mark

on the top line of the staff,

telling us to stop,

to wait,

not to rush through.

Music is soothing.

Music is not like words.

Words are messy.

Words spill out

like splattered blood,

oozing in every direction,

leaving stains

that won’t come out

no matter how hard you scrub.

But not music.

Even when it’s so loud

you can’t hear anything else,

music lulls you to sleep.

Right now,

I need music.

Someone else starts talking,

pulling me out of my mind,

pulling me back to the room

beyond the staircase,

behind the janitor’s closet,

where words are spilling

and splattering in every direction.

If I close my eyes,

I can still smell the stench,

this vet says.

I can still see the children

running toward us,

explosives strapped on their

backs, running toward us,

and then dropping like

scarecrows.

I can still hear them scream.

His shoulders heave.

Jeff puts his arm around him

but doesn’t say anything.

Nobody says anything,

but the silence is like

a warm blanket

we wrap around him.

That night,

it’s hard to sleep.

I wonder what Jeff

and Joe

and Chris would say

if they knew

my story,

if I broke open

the circle

and told them.

What would Dad say?

And my mother?

Would she still ask

me to watch Tommy

while she made dinner?

Or would she

pick him up

and push me away?

Coach Robeson isn’t at practice

on Monday.

Coach Louis starts us off

with a jog around the field.

Is Coach Robeson coming?

Drew asks.

Everyone laughs.

Drew hates to run.

If Coach Robeson isn’t coming,

he’ll slow his pace.

Maybe we’ll run some extra laps

before we practice our batting,

Coach Louis says

and doesn’t even smile.

Coach Robeson isn’t at practice

Tuesday or Wednesday.

When he comes to the field

Thursday, he looks different,

thinner and tired.

He waves us over, and we sit

on the bleachers.

Sorry I haven’t been here, boys.

You know I’d never miss a practice

if I could help it.

He takes a deep breath and coughs

into a big white handkerchief.

I’m afraid I need to take

a break for a while—

Nobody says anything and

Coach takes another deep breath.

He looks at us a long moment,

his tired eyes taking each of us in

and holding us.

I’ve had this cough that just wouldn’t

go away—so I finally had it checked.

He clears his throat.

Turns out I need to have an operation

and then some treatments.

The treatments might

make me sick, so I’ve gotta

give up coaching for a while.

Don’t worry, I’m looking into

getting someone else

to take my place.

Someone you’ll really learn from.

I hope I’ll be back.

I can’t promise you,

but I’m hoping.

Coach coughs

into his handkerchief again

and blots both his eyes.

Continue to play your best because

whether I’m on the field or not,

I’ll be rooting for you.

Before he leaves,

he looks at me and nods.

I hope it’s not good-bye.

At the dinner table,

I ask Dad how a person

can be so sick

and not look sick at all.

Some cancers are sneaky.

They’re silent and invisible.

They creep up on you

and invade so deep on the inside

that no one on the outside

even knows the cancer’s there

until it’s too late.

My mother stirs the soup

and ladles it into my bowl.

Some cancers can be cured

if they’re caught early, she says,

as if cancer were a tossed ball

and if you catch it on a fly,

there’s no chance of death

scoring a run.

Maybe Coach can still

beat it, but it sounds

like the bases

are loaded against him.

What can we do?

All we can do is show him

how much we care, she says.

How about throwing him a dinner

at the Pavilion? I ask.

My mother pauses,

then smiles.

I’ll call Mrs. Brennan.

We’ll see what we can do.

Fire in the darkness

blood

pounding rain

and smoke.

The smell of burning.

I’m sinking in mud.

Help! Someone help me,

please!

Eyes are watching.

Waiting.

I can’t follow,

something binds my legs.

My arms are heavy,

someone groans—

Matt, Matt, wake up.

You’re having a nightmare.

I sit up in bed,

sweaty and scared.

He brings me a glass of cold water.

She touches my face.

Her hands are soft and cool.

I close my eyes

and lie back down.

I listen.

We have found you and we love you.

You will never be alone.

I will sing to you of morning,

I will stay until it’s light.

I will sing to you of laughter

on the other side of night.

Across the street

from Rosie O’s Pizza Planet

is the Pavilion.

The Pavilion is a big,

blue marble building.

Different size rooms

surround a huge indoor fountain.

All the sports dinners

and school graduations,

all the parties and proms

are at the Pavilion.

A lot of business people

go there too.

It’s the fanciest place

in town.

Unless we want to wait,

there’s only one

small room available

for Coach Robeson.

We don’t want to wait.

On Friday night, we invite him

to the Pavilion’s Green Room.

At dinner while we

eat our salad,

Rob’s father, Mr. Brennan,

stands at a podium

in the front of the room.

The podium is set up

at the top of three

wide red-carpeted stairs

so everyone can see.

Rob’s father is telling us

how great Coach Robeson is,

what a wonderful role model,

how much we’ll all miss him.

The program won’t be the same

without him, he says.

I pick at the pale lettuce

and red onion circles.

I stack the green peppers

in the middle

like a vegetable volcano.

Why is he talking like

Coach Robeson is

already dead?

Mr. Brennan says

we shouldn’t wait

to thank people

for the good they do.

He doesn’t want

another moment to go by

without thanking Coach Robeson

for all the good

he’s done.

He looks at Coach

and starts to tell a story

about Rob’s brother, but his voice

begins to quaver.

He just stands there

trying to talk and stopping

until Coach gets up

and climbs the stairs to the podium.

Mr. Brennan and Coach Robeson

look at each other a minute,

shake hands, and then

pull each other into a hug.

Mr. Brennan leaves the podium,

and Mrs. Brennan squeezes

through the tables to meet him.

They lean into each other and

Mrs. Brennan buries her head

in Mr. Brennan’s shoulder.

They walk back to their table

like some lost

two-headed creature.

I look over at Rob.

He’s slouched in his chair,

wiping his eyes

with the sleeve of his shirt.

He glares at me

when he sees me look at him

and straightens up again

when his parents sit down.

Coach Robeson

thanks everyone

for their kind words,

their thoughts,

and their prayers.

Behind the podium

Coach looks smaller

than he ever did

in the gym

or on the field.

It’s like he’s already

disappearing.

I play with

my Russian lava dressing,

hiding the onions

underneath the lettuce,

trying to keep the lava

from oozing out.

Dad taps me on the shoulder

to listen.

Facing cancer

is the toughest thing

I’ve ever done, Coach says.

But it’s not half as tough

as what some of you have faced.

Not half as tough

as sending your kids off to war.

The real role models

are Ray and Chris,

Sam and AJ,

kids who graduated

from high school

and put off going to college

to fight in a war,

especially a war

that’s been so divisive.

Kids who gave up their youth—

and for some, their lives.

Then Coach quickly

changes the subject

and starts talking

about cancer.

Most of the time grown-ups

talk to other grown-ups,

but I can tell that Coach

is talking to us,

to the kids on his team.

I’ll lick this disease if I can,

he says,

but I can’t promise you I will.

Still, you’ve gotta play your best

even if you’re losing.

You’ve always gotta give it

your best shot.

His eyes lock into mine.

I want to jump up and

promise him I will, but

I’m stuck to my chair.

There’s no fire or

sinking mud, but

something binds my legs—

just like in my nightmare.

Why can’t I ever say the things

I want to say?

I smash my salad volcano

so that lava dressing runs in

every direction on the plate.

Coach says he’ll still try

to come to our games

whenever he can.

You’ll do well, if you

continue to work together,

he says.

That’s what sports is all about,

learning to work together.

I hear Coach talk,

but I’m stuck in Vietnam

with the smell and the smoke

and the sound of someone crying.

Maybe the Americans

should have brought baseballs

instead of bombs.

Until they find a full-time

replacement for Coach Robeson,

Mr. Chambers, a math teacher

and the girls’ basketball coach,

is helping Coach Louis.

His practices don’t run as long

because off-season

he’s also the moderator

of the debating club,

and they’re getting ready

for a state tournament.

Without Coach Robeson,

Rob is free to

accidentally

step on my jacket,

or dump my books.

So sorry, Frog-face,

I must have lost

my focus.

Shorter practices

leave me more time

to practice my scales.

My fingers climb up

the keys perfectly now.

I only stumble

sometimes on the

way back down

when I get close

to middle C.

While I run

my fingers

up and down

the keys,

Tommy drives his

yellow bus underneath

the piano bench.

Let’s let Matt

practice in peace,

my mother says.

She picks up Tommy

and smiles at me.

Sounds good, she says.

Sounds good,

Jeff agrees on Wednesday.

You’ve got a nice touch, Matt.

Not too heavy, not too soft,

just right.

On Thursday night,

before Dad gets home,

I finish all my homework.

I practice the piano,

I take out the garbage,

I even clean out

Tommy’s toy box.

The elevator

feeling

is gone.

I can’t wait

to walk with Dad

down the hall,

behind the janitor’s closet,

to the small, crowded

room behind the stairs.

I want

to go.

I want

to remember.

She held me

and sang a soft song.

He followed me

everywhere,

he follows me still.

The business part of the meeting

lasts only a few minutes

and before long

we are scraping ourselves

into a circle.

Jeff’s hand is on my shoulder.

Are you sure it’s okay? he asks.

I nod.

I know there will be no daring

dragon prince who fled

behind the mountain.

I wonder what Jeff will say instead.

He pulls a piece of paper

out of his pocket, unfolds it,

and starts to talk.

Hope you don’t mind,

but I wrote my thoughts down

so I wouldn’t forget anything.

My stomach does a quick flip.

Jeff begins to speak quietly.

For the past few meetings,

I’ve brought my friend Matt

with me, he says, nodding

at me and smiling.

A lot of you have asked

who he is and why he’s here.

Some of you find it upsetting

to have a Vietnamese kid

sitting here, reminding you

of the place

we all want to forget.

Others want to know

what he knows.

Hearing Jeff talk about me

is a little like floating underwater;

I can hear him,

his voice is clear,

but distant too.

Even though I went to all those

Saturday classes

at the adoption agency,

it’s strange

to be called

a Vietnamese kid.

What does that mean?

I know it doesn’t mean

believing in mountain fairies

or celebrating Tet Trung Thu.

I know it means

something else,

but I’m not sure what.

Matt was one of the older kids

airlifted out of Saigon,

Jeff says.

He’s reading a sentence at a time

and then looking up.

He was almost ten, but he looked six.

He was born during the war.

His whole life was the war.

He’s got an American father

who left and never came back.

He’s got a mother who

entrusted him to us

even though his father,

an American soldier,

ran out on her.

She gave her child to a bunch

of American soldiers …

Jeff emphasizes the first syllable

in soldiers

as if it were souldiers,

… so we must have done

something good.

Americans who’ve never

been to Vietnam

don’t understand.

They spit at us.

They call us baby killers.

But we can’t have been all bad,

or what mother

would have given us her child,

knowing she might never

see him again?

What kind of faith is that?

What kind of love?

Love?

I thought she wanted

me to leave because of

who I was and what

I’d done.

But did she mean it

when she said she loved me?

Did he mean it

when he said he loved her?

Was it hard for her to

push me away?

Does she ever wonder

about me

like I wonder

about her

and about him?

Does she remember me?

Jeff’s words rush through me,

my heart pounds, and

a red hotness spreads

across my face.

I hadn’t ever thought

she gave me away

because she loved me.

We lost a big piece

of ourselves in Vietnam,

and none of us will

ever be the same,

but we did some good too.

We made a difference.

Don’t let anybody tell you

different.

Jeff looks at everyone in the circle

one by one,

holding their eyes with his eyes

before turning away.

Next time someone stares at you

like you’re a freak

because you went to Vietnam,

think about Matt,

and there are hundreds like him,

hundreds of kids we saved.

Jeff finishes talking, and

he seems quiet again,

like the Jeff who lets

his music speak for him.

He asks if I have anything

I want to say, and Dad gives me

an encouraging nod,

but I shake my head.

Jeff’s words change the mood.

The next two people talk

about Vietnamese friends,

the boy with his face burned off

who learned

to sing “Yankee Doodle,”

the old man who sat outside

one vet’s hooch waiting

to offer homemade rice wine

to thank him for taking

such good care

of his sick daughter.

Slowly the heaviness

in the room lifts,

the stories stop coming,

and the circle is broken.

Dad is tossing away

Chris’s Coke can

when another man

in a wheelchair

rolls over to me.

Thanks for coming,

he says.

Don’t think too badly

of your birth father.

It’s hard to come home,

but it’s harder to go back.

It doesn’t mean he didn’t care.

In the car

we are quiet for a while

and then Dad asks me if

I have any thoughts about

what Jeff said.

I shake my head.

Do you ever think about Vietnam?

he asks, taking his eyes

off the road

and looking at me.

I shrug.

It’s okay

if you don’t want

to talk about it right now,

he says.

But someday,

I hope you will.

That night when I go

to sleep, I hear her voice

whispering,

Bui Doi,

you cannot stay here.

I try to follow her.

I want to follow,

but I fall asleep,

and I don’t wake up

until morning.

On Wednesday afternoon,

Coach Chambers tells us

there will be a new coach

starting the following Monday.

He doesn’t tell us anything

about him except to say

he has a lot of experience

and we should treat him

with respect.

He glances at Coach Louis

and adds, Handpicked

by Coach Robeson,

so you know he’s good.

He’d better be

better than good.

We’re more than halfway

through the season

and our record is 7–2.

We have a shot

at the championship.

We’ve got two games

over the weekend.

On Saturday, I’m surprised to see

Chris’s wheelchair parked next to

the bottom bleacher.

Jeff and my parents

are sitting beside him.

I am even more surprised

on Sunday

when Chris is scribbling

on Coach’s clipboard.

By Monday,

I’m not surprised at all,

but the other kids are.

Chris wheels himself

onto the field.

Before we start our stretches,

Coach Chambers introduces him

as Coach Williams.

He nods and tries to smile.

In the sunlight

his scars run deeper,

stained with different shades

of red, purple, and blue.

I’ve watched you play, boys.

You’re good.

But Coach Robeson and I

have some ideas

to help you get better.

Yeah, well, Billy says, we’ll just wait

for Coach Robeson to come back.

Then everyone starts talking

at once.

What is Robeson thinking?

How can he coach us when he can’t even walk?

We might as well give up our trophy now.

Maybe the cancer has spread to his brain.

What was Coach Robeson thinking?

If I had scars like that,

I’d never go outside again.

But Chris didn’t do anything

to those kids.

How can they be so mean?

Leave him alone, I say.

Give him a chance!

Shut up, Frog-face, Rob answers.

He knocks me down.

Suddenly his knee

is on top of my chest,

his fist is in my face,

and Billy is standing

above me.

Finally the whistle blows

so long and loud

it hurts my ears.

Coach Louis pulls Rob off me.

That’s enough of that.

Coach Williams’s voice

is stern but calm.

Begin your stretches, he says.

On Tuesday afternoon,

Coach Robeson is back

to tell us

what he’s thinking.

He walks onto the field

slowly.

He looks thinner

but still not sick.

For a minute, I think

his leaving

is just another nightmare,

and now that it’s daylight,

he’s going to partner us up

and tell us to start stretching.

Instead

he motions for us

to sit down.

He takes a breath.

His voice sounds like

he’s whistling through a straw,

only instead of blowing air,

he’s blowing words,

thin, wavy, watery words

that mean something

even though he barely

has the power

to say them.

Coach Williams was a student of mine,

he manages.

His eyes move first to Rob,

then to me,

then to each player

one at a time.

When I first met him,

he was the same age as you.

We called him Whirlin’ Will.

The way that baseball danced,

no one could get a hit off him.

I followed his career into high school.

I follow all my boys,

but I knew that Chris

had what it took.

Baseball was more than a game

to Chris.

If anyone was going

to play in college, maybe even

get scouted for the majors,

it was going to be Chris Williams.

Coach takes another breath,

swallows, and continues.

But, it didn’t happen that way, did it?

The war changed a lot of things

and a lot of people. I’m not going to argue

for or against; that’s not my place.

But I can tell you, the war was worse

than this cancer I got.

It destroyed us

from the inside.

While we were going about our business,

while we were working, or studying,

or playing baseball,

the war was working against us,

spreading its poison.

Coach coughs into his fist.

He waits a moment,

then continues.

It’s still spreading its poison,

and I don’t know

of any treatment that can stop it.

That’s up to you.

Chris Williams isn’t going

to make it to the major league.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t be useful.

That doesn’t mean he can’t be a part

of the game he loves.

And he doesn’t need to park his wheelchair

and simply watch.

Baseball isn’t only athletics.

You should know that by now.

You don’t just pitch or swing with your arm.

Baseball’s about concentration.

Focus.

Coach Robeson looks right at me.

Then he looks at Rob.

There’s no reason Coach Williams

can’t coach, except maybe

you won’t let him.

Coach Robeson swallows again.

Just talking seems to tire him out.

People see that withered arm,

those wheels and scars,

and they think they know

everything about him.

What can they learn

from someone so beat-up?

But I’ll tell you something,

even if I hadn’t gotten sick,

I was going to ask Chris

to be my pitching coach.

Coach takes another deep breath.

His eyes are drained of color,

tired and gray.

You’re a good group of kids,

but you’ve got some mixed-up attitudes,

which you probably learned from us adults.

Now officially I’m not your coach anymore.

So maybe some of you think

you don’t have to listen to me,

but I hope you will.

I’ve always told you the truth.

Give Coach Williams a chance.

Give each other a chance.

I look over at Rob.

His arms are crossed

in front of him.

He doesn’t seem to be listening

to Coach Robeson at all.

He won’t even look

in his direction.

His eyes are angry bullets

aimed somewhere

beyond him.

Coach Robeson looks

deflated—like the

wrinkled remains

of a balloon

that’s had all the air

let out.

He nods at Coach Chambers

and then turns to walk

across the field

and away from us.

From the back,

Coach Robeson looks

sad and solitary.

I won’t let anyone know—

especially Rob—

but a ball of tears

is stuck in my throat.

My mother is waiting

for me in the car.

Are you okay?

I nod.

She watches me,

disbelieving,

her clear eyes

a flashing bolt of light

that sees straight

through me.

Was that Coach Robeson?

Did he come to today’s practice?

I nod again.

How did he seem?

Okay.

Where’s Tommy? I ask.

I left him with Mrs. P.

Dad’s going to be late,

so I thought we could

grab a hamburger.

Just the two of us.

I look at her.

Her open, kind face.

Her encouraging smile.

She tries so hard.

All the time

she tries so hard.

Sometimes,

when I’m doing my homework,

she brings me cookies,

or an orange, already peeled,

broken into small pieces.

Here, take a break, have a snack,

she says.

A hamburger sounds good,

I say.

I’m hungry.

On Wednesday,

Coach Williams

is waiting for us

on the field.

Baseballs, mitts,

masks, helmets,

all sorts of sports stuff

are scattered on the ground.

It looks like somebody

robbed the athletic office,

then panicked,

and dropped everything

as they ran off

across the field.

What happened here,

a tornado? Billy says.

I’m not cleaning it up, Rob says.

Ignoring the mess

and the comments,

Coach Williams

partners us up.

My name is called first,

then Rob’s.

After what happened

on his first day,

something must be wrong with

Coach Williams’s brain.

Rob glares at me

and mouths the words

No way, Frog-face,

but Coach Williams

is already wheeling around,

using some kind of

cane with claws

to shift the equipment,

a little to the left,

a little to the right,

like there’s a pattern.

If there is,

I don’t see it.

We wait for some direction.

We’re going to try

something new.

Coach Williams’s voice is husky,

but his words are clear.

He calls one kid

from each pair

to get a bandanna

from a bag

he has clipped

to his chair.

Rob gets called for us.

When everyone is

back with his partner,

Coach Williams

instructs each person

holding a bandanna to tie it tight

around his eyes.

I don’t want you to see any light,

he says.

Rob mumbles something

I can’t hear.

Everyone else is laughing.

Hey, that’s not tight enough …

double it up … you’re cheating …

how many fingers am I holding up? …

wrong …

Enough!

Coach Williams says sternly.

Everyone shuts up.

On the ground, there are

seven baseballs, seven footballs,

and seven soccer balls, he says.

Seven helmets, seven catcher’s masks,

seven bats, and seven mitts.

We have seven teams of two.

When I say Go,

those of you wearing bandannas

need to gather one of each—

one baseball, one football, one bat—

you know what I mean.

Those of us without bandannas

look around.

If you paid close attention,

you might remember

where you saw things,

but after a while

it isn’t going to matter

what you remember.

After you’ve turned around

a couple of times in the dark,

you’ll get disoriented.

Eventually your partner

will need to be your eyes.

When you pick up all seven items,

work your way back to the bleachers,

sit down, and wait

for the rest of your teammates.

Any questions?

There’s some grumbling

and one What does this have to do

with baseball?

spoken under Rob’s breath,

but if Coach hears,

he doesn’t answer.

When Coach says Go,

Rob starts walking

ahead of me

using his right foot

to guide him.

I try to look like

I’m doing something,

but really I’m just

following behind.

Rob picks up a football,

a bat, and a mitt.

When it’s too awkward

to hold them and still search,

he reaches for me.

Without a word,

he holds out his hand,

feels my presence,

and drops the football

and the mitt into my arms.

He uses the bat

to feel around the ground.

Whatever Coach Williams’s

reason is for this game,

Rob has made up

his own challenge—

getting through it

without saying

one word

to me.

He might have done it too—

the baseball and helmet

are just inches from each other,

and two soccer balls have rolled

alongside them.

The only kids who aren’t

at the bleachers already

are me and Rob,

and Michael V. and Alex.

We can hear Alex telling Michael

where to walk for the soccer ball.

Rob follows his voice.

I follow Rob.

Our last item

is the catcher’s mask.

Alex must feel sorry for Rob,

or for me.

The catcher’s mask

is way out in right field,

he calls as he and Michael

make their way

back to the bleachers.

Still, knowing where the mask is

won’t help much

if I can’t get Rob moving

in the right direction.

Everyone on the bleachers

is laughing and heckling us.

If I don’t help Rob,

we’ll be walking

in circles till midnight.

We’re moving

in the wrong direction.

I clear my throat.

Rob, I whisper loudly.

Just let me lead you.

If you don’t let me help,

we’ll be out here all afternoon.

I’m never

gonna need your help

for anything,

Frog-face.

I can’t see Rob’s eyes,

but I think they might

burn holes

right through

his bandanna.

I hate you,

he says.

My brother died

because of you.

His words hit me

like a fastball

in the pit of my stomach.

I think I might crumble

right there on the field

with Rob stumbling along

in his own private darkness

and the voices of

Coach Robeson and Dad

talking about war and cancer

stuck in my head—

The war was worse

than this cancer I’ve got.

Some cancers are sneaky,

they creep up on you.

Over and over

I hear Caveman Joe spending

the rest of his life pretendin’

and Jeff calling me a Vietnamese kid,

the one who reminds everyone

of the place they all want to forget.

I hear the laughter in the bleachers

and the sound of her voice shrieking

Bui Doi, you cannot stay here

while helicopters whirl

and babies cry.

In the distance,

bombs fall,

dogs bark,

and then I hear her voice,

like warm honey, softly singing.

There is darkness on the water.

There is darkness on the land.

There is darkness all around us,

but I will take your hand.

I will sing to you of morning,

I will stay until it’s light.

I will sing to you of laughter

on the other side of night.

I take a big gulp of air,

a big gulp of sunlight.

You’ve gotta play your best even if you’re losing.

You’ll always be our MVP.

What kind of faith is that? What kind of love?

I force myself to breathe.

I want to find that place.

I lost my brother too,

I say, and

my words

surprise me.

He isn’t dead,

but he’s gone just the same.

And it’s my fault.

My mouth is saying stuff

I don’t even know I’m thinking.

I’m sorry that your brother died.

I’m really sorry.

I know how you feel.

You don’t know anything,

Rob says, but his voice

is more sad than angry.

He still has his bandanna on,

and I can’t see his eyes,

but I don’t think they’re

bullets anymore.

Every Friday night,

he’d take me to Rosie O’s,

he says.

His voice is quiet,

like he’s talking to himself

and letting me listen.

Just the two of us.

Sometimes we went to the movies

or to the sports department at Sears.

He came to all my games too.

When he came back,

we were going to get

Yankee tickets.

That was the last thing

he said to me:

When I get back,

we’ll get season tickets.

I’m sorry

is all I can think

to say.

My brother was younger

than me, six years

younger than me.

We walk toward the outfield.

Rob follows my voice.

There are so many things

I don’t remember, but

I remember that my mother—

my mother in Vietnam—

left us to check on

this old man and woman

who lived down the road.

Sometimes she helped them

with their laundry

or we brought them cooked rice

and vegetables.

I keep talking,

like a bicycle tire

with a slow leak.

The lady’s face was burned—

her whole face was burned black

so that her eyes were just slits.

And the fingers of her hand

were fused together.

Her husband was sick too,

so people in the village

took turns helping them.

Every night we’d hear

popping sounds and dogs barking

in the distance,

but we’d just go on eating

and not even look up.

Sometimes the old man and

woman ate with us.

One night, the popping

grew close.

A low hissing sound

came from the sky over us.

Down the road

red and orange flames

chased giant clouds of black smoke.

I thought I’d forgotten everything,

but I hadn’t.

I remembered.

I remembered everything.

The next day, my mother

went to check on the old man and his wife.

Watch your brother, she said.

Stay inside, it isn’t safe.

But I didn’t want to stay inside.

Sometimes the soldiers dropped stuff.

Once I found a metal cross,

another time a silver coin.

I told my brother to wait inside.

I told him I’d be right back.

But he followed me.

He followed me everywhere.

Just be careful, I said.

But three-year-olds

don’t know how to be careful.

It was quiet outside.

Everything smelled of

spoiled eggs and smoke.

The heat was pressing down.

It was hard to breathe.

I knew it would start to rain soon.

I wanted to look for things

before the water

washed everything away.

He wandered away from me,

and before I knew

what was happening,

he was screaming.

There was blood

everywhere.

The rain started slamming down.

I lifted him up

and carried him home.

He was so heavy

that it took a long time.

When I got there,

she was waiting.

She made a long wailing sound

when she saw us.

All those years,

I heard bombs and guns

and people screaming,

but I never heard

a sound like that.

I never heard a sound

like the sound

she made that day.

Finally she got the bleeding to stop,

and we saw that both his legs were gone.

They just weren’t there anymore.

The fingers on his hands

were missing too.

His hands were small

mangled stumps.

And even though

she told me it wasn’t,

I knew it was all my fault.

When I stop talking,

we stop walking.

The catcher’s mask

is at our feet,

but I don’t say anything,

and Rob doesn’t feel for it.

We both just stand there.

It’s strange—

in my dreams,

I can never

see her face,

but when I tell Rob,

I see it all—

like a movie—

I see her face,

open and clear,

her dark eyes

holding me.

I hear her voice,

like on a tape recorder.

It’s not your fault.

The mask is by your left foot,

I finally manage.

You’d better pick it up.

Rob pulls off

the bandanna

and looks at me.

His eyes are red.

Are you okay? he asks.

I nod.

He gives me

the bandanna

to wipe my face.

When we finally make it

to the bleachers,

everyone starts cheering.

But not Coach Williams.

He looks at Rob

and then at me.

I hope you and Matt

can figure out for yourselves

the purpose of this hunt,

he says

and wheels away.

Dad picks me up

from practice.

Are you okay? he says.

You look tired.

I’m okay.

It was a long day.

He fiddles with the radio

but doesn’t sing.

Every time

he changes the station,

he sneaks a glance at me.

I remember when Jeff

introduced me

at the VV meeting.

Afterward Dad asked me

if I ever thought

about Vietnam.

It’s okay

if you don’t want

to talk about it right now,

he said.

But someday,

I hope you will.

I need to tell them.

But will I find

the words again?

And what will happen

once I say them?

When we get home,

Tommy and my mother

are outside.

She is raking out

the dead leaves

from the garden.

He is walking

his wooden turtle.

He waddles over

when he sees me.

I put down my books and

pick him up.

Suddenly

I feel like crying again.

It’s that fastball,

let loose,

an unexpected

wild pitch,

rolling in my stomach.

After dinner, I help Dad

clear the dishes

while my mother

gives Tommy his bath.

When she comes down again,

instead of watching TV,

I ask them

if we can talk.

We sit at the kitchen table

with its ragged lines like

jagged sideways mountains.

I step back into the jungle

and let the words lead me

where I don’t want to go.

I tell them everything

and before they can respond,

I say, I understand

if you hate me and

want to send me away.

Hate you? Send you away?

My mother

moves closer to me.

She touches my face

with her soft hands.

Matt, you’re our son.

We love you.

Nothing, nothing

will ever change that.

What happened to your brother

wasn’t your fault,

Dad says.

The war wasn’t your fault.

War is a monster

with a mind of its own.

My brother—

My mother—

I start to say,

my other brother—

my other mother—

The words

choke in my throat.

I breathe deep

and force them out.

Do you think we can

ever try to find them?

And with the words,

hot tears flood my face.

My mother pulls me so close

I can hear her heart.

We will try,

she whispers.

That night

she comes

into my room

and sits at the end

of my bed.

I’ve just turned off

the light.

Are you sleeping?

she asks.

Not yet.

She leaves the light off,

but the moon shines

through the window,

so I can see her soft,

open face.

I’m glad we talked,

Matt, she says.

I love you so, so much,

and of course,

loving you

doesn’t mean

I love Tommy

any less.

She pats my leg.

You can love us both,

Matt. It won’t mean

you’ve forgotten her

or that you didn’t care.

The heart always

has room

for more love.

It won’t mean

that you’ve forgotten.

When I see Rob

in the hall

the next day,

I almost look away,

out of habit,

but I don’t.

We nod at each other

and keep walking.

In the lunchroom, he asks

if I’m going to practice.

I haven’t missed one practice

since the season started.

Neither has he.

Yep,

I answer.

Are you?

We win our division

and will be heading for

the league championship.

The day we win the

final division game,

Coach Robeson

is in the hospital

recuperating

from his operation.

The whole team goes

to Victory Memorial

to visit him.

We have to take turns

going to his room,

two visitors at a time.

Rob and I go upstairs.

Coach’s whole face smiles

when he sees us

together.

I hear you two have been

doing great things, he whispers.

I’m proud of you.

Rob and I look at each other.

I nod.

Rob reaches into his jacket pocket

and gives Coach a baseball.

The whole team signed it, he says.

Coach’s face isn’t so pale anymore,

and his eyes are back

to their old shade of blue.

Thanks, Coach—for everything, I say.

Mr. Brennan was right.

You shouldn’t wait

to thank people

for the good they do.

Words are messy,

but sometimes,

words are all you’ve got

to show what matters most.

I can’t believe how easy

the scales are getting.

Sometimes my fingers

just fly over the keys,

and Jeff has to tell me

to slow down,

to pace myself.

You’re good, he says,

but music is not simply

playing notes.

You have to play

the silence too.

I’ve been thinking

of saying something

at the next VV meeting,

nothing important,

nothing about

my mother in Vietnam

or what happened to

my brother,

but something,

something that would

show them I was there,

that I remember.

Vietnam is beautiful,

I say and

I am not remembering

stories someone told me

or pictures from books.

I am just remembering.

White cabbages grew

as big as pumpkins.

And before a storm,

the purple-blue of the

sky was the same

purple-blue as my

mom’s favorite shawl.

My father squeezes

my shoulder.

Caveman Joe nods

like he remembers too.

A couple of the vets

smile.

On Sunday, it rains.

Alex calls and asks

if I would like to go

bowling with the team.

All of my balls end up

in the gutter.

It’s okay to get strikes

in bowling, Rob says,

and we laugh.

We eat french fries

and drink Coke,

then bowl

some more.

Maybe you’d better

save your arm

for pitching,

someone says,

and we all

turn around.

Coach Robeson

stands behind

the blue-and-white

plastic chairs

in our bowling corner.

He’s still thin,

but his voice

is stronger,

and he’s smiling.

The dinner dishes

are still on the table,

but Mom and Tommy

are already splashing upstairs.

Sometimes cancer goes

into remission, Dad explains.

Sometimes it even

disappears completely

and people get

a second chance.

We start scraping the dishes

and piling them in the sink.

Will that happen

with Coach Robeson?

I don’t know, Matt,

but we can hope.

Everyone deserves

a second chance.

The days are getting

really warm.

Summer is sitting

on spring

and squeezing out

all the wetness.

Tommy and I

spend a lot of time

outside

tossing the ball.

His plastic yellow bat

is bigger than he is,

but he’s using it

like a golf club anyway.

He hits the ball,

drops the bat,

and toddles away.

Run, run, I say,

and he waddles

around the yard,

laughing like a

babbling, bubbling,

quickly tumbling

brook,

and I remember.

His name is Huu Hein.

He followed me everywhere.

He follows me still,

and one day,

we’re going

to find him.

I am grateful to the countless veterans, war correspondents, and photographers whose brave, unflinching recollections aided me in my research. Thanks to my editor, Tracy Mack, whose winding blue paths helped me find my way deeper into the story. Thanks also to her assistant, Abby Ranger, and to Marijka Kostiw for her beautiful cover design. Thanks to Steve Fraser for his encouragement and to Jodi Reamer for her support and guidance. Thanks also to Daniel Marotta, the finest baseball player I know, for his expertise and advice, and to Rosemary Marotta, who always listens to my stories and asks others to listen too. As always, I am most grateful to Marc, Celia, and Alex for their love and support.

Ann E. Burg was born in Brooklyn and spent her early years surrounded by a large, loving extended family. She lived in a rambling three-family house with a wide armchair stoop, and a big, beautiful sycamore tree out front. Spring and summer meant stoopball, hopscotch, and waiting for the ice-cream man to ride by on his bicycle with the freezer in front. Fall meant walking to the library in her favorite red corduroy jacket, and winter — winter was the best season of all. Winter brought birthdays and holidays.

When she was eight, Ann and her family moved to New Jersey. Seasons hurried by — some sparkled, some did not — and the world grew bigger. Eventually, Ann became a teacher and married her best friend. She wrote stories and lullabies for her students, her nephews, and her own two children. After ten years, Ann gave up teaching to write full time.

Ann’s first novel, All the Broken Pieces, has received numerous awards and accolades, including the prestigious Jefferson Cup Award. It has been cited as an IRA Notable Book for a Global Society and received the Booklist Editors’ Choice citation. All the Broken Pieces has also been named one of the American Library Association’s Best Books for Young Adults and was included in the New York Public Library’s 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing.

Ann now lives with her family in Rhinebeck, New York, and you can visit her online at www.annburg.com.

Q: What were you like as a child?

A: I was a pretty quiet child who fell in love with words at an early age. My mother had a beautiful — really beautiful — singing voice. She also wrote poetry, so I was always aware that words carried a weight and rhythm. Even before I could read or write, I spent a lot of my time stringing together words and marveling at my own creativity. None of those poems and songs were actually marvel-worthy, but my parents thought so!

I was quiet, but also pretty confident and comfortable with myself during my earliest years in Brooklyn. Things changed a bit when we moved to New Jersey. Transferring schools in the middle of the school year and making new friends wasn’t always easy. A timid shyness and awkward self-consciousness often enveloped me.

Q: Can you describe your writing process?

A: Unlike many authors, I don’t necessarily agree that one must write every day to be a writer. To me, being a writer suggests a certain way of experiencing the world. There are always what I call gathering days. These are the days when I gather thoughts and ideas, much as a chef gathers ingredients. Some days I visit schools. Maybe I’ll go to a museum or library, or spend an afternoon with friends. Stories and ideas for stories are everywhere, and even on my non-writing days, I’m gathering ideas and letting thoughts percolate. That being said, I do write almost every day. During the school year, I sit down before 7 a.m., which is when my son leaves for school. I usually start out in the kitchen, where I breakfast with the birds, check my email, reread what I’ve written the day before, and begin my new day of writing. When my computer battery runs low, I move to my desk in the library. Once I’m deep into a story, the main characters follow me everywhere, and I can write anytime and anywhere.

Q: Where did the idea for All the Broken Pieces come from?

A: When I was a teacher I noticed that girls often read stories with male protagonists, but boys seldom read stories with female protagonists. I simply wanted to write something a boy might read. In particular, I wanted to write something that recognized that boys have deep feelings and thoughts, even if they have a different way of expressing them. I began to explore the bond between brothers. I originally thought Rob and his brother would be the main characters. Since Vietnam was the backdrop for much of my early life, I decided to explore the Vietnam War as a possible setting.

Q: How did Matt’s character come to you?

A: Once I decided to explore the Vietnam era as a possible setting and backdrop to my story, I read many books about Vietnam and studied countless photographs. I read about the Amerasian (a person born in Asia to a US military father and an Asian mother) children left like dust in the road. I read about the last days of the war and recalled my own experience teaching a child who had been airlifted out of Vietnam as an infant, and who continued to have nightmares five years later. I was surprised to find that not all the children airlifted out of Vietnam were infants. Not all were orphans. Gradually, a story took shape in my mind. A boy’s voice began to speak.

Q: Why did you decide to tell Matt’s story in verse?

A: I’ve been asked this question many times! I didn’t intend to write a verse novel, but once I started writing, it was almost as if Matt were sitting beside me dictating his story. Whenever I tried to impose a more conventional structure, I seemed to destroy the clarity of Matt’s voice. Poetry tends to cut to the heart of the matter. This seemed the best way for Matt to express himself.

Q: What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

A: I love to read, research, travel, and visit museums. I love exploring history, learning things I didn’t know, and discovering people the world may have forgotten. I also love working outside in the garden (though I’m not too fond of bugs) and hiking the nearby mountains (though nothing too strenuous). I enjoy entertaining family and friends, and particularly enjoy cooking with my daughter. Most recently, I’ve been known to waste a few blinks playing Angry Birds.

Q: How did your own interests influence All the Broken Pieces? Are you a baseball fan? Do you play the piano?

A: I like baseball, but I think I’m more of a Yankees fan than a baseball fan. I also took piano lessons but never played as well as Matt! I do, however, tend to rescue broken pencils.

Q: The Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive” runs throughout your book and becomes an important part of Matt’s story. Were there other songs you drew from as you were writing?

A: I like quiet when I write, but I did try to listen to an oldies station when I was driving. It’s always helpful to engage all the senses when researching a particular time period.

There are two other musical allusions in All the Broken Pieces. At one point in the story, Matt practices playing “Oh Shenandoah.” Lots of piano students receive this piece to study and I thought it was particularly appropriate that Matt would be practicing a traditional American folk song that expresses a longing for home. “Oh Shenandoah” reflects Matt’s struggle — the struggle of all immigrants who so earnestly try to become American while, at the same time, longing for their homeland.

Later in the story one of the Vietnam vets is wearing a shirt that says “Box of Rain.” This early seventies song recorded by the Grateful Dead also reflects a sense of loss and longing. I liked it because of the emotions it evokes, and also because rain as a metaphor is explored elsewhere in the story.

The Vietnam War is considered by many to be the most unpopular war the United States ever fought in, and it is the only war the country has ever lost.

The history of this controversial war reaches back to 1946, when Vietnamese communists and nationalists in eastern Indochina rose up against their French colonizers. This was called the First Indochina War (1946–1954), and ended with the defeat of the American-backed French. Chaos in Vietnam was temporarily resolved by a conference held in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1954, which divided the country into the communist North and democratic South. This division was supposed to be a temporary solution, but elections to reunify Vietnam were never held, and many people in the West feared for the future of South Vietnam.

In the United States, president after president decided that South Vietnam should not be allowed to fall under control of communists. For twenty years, the US supported South Vietnam with this purpose in mind. At first the US intervened only as advisors, training South Vietnamese troops to defend themselves from attack, but eventually, in 1965, the US became involved in the Second Indochina War — what Americans refer to as the Vietnam War. This bitter military conflict lasted eight years and took the lives of almost sixty thousand American soldiers, one million Vietnamese troops, and four million Vietnamese civilians. Many Americans, especially young people, protested US involvement in the war through demonstrations across the country. Their anger was in part because of a draft that involuntarily inducted young men into the military, and in part because of the violence against Vietnamese civilians.

In 1973, US leaders, swayed by escalating opposition to the war among the American people, withdrew their troops from South Vietnam. Two years later, just as the US government had feared, North Vietnam invaded the South and declared the birth of a communist Republic of Vietnam.

Sources:

Mason, Andrew. The Vietnam War: A Primary Source History.

Milwaukee, WI: Gareth Stevens Publishing, 2006.

Murray, Stuart. Vietnam War. New York: DK, 2005.

In All the Broken Pieces, Matt and his family spend one day a month with other adoptive families doing things that typical Vietnamese families do — such as participate in important holidays — so that Matt can experience his culture and share a part of his identity with his American family. One of the holidays Matt and his family celebrate, Tet Trung Thu, revolves around the moon (which is at its fullest during this festival) and is mainly for children. Families observe Tet Trung Thu by eating lots of sweets, such as mooncakes. Traditionally, these are small pastries filled with a thick paste of lotus or sweet bean, and salted duck egg yolks to represent the full moon. These ingredients are difficult to find in neighborhood grocery stores, but you can use this modified recipe to make your own sweet treat that features egg yolk.

Mooncakes

Equipment:

Large mixing bowl

Measuring cups and spoons

Wooden spoon or rubber spatula

Plastic wrap

Foil

Cookie sheet

Pastry brush (optional)

Ingredients

½ cup salted butter

¼ cup sugar

2 egg yolks

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup of your favorite jam

Instructions

In the large mixing bowl, combine butter, sugar, and one egg yolk. Stir until creamy and combined completely.

Add the flour and mix thoroughly. Form the dough into one large ball and wrap it in plastic wrap (or foil) and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Unwrap the chilled dough and form small balls (about the size of golf balls) with the palms of your hands.

Place these balls of dough on a cookie sheet covered in foil and use your thumb to gently make an impression in the center of each ball.

Fill each hole with about half a teaspoon of jam.

Beat the remaining egg yolk and brush some onto each cake. This will make your mooncakes golden!

Place the mooncakes in the oven and bake for about 15 to 20 minutes (or just until the outside edges are slightly brown).

Let cool slightly and enjoy!

Paper Lanterns

Creating paper lanterns is also a fun part of celebrating Tet Trung Thu. Follow these instructions to make your own!

Supplies

Construction paper

Scissors

Glue, tape, or a stapler

Instructions

Fold a rectangular piece of construction paper in half, lengthwise, making a long, thin rectangle.

Make a series of cuts (about a dozen or more) along the folded line. Make sure you don’t cut all the way to the edge of the paper.

Unfold the paper. Glue, tape, or staple the short edges of the paper together, making a cylindrical shape.

Cut a strip of paper six inches long and a half inch wide. Glue, tape, or staple this strip of paper across one end of your lantern to create a handle.

Baseball is an important part of All the Broken Pieces. How much do you know about the sport?

How many innings are in a game of baseball?

9

5

7

12

What does “the bases are loaded” mean?

There are no players on the bases.

There are players on first, second, and third base.

There are players on second and third base.

There is a player on first base.

What is a grand slam?

When two players collide on the field.

A home run with the bases loaded.

The special breakfast players eat before a game that consists of two eggs, two strips of bacon, two sausages, and two pancakes.

The official name for the sound of a baseball bat breaking.

Which of these is not a real baseball pitch?

Fastball

Curveball

Fly ball

Slider

What is the bullpen?

Where a team’s mascot is caged.

Where rowdy fans are kept.

Where aggressive players cool down after a fight.

Where pitchers warm up before and during games.

Which of these is not a real position in baseball?

Center Fielder

Catcher

Third Baseman

Base Runner

What is a changeup?

When teams transition from the infield to the outfield.

A slow pitch that is usually thrown after several fast ones to throw off a batter’s timing.

A change of uniforms during a game.

Switching pitchers in the middle of an inning.

Which of these is a real baseball term?

Pepper

Skip

Punt

Baser

1. A (If the game is tied at the ninth inning, the game continues until one team has a higher score at the end of a full inning.)

2. B

3. B

4. C (A fly ball is a ball that is hit high in the air.)

5. D (Usually located behind the outfield wall.)

6. D (A base runner is a player who safely reaches a base.)

7. B

8. A (A pre-game exercise in which one player hits balls to a group of fielders who are standing about twenty feet away. The fielders try to catch the ball and throw it back as quickly as possible.)

Writing — especially writing poetry — can seem intimidating, but as Ann puts it, “poetry tends to cut to the heart of the matter.” This is why she used poetry to express Matt’s feelings in All the Broken Pieces. Poems are personal, and free-verse poems, which Ann used to tell Matt’s story, have fewer rules than other forms of writing. Your words don’t have to rhyme or have a specific rhythm. You don’t have to write in full sentences or fill the page. Here are some suggestions to help you get started on writing a few poems of your own! If you get stuck, flip through All the Broken Pieces for inspiration from Ann (and Matt).

Create a list (poem). You can make a list poem out of anything, like your favorite books, foods, or movies. You could also write a more complicated poem that details how to play an instrument, lists things that frustrate you, or describes places you’ve gone on vacation with your family.

Address your poem to somebody or something. Think about someone with whom you have unfinished business, but are too shy or nervous to approach. Write down what you would say to them. You don’t have to take this type of poem so seriously, though. You can even address a poem to your favorite celebrity or your favorite pair of shoes!

Write from the point of view of another person or object. Let your imagination run wild as you explore what it might feel like to be an animal or an everyday object. It will probably be easiest to personify something that you can observe in your day-to-day life, like a pet, a trashcan, or your desk at school.

Tell a story. Write a poem about a special memory you have, or to tell a fictional story (like Matt’s in All the Broken Pieces). Use only the words that are most important in getting your story across. After all, you’re writing a poem, not an essay. Since you are telling a story (real or imagined), make sure you draw on all your senses — sight, sound, taste, touch, smell — so your poem feels more vivid.

Play around with your poem’s shape! The form of your poem doesn’t have to look like the form of an essay. Is your poem about static? Make your lines irregular and choppy, like real static. Is your poem about being on a deserted island? Make your poem small and centered on the page. This is called concrete poetry. Most of all, remember to have fun!

This book was originally published in hardcover by Scholastic Press in 2009.

Copyright © 2009 by Ann E. Burg. All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, AFTER WORDS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

This edition, first printing March 2012

“Stayin’ Alive” (from Saturday Night Fever) Words and Music by Barry Gibb, Maurice Gibb, and Robin Gibb. Copyright © 1977 (renewed) Crompton Songs LLC and Gibb Brothers Music. All Rights for Crompton Songs LLC Administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

Cover design by Marijka Kostiw

Cover art copyright © Jeffrey Coolidge/Getty Images

e-ISBN 978-0-545-39221-1

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.