the Civil War.”
I was still wearing my flak jacket and helmet. I took the helmet off. It felt like I’d need the maximum amount of blood circulation to my brain to make sense of this.
“They’re for you,” Zima said. “Somebody dropped them off with Civil Affairs by accident.”
“What the hell do we need these for?” I said.
He smiled one of his stupidly beatific smiles at me. “They’re for the Iraqis to play baseball in,” he said.
“Iraqis don’t play baseball,” I said.
Zima frowned, as though this complication had just occurred to him. Then, as he looked at the uniform in his hand, his face lit up in a grin.
“Then they can play soccer in them!” he said. “They’ll love it. They play on dirt fields anyway. The leggings will protect them.”
“Okay,” I said. “But why are they here? Why am I looking at fifty baseball uniforms in the middle of Camp Taji?”
Major Zima nodded, as if to let me know he thought it was a valid question. “Because Gene Goodwin sent them to us,” he said. “Gene Goodwin thinks baseball is just the thing for Iraqis.”
“Who is Gene— You know what? It doesn’t matter. Am I supposed to take care of this?”
“Well,” said the major, “are you going to teach the Iraqis baseball?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s a problem,” said the major, frowning.
I put my face in my hands and rubbed my forehead. “Are
you
going to teach the Iraqis to play baseball?” I said.
“I don’t think they’d be interested,” he said.
We stood staring at each other, me scowling and Zima smiling angelically. I knelt and looked at the package. There was a sheet inside detailing the contents. It said the uniforms were sized for boys eight to ten. I figured the malnutrition in our area meant they’d fit best on thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds.
“There was a convoy just for this?” I said.
“No,” he said. “I’m sure they were carrying other Class One supplies.”
“So . . . energy drinks, Pop-Tarts, and those muffins nobody eats?”
“Fuel for the American soldier!”
I rubbed my forehead. “Who exactly is Gene Goodwin?” I said.
“The mattress king of northern Kansas,” said Major Zima.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“I’ve never met him,” Zima continued, “but when Representative Gordon was here, he made a special point of telling me one of his key constituents had a spot-on idea for Iraqi democracy.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said it in front of everybody. Including Chris Roper.”
“I see,” I said. Chris Roper was my boss. He generally didn’t make it out of the Green Zone but when a congressional delegation swung through, Roper tagged along to do a bit of war tourism. Nobody wants to do a year in Iraq and come back with nothing but stories about the soft-serve ice-cream machine at the embassy cafeteria.
“What did Chris Roper say?” I asked.
“Oh, he told the congressman how ‘sports diplomacy’ was the new thing, and they’d been setting up matches between Sunni and Shi’a soccer teams. It’s all the rage at the embassy, he said. It’s been very effective.”
“Very effective at what?”
“Well,” said the major, beaming, “I’m not sure, but they make for some great photos.”
I took a deep breath. “Chris Roper thinks this is a good idea?”
“Absolutely not,” said the major, an expression of outrage on his face.
“Then Representative Gordon . . . ,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said Major Zima. “But he did tell me and the colonel what a key constituent Mr. Goodwin was, and how angry Mr. Goodwin was that no one seemed to take his baseball plan seriously.”
“And you told him the ePRT guys could handle it.”
“I said you’d be honored.”
• • •
Bob thought the uniforms were hilarious. About twenty times a day he’d look up at them, crack a smile, and then go back to playing solitaire on his computer. Cindy was less amused, and she carefully pointed
I was still wearing my flak jacket and helmet. I took the helmet off. It felt like I’d need the maximum amount of blood circulation to my brain to make sense of this.
“They’re for you,” Zima said. “Somebody dropped them off with Civil Affairs by accident.”
“What the hell do we need these for?” I said.
He smiled one of his stupidly beatific smiles at me. “They’re for the Iraqis to play baseball in,” he said.
“Iraqis don’t play baseball,” I said.
Zima frowned, as though this complication had just occurred to him. Then, as he looked at the uniform in his hand, his face lit up in a grin.
“Then they can play soccer in them!” he said. “They’ll love it. They play on dirt fields anyway. The leggings will protect them.”
“Okay,” I said. “But why are they here? Why am I looking at fifty baseball uniforms in the middle of Camp Taji?”
Major Zima nodded, as if to let me know he thought it was a valid question. “Because Gene Goodwin sent them to us,” he said. “Gene Goodwin thinks baseball is just the thing for Iraqis.”
“Who is Gene— You know what? It doesn’t matter. Am I supposed to take care of this?”
“Well,” said the major, “are you going to teach the Iraqis baseball?”
“No,” I said.
“That’s a problem,” said the major, frowning.
I put my face in my hands and rubbed my forehead. “Are
you
going to teach the Iraqis to play baseball?” I said.
“I don’t think they’d be interested,” he said.
We stood staring at each other, me scowling and Zima smiling angelically. I knelt and looked at the package. There was a sheet inside detailing the contents. It said the uniforms were sized for boys eight to ten. I figured the malnutrition in our area meant they’d fit best on thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds.
“There was a convoy just for this?” I said.
“No,” he said. “I’m sure they were carrying other Class One supplies.”
“So . . . energy drinks, Pop-Tarts, and those muffins nobody eats?”
“Fuel for the American soldier!”
I rubbed my forehead. “Who exactly is Gene Goodwin?” I said.
“The mattress king of northern Kansas,” said Major Zima.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“I’ve never met him,” Zima continued, “but when Representative Gordon was here, he made a special point of telling me one of his key constituents had a spot-on idea for Iraqi democracy.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said it in front of everybody. Including Chris Roper.”
“I see,” I said. Chris Roper was my boss. He generally didn’t make it out of the Green Zone but when a congressional delegation swung through, Roper tagged along to do a bit of war tourism. Nobody wants to do a year in Iraq and come back with nothing but stories about the soft-serve ice-cream machine at the embassy cafeteria.
“What did Chris Roper say?” I asked.
“Oh, he told the congressman how ‘sports diplomacy’ was the new thing, and they’d been setting up matches between Sunni and Shi’a soccer teams. It’s all the rage at the embassy, he said. It’s been very effective.”
“Very effective at what?”
“Well,” said the major, beaming, “I’m not sure, but they make for some great photos.”
I took a deep breath. “Chris Roper thinks this is a good idea?”
“Absolutely not,” said the major, an expression of outrage on his face.
“Then Representative Gordon . . . ,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said Major Zima. “But he did tell me and the colonel what a key constituent Mr. Goodwin was, and how angry Mr. Goodwin was that no one seemed to take his baseball plan seriously.”
“And you told him the ePRT guys could handle it.”
“I said you’d be honored.”
• • •
Bob thought the uniforms were hilarious. About twenty times a day he’d look up at them, crack a smile, and then go back to playing solitaire on his computer. Cindy was less amused, and she carefully pointed
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