Chapter 6 - The Truth Beneath the Missing Frames
The first thing my mother did was call Denise Porter.
She didn't scream.
She didn't panic.
She simply picked up her phone and said, "We need help preserving evidence."
I watched her.
For most of my life, I had seen my mother as tired.
Overworked.
Always worrying about rent.
But now I saw something else.
Strength.
The kind of strength that doesn't need to be loud.
Denise instructed Benjamin to preserve the original drives and not alter anything further.
She arranged for a digital forensic specialist to examine copies through a documented process.
She also advised Benjamin to report the threatening call.
Walter looked furious.
"Ryan thinks he can scare everybody forever."
Mom turned toward him.
"Then don't let him."
Walter lowered his eyes.
"I won't."
That evening, we stayed at a small hotel near the studio.
Coach Ellis ordered pizza.
Nobody ate much.
I sat on the edge of the bed watching my father's training video on my phone.
Benjamin had provided a viewing copy of a separate, undamaged practice clip.
I watched Isaiah throw the Ghost Curve again and again.
His delivery was smooth.
His shoulders relaxed.
His arm moved like a whip.
Then the ball vanished beneath the bat.
I smiled despite everything.
He really was that good.
Then I noticed something strange.
His fingers.
The way he held the ball.
It was exactly my grip.
I had developed it alone.
Nobody taught me.
Nobody showed me a photograph.
Yet somehow, I held the baseball exactly like him.
I looked at Mom.
"Do you think that means something?"
She sat beside me.
"What?"
"The grip."
She watched the video.
Then smiled sadly.
"Your father used to say every pitcher has a language only his hand understands."
I looked at my fingers.
"Maybe I inherited his."
Mom kissed my forehead.
"Maybe you did."
I leaned against her.
For a moment, I felt like a little kid again.
Then I asked the question that had been hurting me.
"Why did you tell me he left?"
Mom's face changed.
She looked down.
"I didn't know how to tell you the truth."
I waited.
"After Isaiah died, people kept calling."
"What people?"
"Reporters. Lawyers. Men from the training program."
Her voice trembled.
"Some wanted interviews. Some wanted me to sign papers. Some told me to stop asking questions."
I felt cold.
"Did they threaten you?"
She nodded.
"One man said that if I kept accusing people, our family would suffer."
I stared at her.
"Did you believe him?"
"I was twenty-two, pregnant, and alone."
Her eyes filled.
"I didn't know who to trust."
I looked away.
She continued.
"When you were little, you asked why your father wasn't around. I told you he wasn't coming back."
I swallowed.
"Later, I started saying he left us."
She began crying.
"I thought it would hurt less than telling you he died before you were born."
I stared at her.
"It hurt anyway."
She nodded.
"I know."
I was angry.
But looking at my mother, I also saw how young she had been.
She had lost the man she loved.
Then raised me alone.
Worked endless hours.
And carried a secret that frightened her for fourteen years.
I took her hand.
"I wish you'd told me."
She squeezed it.
"So do I."
The next morning, Denise called.
A digital specialist had examined the damaged video.
The missing section might be recoverable from another copy or storage area, but it would take additional work.
More importantly, the specialist confirmed that the available footage showed Ryan interacting with the practice screen shortly before the accident.
There was no clear view of exactly what he did.
I felt frustrated.
"So we still can't prove he caused it."
Denise nodded on the screen.
"Not yet."
Walter leaned forward.
"What about the second camera?"
Benjamin joined the call.
"That's what we're trying to recover."
I stared at him.
"Please don't give up."
He smiled sadly.
"I won't, son."
We returned to Atlanta that afternoon.
When I arrived home, our apartment looked different.
Nothing had changed.
The same old couch.
The same scratched table.
The same leaking ceiling.
But now I knew my father had once dreamed of giving us something better.
And I knew his dream had been taken away before he could try.
I opened my school notebook.
On the first page, I wrote:
ISAIAH CARTER.
Underneath, I wrote:
FIND THE TRUTH.
Then I drew a baseball.
I didn't know what else to do.
So I went outside and practiced.
Coach Ellis met me at our neighborhood field.
The sun was setting.
The grass was patchy.
The mound was uneven.
But it was ours.
He handed me a baseball.
"You ready?"
I nodded.
I threw the Ghost Curve.
The ball broke sharply.
He caught it.
Then shook his head.
"Unbelievable."
I smiled.
"Again?"
He nodded.
"Again."
We practiced until the sky turned orange.
Then Coach Ellis sat beside me on the bench.
"Malik, can I tell you something?"
I nodded.
"You're going to have a lot of people interested in you now."
I looked down.
"Because of the video?"
"Because of your arm."
I stared at him.
He continued.
"Some will want to help. Some will want attention. Some will want to use your story."
My stomach tightened.
"What should I do?"
"Remember why you started playing."
I looked toward the empty field.
"To help Mom."
Coach Ellis smiled.
"That's a good reason."
Then he added, "But you also deserve to enjoy the game for yourself."
I thought about that.
For years, baseball had been my escape.
My dream.
My way of imagining a better life.
Now it had become connected to my father's death.
I didn't want to lose the joy.
"I still love pitching," I said.
Coach Ellis nodded.
"Then keep loving it."
A week later, the foundation officially transferred the ten-thousand-dollar donation to the Eastside Eagles.
Ryan Cole's representatives issued a short statement confirming the contribution.
They didn't mention my father.
They didn't mention the accident.
They simply called the challenge an entertaining moment.
The money changed our team immediately.
Coach Ellis bought new catcher's equipment.
Gloves.
Bats.
Helmets.
Uniforms that finally matched.
He also arranged transportation for upcoming tournaments.
When the boxes arrived, my teammates cheered.
I smiled.
For one afternoon, I was just a fourteen-year-old boy playing baseball with his friends.
Then Walter called.
His voice sounded different.
Excited.
Almost frightened.
"Malik, is your mother there?"
I handed her the phone.
She listened.
Her face changed.
"What?"
Then she covered her mouth.
I stood.
"Mom?"
She stared at me.
Walter's voice came through the speaker.
"We found the missing frames."
My heart stopped.
Mom slowly lowered the phone.
Walter continued.
"And Malik..."
I gripped the table.
"What?"
The old coach's voice broke.
"The camera shows who moved the stabilizing weight."
I couldn't breathe.
"Was it Ryan?"
Walter hesitated.
Then answered.
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
My mother began crying.
Walter continued.
"But there's something else."
My heart hammered.
"What else?"
"He wasn't alone."
I opened my eyes.
May you like
Walter's voice dropped.
"Someone from the training program told him to do it."
