Chapter 2
My mother had never looked afraid of another person before.
I had seen her exhausted.
I had seen her worried about rent.
I had seen her cry quietly after my grandfather's funeral.
But the expression on her face as she stared at Coach Harris was different.
She looked terrified.
“Mom?”
I started toward the stands.
She shook her head.
“Malik, come here.”
Coach Harris still held my bat.
His fingers were wrapped tightly around the handle.
“Denise?” he whispered.
My mother closed her eyes.
Ryan looked between them.
“Wait. You two know each other?”
Neither answered.
I climbed the short stairs toward the railing.
“Mom, what's happening?”
She reached for me.
“Get your things. We're leaving.”
“But the showcase—”
“Now, Malik.”
Her voice cracked.
That frightened me more than anything else.
My mother never raised her voice unless something was seriously wrong.
I looked back at Coach Harris.
He had followed us toward the railing.
“Denise, please.”
My mother stepped in front of me.
“You promised.”
Harris stopped.
I stared at her.
“Promised what?”
She ignored my question.
“Walter, you gave me your word.”
The coach looked down.
“I didn't know the boy was here.”
“You weren't supposed to know.”
My stomach twisted.
I felt as though everybody had been handed a script except me.
“Mom, who is he talking about?”
She took my hand.
“We'll talk at home.”
“No.”
The word surprised even me.
She looked at me.
I swallowed hard.
“I want to know why he says Grandpa died thirty years ago.”
Her face crumpled.
Coach Harris spoke quietly.
“Because I knew a man named Raymond Harris.”
My heart stopped.
Raymond.
That was my grandfather's first name.
“Raymond Harris?” I repeated.
The coach nodded.
“He was my younger brother.”
I stared at him.
Then at my mother.
Then at the initials carved into the bat.
R.H.
For thirteen years, I had believed they stood for Raymond Harris.
I just hadn't known what the name meant to this man.
“You're Grandpa's brother?”
Coach Harris looked at my mother.
She said nothing.
He turned back toward me.
“If your grandfather was the Raymond Harris I knew, then yes.”
I took a step backward.
“But Grandpa never said he had a brother.”
Tears filled the old man's eyes.
“I know.”
My mother grabbed my shoulder.
“Malik, please.”
I pulled away.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked devastated.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
She couldn't answer.
Behind us, people were beginning to gather.
Several spectators had their phones raised.
Ryan stood nearby with his teammates.
I heard him whisper, “This is getting weird.”
Coach Harris turned sharply.
“Ryan, take the players back to the dugout.”
Ryan frowned.
“Coach, I was just—”
“Now.”
Nobody laughed anymore.
The players walked away.
I barely noticed.
I couldn't stop staring at the old man.
He had the same deep-set eyes my grandfather had.
The same broad nose.
Even the way he held his shoulders looked familiar.
How had I not seen it before?
Coach Harris slowly handed me the bat.
“Son, what did Raymond tell you about this?”
I hugged it against my chest.
“He said it was the first bat he ever loved.”
Harris swallowed.
“What else?”
“He told me never to sell it.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“He told me the scratches were memories.”
The coach covered his mouth.
For a moment, I thought he might cry.
Then he whispered, “That sounds like Ray.”
I felt tears gathering in my own eyes.
“Why did you think he died?”
Harris looked toward the field.
“It happened during the summer of 1996.”
He paused.
“Your grandfather was twenty-eight. He was one of the best hitters I'd ever seen.”
I stared.
“Grandpa played professional baseball?”
The coach nodded.
“Minor leagues. He was close to getting his chance in the majors.”
My knees felt weak.
Grandpa had spent years teaching me baseball.
But he never told me he had played professionally.
I remembered asking him once whether he had ever hit a home run in a real stadium.
He laughed and said, “I hit a few that made people angry.”
I thought he was joking.
Coach Harris continued.
“Then there was an accident.”
“What accident?”
“A team bus went off the road during a storm.”
My mother looked away.
“Several people died,” Harris said.
“Raymond was reported among them.”
I stared at him.
“But he survived.”
The coach nodded slowly.
“Apparently.”
I looked at my mother.
“You knew?”
She began crying.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more than I expected.
“You knew Grandpa had a whole family?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
She reached for me.
“Malik, please understand—”
I stepped away.
“I trusted you.”
Her face changed.
Those words wounded her.
I knew they did.
But I couldn't take them back.
For years, Grandpa had told me stories about playing baseball as a child.
He talked about his brother sometimes.
But he never used a name.
He called him “the boy who always stole my glove.”
I thought those were ordinary childhood memories.
Now I wondered how much of his life had been hidden.
Coach Harris spoke.
“Denise, I need to know what happened after the accident.”
My mother wiped her cheeks.
“Not here.”
“Please.”
“Not in front of cameras.”
Only then did I notice how many people were watching.
A woman was recording from the stands.
Two reporters had approached the field entrance.
One held a microphone.
I suddenly understood that my private family life had become entertainment.
My mother gripped my hand.
“Come on.”
I looked at Coach Harris.
“Will you tell me the truth?”
He nodded.
“Every part I know.”
We left through a staff hallway.
A stadium employee guided us toward a private room.
Coach Harris followed.
Inside, my mother sat beside me.
She looked exhausted.
Harris stood near the door, staring at the bat.
Finally, my mother spoke.
“Raymond wasn't on that bus when it crashed.”
The coach turned.
“What?”
“He got off before the accident.”
Harris gripped the back of a chair.
“Why?”
My mother hesitated.
Then she whispered, “Because someone warned him not to get on.”
The old man went completely still.
“Who?”
My mother looked at me.
Then at Harris.
“Raymond believed somebody wanted him dead.”
I felt cold all over.
Coach Harris slowly sat down.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he asked, “Who did he suspect?”
My mother wiped her face.
“He never told me the full name.”
“Denise.”
“He was afraid, Walter.”
Harris leaned forward.
“Afraid of whom?”
My mother looked toward the closed door.
Then she spoke so softly I almost missed it.
“Someone connected to the team.”
Coach Harris stared at her.
“That's impossible.”
She shook her head.
“That's what Raymond said you would tell him.”
The coach looked wounded.
“Ray never came to me.”
“He tried.”
“What?”
“He said he left you a letter before he disappeared.”
Harris slowly shook his head.
“I never received a letter.”
My mother began trembling.
“Then somebody intercepted it.”
I looked down at my bat.
The loose tape had shifted farther.
Underneath, a few more engraved letters were visible.
I lifted the edge.
“Coach?”
He looked at me.
“There's something here.”
I turned the bat.
He leaned closer.
A hidden message had been carved into the wood.
The letters were faint.
But I could read the first word.
TRUST.
Below it was another name.
My hands began shaking.
“Mom,” I whispered, “why does Grandpa's bat have Ryan Cole's last name carved into it?”
Coach Harris grabbed the handle.
His face drained of color.
May you like
Because beneath the tape, the message was finally becoming clear.
And whatever it meant, it connected my grandfather's disappearance to the family of the man who had just humiliated me.
