Chapter 1
The baseball superstar pointed his bat directly at my face and laughed.
"Strike me out twice, kid, and my sports car is yours!"
The crowd exploded with laughter.
I stood on the dusty pitcher's mound, gripping a baseball that had belonged to my father.
My name is Malik Johnson.
I was fourteen years old.
My shoes had holes in them.
My shirt was faded.
And the man humiliating me was Ethan Cole, one of the most famous baseball players in America.
Beyond the right-field fence sat his bright red luxury sports car.
It probably cost more than my mother had earned in ten years.
Ethan looked toward the bleachers.
"Anybody think this little guy can throw?"
More laughter.
Some spectators pulled out their phones.
A man shouted, "Be careful, Ethan! He might throw it backward!"
I lowered my eyes.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I could hear my father's voice.
Don't waste your strength proving yourself to people who don't respect you, son.
Let the ball do the talking.
My father had been dead for three years.
But every time I stepped onto a baseball field, I felt him standing beside me.
Ethan tapped his bat against home plate.
"Come on, kid. I haven't got all day."
I looked at him.
"Are you serious about the car?"
He laughed even harder.
"Listen to him! He actually thinks he can win!"
Several people cheered.
Ethan pointed toward the red car.
"Two clean strikes. Two pitches. You beat me twice, you get the keys."
The catcher crouched behind home plate.
I took a slow breath.
The ball felt familiar against my fingers.
Two seams beneath my index finger.
One beneath my middle finger.
My father had taught me that grip when I was eight.
"Remember," he'd said, "speed doesn't matter if you can't control where the ball goes."
I lifted my left leg.
Turned my shoulders.
And released.
The baseball shot toward home plate.
Ethan swung.
Hard.
His bat sliced through empty air.
A sharp pop echoed across the field as the catcher caught the ball.
For one unbelievable second, nobody moved.
Then the umpire shouted, "Strike!"
The laughter stopped.
Ethan stared at his bat.
I stood motionless on the mound.
The catcher slowly removed his mask.
"Man," he whispered. "That thing moved."
Ethan looked toward the crowd.
"Lucky pitch."
A few people laughed nervously.
But the sound wasn't the same anymore.
I could see something changing in their faces.
They weren't laughing at me now.
They were wondering.
Ethan stepped out of the batter's box.
He adjusted his gloves.
Then he looked directly at me.
"Do it again."
I didn't answer.
Behind the chain-link fence, an elderly man suddenly stood.
He had silver hair and wore a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
I had noticed him earlier.
He'd been sitting alone near the dugout.
Now his eyes were fixed on my throwing arm.
"Wait a minute," he whispered.
The woman beside him frowned.
"What?"
The old man gripped the fence.
"Where did that kid learn that delivery?"
I couldn't hear him clearly.
But I saw his expression.
He looked as though he'd seen a ghost.
Ethan stepped back into position.
"Come on, superstar."
He raised his bat.
"Let's see that magic trick twice."
The crowd grew quiet.
I felt sweat running down my forehead.
My heartbeat seemed louder than the people in the stands.
Then I remembered another afternoon.
Three years earlier.
My father standing behind our little house in Georgia.
A worn baseball glove on his left hand.
"Again, Malik."
My arm had been aching.
"Dad, I'm tired."
He'd smiled.
"Then slow down. Perfect the motion. Don't force it."
I remembered the way he'd lifted his knee.
The way his shoulders turned.
The way his fingers released the ball.
I had practiced that motion thousands of times.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes under streetlights.
Sometimes in the rain.
Sometimes when our electricity had been turned off and the only thing I could afford to do was throw baseballs against an old brick wall.
I looked at Ethan.
Then I raised my leg.
My shoulders rotated.
My arm came forward.
The ball flew.
Ethan swung with everything he had.
His body twisted.
His bat cut through the air.
And the baseball slammed into the catcher's glove.
"STRIKE TWO!"
The crowd erupted.
People jumped from their seats.
Someone screamed.
The catcher stumbled backward, staring at his glove.
Ethan froze.
His bat hung loosely in his hands.
For a moment, his face looked completely empty.
Then he turned toward the umpire.
"That wasn't a strike!"
The umpire pointed at the plate.
"It crossed the zone."
Ethan shook his head.
"No way."
A man in the crowd shouted, "Pay the kid!"
Another yelled, "You made the bet!"
The laughter had returned.
But this time, nobody was laughing at me.
I lowered my throwing arm.
Then I pointed toward the red sports car.
Ethan followed my finger.
His face turned red.
"You think you're getting my car?"
I said nothing.
I didn't know whether he would honor his promise.
Honestly, I didn't care as much as everyone thought.
I cared about something else.
For the first time since my father died, people had watched me pitch without telling me I didn't belong.
Then the dugout gate slammed open.
The elderly man from behind the fence hurried toward the field.
"Wait!"
He was breathing hard.
His hands trembled.
Ethan frowned.
"Who are you?"
The man ignored him.
He walked straight toward me.
Up close, I could see that his eyes were filled with tears.
"Son," he whispered.
I took a step backward.
He stopped immediately.
"What's your name?"
"Malik."
"Malik what?"
"Johnson."
His expression changed.
He looked down at the baseball in my hand.
Then at my pitching arm.
"Who taught you to throw like that?"
I swallowed.
"My father."
The man's face went pale.
He pressed one hand against his chest.
"Your father?"
I nodded.
He looked toward the sky.
Then back at me.
His voice shook.
"What was his name?"
I tightened my fingers around the baseball.
May you like
Because my father's name was the one thing I had always been proud to carry.
And I had no idea that saying it would change my life forever.
