Chapter 1
The first thing Ryan Cole did when he saw my baseball bat was laugh.
The second thing he did was snatch it out of my hands.
I was thirteen years old, standing on the most beautiful baseball field I had ever seen, surrounded by professional players who suddenly thought I was the funniest thing in the world.
And the bat Ryan was holding was the only valuable thing my grandfather had left me.
“What's this supposed to be?” Ryan asked.
He turned the battered wooden bat in his hands.
Its brown finish had faded years ago. Deep scratches covered the barrel, and the handle was wrapped in old black tape.
Near the bottom were two engraved initials.
R.H.
Ryan held it above his head.
“Somebody tell me why this kid brought a five-dollar bat onto a professional field!”
Several players laughed.
My face burned.
“Please give it back,” I said.
Ryan looked down at me.
He was tall, handsome, and famous.
His face appeared on billboards across the city. His jerseys sold for hundreds of dollars, and children lined up for hours hoping to get his autograph.
I used to be one of those children.
Now I wished I had never met him.
“Did you hear something?” Ryan asked his teammates.
A player behind him grinned.
“Sounded like somebody begging.”
More laughter.
I tightened my fists.
“My grandfather gave me that bat.”
Ryan examined it again.
“Well, your grandfather should've bought you something better.”
Then he threw it into the dirt.
The bat landed near my shoes.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
I had carried that bat through rainstorms, neighborhood games, and countless evenings at the little public field behind our apartment.
I cleaned it after every practice.
I slept with it beside my bed when I was younger.
And now it lay in the dirt while strangers laughed.
I slowly knelt and picked it up.
My name is Malik Thompson.
I live with my mother in a small apartment on the east side of Columbus, Ohio.
My mother, Denise, works long shifts at a nursing home.
Sometimes she leaves before sunrise and returns after I'm asleep.
We don't have much money.
But she always tells me that being poor doesn't make me less important than anybody else.
I tried to remember that as I stood in front of Ryan Cole.
“Go home, kid,” he said.
I looked toward home plate.
“I came here to try out.”
Ryan burst out laughing.
“For what? The janitorial crew?”
My throat tightened.
The professional team had invited local youth players to a special skills showcase.
My community coach had nominated me after watching me hit seventeen home runs during our summer league.
I knew I wasn't competing for a professional contract.
I only wanted someone to see what I could do.
And maybe, just maybe, earn a place at the team's advanced youth training camp.
Ryan stepped closer.
“You think you can hit against real pitching?”
I nodded.
He smirked.
“Fine.”
He pointed toward home plate.
“One pitch.”
A few players exchanged amused looks.
Ryan folded his arms.
“Go embarrass yourself.”
My heart hammered.
I wanted to walk away.
I wanted to pretend the humiliation didn't matter.
But then I looked down at the worn bat.
I remembered my grandfather's voice.
“Never let somebody else's opinion decide how far you can go.”
I put on the helmet an equipment manager handed me.
Then I stepped into the batter's box.
The pitcher on the mound was a minor-league prospect named Tyler Grant.
He looked toward Ryan.
Ryan gave him a little nod.
“Don't take it easy.”
Tyler frowned.
“Ryan, he's a kid.”
“One pitch,” Ryan repeated.
Tyler took a breath.
I planted my feet.
The stadium suddenly felt enormous.
Sunlight reflected off the empty spaces between thousands of spectators.
Some families were watching from the stands.
Others had stopped taking photographs.
I heard someone shout my name.
It was my mother.
She stood near the railing, still wearing the blue jacket from her overnight shift.
“Come on, Malik!”
I swallowed.
Then I looked toward the mound.
Tyler began his windup.
The ball left his hand.
Everything around me seemed to slow down.
I watched the white ball spin.
I remembered the countless evenings my grandfather had taught me to keep my eyes steady.
I shifted my weight.
Then I swung.
CRACK!
The sound exploded through the stadium.
I felt the impact travel through my arms.
The ball shot toward deep center field.
Higher.
Farther.
The center fielder turned and began running.
Then he stopped.
He looked up.
The ball cleared the wall.
For one impossible second, the stadium went silent.
Then the crowd erupted.
I stood frozen in the batter's box.
Ryan's smile vanished.
A player near the dugout whispered, “No way.”
Someone else shouted, “Did you see that?”
My mother screamed my name.
I lowered the bat.
My hands were shaking.
I hadn't expected to hit the ball that far.
I had only wanted to prove I belonged.
That was when an elderly man came rushing out of the dugout.
He wore a navy baseball cap and matching jacket.
His silver hair showed beneath the brim.
I recognized him immediately.
Coach Walter Harris.
A baseball legend.
A man whose photographs hung inside the stadium museum.
He was seventy-two years old, and people still talked about the way he could recognize talent before anybody else.
But he wasn't looking at my home run.
He was staring at my bat.
Ryan stepped toward me.
“Give me that thing.”
Before he could touch it, Coach Harris grabbed his arm.
“DON'T.”
The entire group went silent.
Ryan stared at him.
“Coach?”
Harris didn't answer.
He looked at me.
“Son, may I see your bat?”
I hesitated.
Then handed it over.
His fingers trembled as he turned the wood.
He brushed dirt away from the handle.
Then he saw the initials.
R.H.
His face went pale.
“Boy,” he whispered, “where did you get this?”
I swallowed.
“It belonged to my grandfather.”
Coach Harris looked as though the ground had disappeared beneath him.
“Your grandfather?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stared at the initials.
Then he whispered something that made my entire body turn cold.
“That's impossible.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Because I watched him die thirty years ago.”
I couldn't breathe.
My grandfather had died only three months earlier.
I had attended his funeral.
I had watched my mother cry beside his casket.
And now a famous baseball coach was telling me he had watched the same man die thirty years before.
“That can't be right,” I whispered.
Coach Harris didn't answer.
His attention had moved to the worn black tape around the handle.
Something beneath it had caught his eye.
He carefully lifted a loose edge.
A second engraving appeared.
Only part of it was visible.
Coach Harris stumbled backward.
Ryan caught his arm.
“Coach, what's wrong?”
Harris stared at the hidden letters.
His lips trembled.
Then he looked at me with an expression I would never forget.
“Malik,” he whispered, “what was your grandfather's full name?”
I opened my mouth.
But before I could answer, a woman screamed from the stands.
“Walter! Don't you dare say another word!”
I turned.
My mother was standing at the railing.
May you like
Her face was white with fear.
And for the first time in my life, I realized she had been keeping something from me.
