Chapter 2
I stared at Coach Marcus.
"What happened to my father?"
Nobody answered.
The field had gone completely quiet.
The catcher was still standing near home plate, holding the baseball I had thrown.
Tyler watched us with an expression I couldn't understand.
The elderly man gently pulled his arm away from Coach Marcus.
"Take your hand off me."
Coach Marcus immediately stepped back.
"Arthur, you're misunderstanding the situation."
"Then explain it."
The coach glanced at me.
"This isn't the time."
The old man gave a bitter laugh.
"You've had more than ten years to find the right time."
My stomach twisted.
I had come to Westbridge Academy expecting nothing more than another afternoon of mowing grass.
Now two men were arguing about my dead father.
I stepped forward.
"Please."
They both looked at me.
"If you knew my dad, just tell me."
The old man studied my face.
Then he nodded.
"My name is Arthur Whitmore. I spent forty years scouting professional baseball players."
I knew what a scout was.
Dad used to talk about them when he told me stories before bedtime.
Scouts watched players.
They looked for talent.
Sometimes they helped young athletes reach places they had only dreamed about.
Arthur continued.
"I first met your father when he was nineteen."
I felt my chest tighten.
"He was playing?"
Arthur smiled sadly.
"Playing? Son, David Johnson could make a baseball dance."
A few players shifted closer.
Arthur kept talking.
"He had control, movement, and the kind of natural rhythm coaches spend years trying to teach."
I looked down at my hands.
Dad had taught me to throw when I was five.
We practiced in the narrow alley behind our apartment.
Sometimes he used an old tennis ball because we couldn't afford new baseballs.
"He never told me he was that good," I whispered.
Arthur's smile disappeared.
"Your father wasn't the kind of man who bragged."
Coach Marcus interrupted.
"Arthur, that's enough."
Arthur turned toward him.
"Why?"
The coach's jaw tightened.
"You're upsetting the boy."
I looked at Coach Marcus.
"No, sir. You're upsetting me by trying to stop him."
A few players exchanged surprised looks.
I rarely spoke back to adults.
Especially rich adults.
But something inside me had changed.
Arthur touched my shoulder.
"Where is your mother, Malik?"
"At work."
"Where?"
"Riverside Community Hospital. She cleans rooms on the evening shift."
Arthur nodded.
"What's her name?"
"Angela."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Angela Johnson."
"You know her too?"
"I met her once, years ago."
Coach Marcus suddenly stepped between us.
"Malik, you need to get back to work."
I stared at him.
"Sir?"
"Your job is to maintain the field. Not interrupt practice."
Arthur's face hardened.
"Marcus."
The coach ignored him.
"Put the baseball down and finish mowing."
My cheeks burned.
Every player was watching.
I could hear Tyler breathing behind me.
My hands tightened around the baseball.
For one horrible moment, I felt as though I had done something shameful.
Then Arthur spoke.
"How much are you paying this child?"
Coach Marcus looked startled.
"Excuse me?"
"How much?"
"That's a maintenance matter."
Arthur took one step closer.
"I asked you a simple question."
The coach looked toward the athletic building.
"Twenty-five dollars per shift."
Arthur stared at him.
"And how long is a shift?"
"Three hours."
"After school?"
"Yes."
Arthur looked at my boots.
Then my hands.
The palms were rough from pulling weeds and moving equipment.
He shook his head.
"Does the school have a formal arrangement with his family for this work?"
Coach Marcus folded his arms.
"He's helping the grounds crew."
Arthur's expression became cold.
"We'll discuss that with the administration."
My heart pounded.
I didn't want anybody to investigate my job.
I needed that money.
Without it, Mom and I couldn't afford groceries.
I looked at Arthur.
"Please don't get me fired."
His face changed immediately.
"Malik, why would I want that?"
"Because I need this job."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"I understand."
But I wasn't sure he did.
People who wore nice clothes and spoke confidently about professional baseball didn't understand what it meant to choose between medicine and electricity.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Mom.
Baby, I picked up another shift. Don't wait for dinner.
My throat tightened.
She had already worked six hours that morning.
Now she was going back.
I slipped the phone into my pocket.
"I really have to finish."
Arthur stepped aside.
"All right."
I thought the conversation was over.
Then he said, "But I would like to speak with your mother."
I hesitated.
"About baseball?"
"About several things."
Coach Marcus shook his head.
"Arthur, leave the family alone."
The old man looked at him.
"That's a strange thing for you to say."
I turned toward Coach Marcus.
He avoided my eyes.
Arthur took a small card from his pocket and handed it to me.
"Give this to your mother."
I examined it.
Arthur Whitmore.
Former Professional Baseball Scout.
Director Emeritus, Whitmore Youth Baseball Foundation.
I stared at the words.
Foundation?
I didn't know he was important.
Arthur smiled gently.
"Tell Angela I'd appreciate a call."
I nodded.
Then I returned to the lawn mower.
For another hour, I tried to concentrate.
But every few minutes, my eyes drifted toward the bleachers.
Arthur was gone.
Coach Marcus had disappeared into the athletic building.
Tyler kept staring at me.
When practice ended, I pushed the mower toward the storage shed.
I was locking the gate when Tyler approached.
Two teammates followed him.
He tossed his glove into the air.
"Nice little trick, lawn boy."
I didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
"You think you're better than me?"
"No."
"Then why were you showing off?"
I looked at him.
"You told me to throw."
His face darkened.
One of his teammates laughed nervously.
Tyler shoved my shoulder.
"Don't get smart."
I stumbled backward against the mower.
My anger rose.
But I remembered Mom.
Remembered the rent.
Remembered how many shifts she had worked this week.
So I lowered my eyes.
"Can I go home?"
Tyler leaned closer.
"Stay away from Arthur Whitmore."
I looked up.
"Why?"
His expression changed.
"Because you don't belong here."
I stepped around him.
He grabbed my sleeve.
And ripped it.
I stared at the torn fabric.
It was one of only three shirts I wore to work.
Tyler smiled.
"Oops."
Something hot rose in my chest.
But before I could speak, a voice came from behind us.
"Let him go."
We turned.
Arthur stood beside the storage building.
His face was furious.
Tyler released my sleeve immediately.
Arthur looked at the torn shirt.
Then at Tyler.
"Is this how Westbridge treats people?"
Tyler swallowed.
"I was joking."
Arthur stepped closer.
"Then explain why nobody is laughing."
Tyler said nothing.
Arthur turned to me.
"Malik, come with me."
I hesitated.
"Sir?"
"There's something you need to see."
He reached into his jacket and removed a small photograph.
It showed my father standing on a baseball field.
Beside him was a much younger Coach Marcus.
I frowned.
"Why does Coach Marcus have his arm around Dad?"
Arthur's eyes darkened.
"Because your father trusted him."
May you like
He paused.
"And that trust cost David Johnson the biggest opportunity of his life."
