A very short story I wrote

The Kickball Game

It was the second to last week of summer school, very hot, and the kids were desperately tired of history. To shake things up a bit, I asked them if they wanted to challenge another class to a kickball game on the school baseball diamond. Hands shot up in the air along with a chorus of “oh yeah” and “we’ll kill ‘em.” I was pleased that they were so into the idea, I could use the break myself. As I began to quiet the class, I noticed that the response wasn’t unanimous. Sitting against the wall were two girls wearing thick black robes and hijabs shifting their eyes around the room looking quite uneasy. I told the class that I would make the arrangements with the other teacher and made a mental note to check in with the two girls.

After what seemed to be an unending day, students collected their things and began to file out of the classroom. I stopped Muna and Saleema and asked them how they felt about challenging the other class. Always shy, Saleema shrunk behind Muna’s shoulder while Muna stepped forward making it clear that she would speak for the both of them. With chopped up words and truncated syllables she explained that they would participate as a school activity, but that they would not wear any other clothing. I explained that it wasn’t required and that they could sit and watch or read. “No, no,” she responded, “we play.”

The other class accepted our challenge with similar enthusiasm and the day quickly came. It was eleven in the morning, but the thermometer already read ninety degrees, odd for Portland. The humidity made it that much more uncomfortable. Most students came adequately dressed for the weather, a couple girls however, pushed the dress code to the limit - more dressed for the beach than for school. On the other end of the spectrum were the two Muslim girls still covered from head-to-toe. I worried how they would play. They already stuck out at a time when it is so important to fit in.

A coin toss decided that my class would be up first. We decided on a batting order. The two girls volunteered to go last. As the game got underway it was clear that it would be a challenge. We racked up a few more runs than our opponent in the early innings, and the competitive nature of high school kids swelled to its peak. In the top of the third inning, we were ahead by two. It was Saleema’s turn to kick.

“You’re up Saleema,” I hollered keeping it as light hearted as possible.

Her head sunk. I approached her and could see that sweat had soaked into the edges of her headscarf.

“You don’t have to play,” I reminded her.

She drew a hand up to her mouth and mumbled, “I will do it.” She looked at her friend who nodded in approval.

As Saleema walked to the plate her long robes swept the dry dirt creating a dust cloud behind her. The atmosphere shifted as cheers diminished. With a signal from the shortstop, the opposing team moved in closer, a judgment no kid wants.

Saleema stood behind the plate a little slumped with two fists to her mouth. She looked scared. I remembered the essay she wrote for class about her family’s journey from Somalia. They fled the country due to the violent struggle there, one that took her sister’s life and left her with a scar given by mongrel men. She had come a great distance to now arrive at home plate.

With a slight grunt the pitcher rolled the ball. Saleema dropped her hands to her sides, stood up straight, and relaxed. The ball rolled closer and she moved forward to meet it. She took several steps toward the plate. As she picked up speed, her robe lifted off the ground and exposed a pair of Adidas soccer shoes. Saleema connected with the ball with a loud THWAP and it launched into the air. The defense craned their necks as the ball soared over their heads. My class erupted with cheers as Saleema rounded the bases.