Chapter 1
"HEY, LAWN BOY! THROW IT BACK!"
The baseball hit the dirt so hard that dust exploded around my boots.
I stopped pushing the lawn mower.
Across the beautiful green field, seventeen-year-old Tyler Brooks stood laughing with his teammates.
He wore a spotless white-and-navy uniform, expensive cleats, and a baseball glove that probably cost more than my mother earned in a week.
I wore a faded beige T-shirt, jeans with holes in both knees, and work boots held together with old shoelaces.
My name is Malik Johnson.
I was fourteen years old.
And until that afternoon, nobody at Westbridge Academy knew I could throw a baseball.
Tyler pointed at the ball.
"Come on, lawn boy! Pick it up!"
His teammates burst into laughter.
I looked toward the bleachers.
A few parents were watching practice. Nobody seemed interested in what was happening to me.
Coach Marcus Reynolds stood near third base, checking something on his clipboard.
He didn't tell Tyler to stop.
He never did.
I bent down and picked up the baseball.
The leather felt strangely familiar.
For a second, I forgot about the laughter.
I forgot about my worn boots.
I forgot that I was supposed to be mowing the grass instead of standing on it.
I remembered my father.
"Don't throw with your arm, Malik," he used to tell me. "Throw with your whole body. Your arm just finishes the promise."
My father had taught me that before he died.
I was nine when I lost him.
Five years later, I could still hear his voice whenever I held a baseball.
Tyler cupped his hands around his mouth.
"WHAT'S TAKING SO LONG?"
I looked toward the catcher standing near home plate.
He was nearly a hundred feet away.
"Throw it!" Tyler shouted.
I took one step.
Turned my shoulders.
And released the ball.
The sound was different from anything those boys expected.
The baseball sliced through the afternoon air.
Straight.
Fast.
Almost impossibly clean.
It slammed into the catcher's glove with a sharp crack.
The catcher stumbled backward.
His glove snapped against his chest.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then the catcher lowered his hand.
"What the..."
Tyler's smile disappeared.
Coach Marcus looked up.
"Who threw that?"
One of the players pointed at me.
"The lawn kid."
Coach Marcus slowly removed his sunglasses.
He stared at me.
I immediately wished I had thrown the ball somewhere else.
All I wanted was to finish my work, collect my twenty-five dollars, and get home before my mother worried.
Tyler marched toward me.
"Beginner's luck."
I said nothing.
He stepped closer.
"You're acting like you're something special?"
I lowered my eyes.
"No, sir."
The words came automatically.
My mother had taught me to be polite, especially around people who could take away my job.
Tyler laughed.
"Did you hear that? He called me sir!"
More laughter followed.
Then a voice came from the bleachers.
"Do that again."
It was quiet.
But every person on the field heard it.
An elderly man stood beside the wooden railing.
He looked to be in his late seventies, with silver hair, a cream-colored shirt, and a brown vest.
I had seen him sitting there before.
Always alone.
Always watching practice.
I assumed he was somebody's grandfather.
Tyler rolled his eyes.
"He's just the lawn kid."
The elderly man looked directly at him.
"Quiet."
Something about the way he said it made Tyler stop talking.
The man turned back to me.
"Son, throw another one."
I looked at Coach Marcus.
He didn't move.
I wasn't sure whether I was allowed.
The elderly man nodded toward the catcher.
"Same distance."
I swallowed.
My fingers tightened around the baseball Tyler had tossed back toward me.
I thought about refusing.
I couldn't afford to lose this job.
Mom's medication was expensive, and our electricity bill was overdue.
But then I remembered something Dad told me when I was little.
"Never let somebody else's opinion decide what your hands can do."
I looked at the catcher.
He raised his glove.
I stepped forward.
And threw.
The ball flew even faster than the first one.
The catcher caught it with a violent pop.
He immediately pulled off his glove and shook his hand.
"COACH!"
Coach Marcus stared at me.
One player whispered, "No way."
Another said, "How old is that kid?"
Tyler's face turned red.
"He's throwing from closer than we do!"
The elderly man was already walking down the bleacher steps.
He moved slowly, but his eyes never left me.
When he reached the fence, he opened the gate and stepped onto the field.
Coach Marcus hurried toward him.
"Mr. Whitmore, I didn't realize you were still here."
The elderly man ignored him.
He stopped directly in front of me.
Up close, his face was deeply lined.
His eyes were sharp.
He looked at my hands.
Then my shoulders.
Then my throwing arm.
"Son," he said, "what's your name?"
"Malik Johnson."
Something changed in his expression.
"Johnson?"
"Yes, sir."
He seemed to study my face.
"How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
The old man froze.
Behind him, Coach Marcus gave a nervous laugh.
"He's one of our maintenance helpers. His mother works nearby."
The man didn't look away from me.
"Fourteen?"
I nodded.
"Yes, sir."
He turned toward Coach Marcus.
"Call the league office."
Coach Marcus frowned.
"Excuse me?"
"Now."
Tyler threw his glove onto the grass.
"This is ridiculous! He's not even on the team!"
The elderly man spun around.
"I didn't ask you."
Then he looked at Coach Marcus again.
"Call the youth league director. And tell your athletic director I want to speak with him."
Coach Marcus looked suddenly uncomfortable.
"Mr. Whitmore, perhaps we should discuss this privately."
"No."
The man's voice became firm.
"I want everybody to understand what just happened."
My stomach tightened.
Had I broken a rule?
Was I about to be fired?
I took a nervous step backward.
"Sir, I wasn't trying to cause trouble."
The elderly man looked at me.
For the first time, his expression softened.
"Trouble?"
I nodded toward the mower.
"I was just doing my job."
He stared at me for several seconds.
Then he said something that changed my life.
"That arm shouldn't be cutting grass."
I didn't know what to say.
He studied my face again.
"Malik Johnson," he repeated quietly.
I nodded.
Then he asked a question that made my heart skip.
"Was your father's name David Johnson?"
I felt the entire world go silent.
"Yes, sir."
The old man closed his eyes.
When he opened them, they were wet.
Coach Marcus took a step forward.
"Arthur, please."
But the old man raised his hand.
Then he looked directly at me.
"Malik, I knew your father."
My throat tightened.
"You did?"
He nodded slowly.
"Your father was one of the finest pitchers I ever saw."
I stared at him.
Nobody had spoken about Dad's baseball career in years.
The old man reached into his vest pocket.
He removed a faded photograph.
And when he turned it toward me, I saw my father standing beside him in a professional baseball uniform.
The photograph had been taken years before I was born.
The old man whispered, "I have been looking for your family for a very long time."
Then Coach Marcus suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Arthur. Don't."
The old man looked at the coach.
And the warmth disappeared from his face.
"Why, Marcus?"
May you like
He glanced at me.
"Because you don't want this boy to know what happened to his father?"
