Chapter 3
I didn't sleep that night.
The photograph stayed beside my pillow.
Dad looked young.
Happy.
Full of the kind of hope I had never seen in the pictures Mom kept around our apartment.
Coach Marcus stood beside him wearing a baseball uniform.
They had their arms around each other's shoulders.
Underneath the picture, somebody had written:
Westbridge Summer Showcase — 2008.
I stared at the date.
Six years before Dad died.
What had happened between them?
And why did Coach Marcus act like he didn't want me to know?
When Mom finally came home from the hospital, it was almost midnight.
She looked exhausted.
Her uniform smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals.
I was sitting at the kitchen table.
She stopped when she saw me.
"Malik? Baby, why are you still awake?"
I held up the photograph.
"Mom, who's this?"
Her face changed.
She didn't need to look closely.
She recognized Dad immediately.
Then she noticed the man standing beside him.
Her grocery bag slipped from her hand.
A carton of milk rolled across the floor.
"Where did you get that?"
I stood.
"From a man named Arthur Whitmore."
Mom grabbed the edge of the table.
For a moment, I thought she might faint.
"Arthur?"
"He's a baseball scout."
She slowly sat down.
I moved closer.
"Mom, are you okay?"
She covered her mouth.
Then she started crying.
My mother rarely cried in front of me.
When Dad died, she cried every night.
But after the funeral, something changed.
She worked.
She cooked.
She paid bills.
She kept us alive.
And she stopped talking about the things that hurt.
Now she was crying so hard I didn't know what to do.
I sat beside her.
"Mom, please."
She touched Dad's face in the photograph.
"Oh, David."
I waited.
Finally, she looked at me.
"Did Arthur tell you what happened?"
I shook my head.
"Not everything."
She closed her eyes.
Then she whispered, "Your father was supposed to become a professional baseball player."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"He had an opportunity to sign with a minor-league organization."
My heart raced.
"Really?"
She nodded.
"He worked toward it for years."
I looked at the photograph.
"Then why didn't he?"
Mom wiped her cheeks.
"Because everything fell apart."
"What happened?"
She hesitated.
Then she said, "Coach Marcus Reynolds happened."
My chest tightened.
She explained that Marcus and Dad had grown up playing baseball together.
They trained at the same community fields.
They competed for the same positions.
Dad was the better pitcher.
Marcus was more confident, more connected, and better at attracting attention.
But Arthur saw something special in Dad.
At a summer showcase, Dad impressed several scouts.
One professional organization invited him to a private evaluation.
He was supposed to pitch the following week.
Then, two days before the evaluation, he injured his shoulder.
"How?" I asked.
Mom looked away.
"During an unsupervised training session Marcus arranged."
I leaned forward.
"What kind of training?"
"Your father said Marcus convinced him to throw far beyond what the coaches had planned."
I felt sick.
"He hurt him on purpose?"
Mom shook her head.
"I don't know, Malik."
"But you think he did?"
Her eyes filled again.
"I think Marcus was jealous. I think he pushed your father when he shouldn't have."
I looked down.
"Did Dad ever recover?"
"Enough to live normally. Not enough to throw the way he used to."
My throat tightened.
"That's why he never played professionally?"
"Yes."
I remembered Dad throwing tennis balls with me.
Sometimes, after a dozen throws, he would rub his shoulder.
Whenever I asked whether it hurt, he smiled.
"Just an old reminder, champ."
I never understood.
Until now.
Mom took my hands.
"Your father tried coaching youth baseball afterward. He loved it. But the medical bills and lost income were hard."
I swallowed.
"And then he died."
She nodded.
Dad had been killed in a highway accident while driving home from a warehouse shift.
I remembered the police officer.
The funeral.
The empty chair at our kitchen table.
Mom squeezed my hands.
"David wasn't bitter, Malik. He wanted you to love baseball for yourself, not because of what happened to him."
I looked toward the window.
"But Coach Marcus knew who I was."
Mom frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"He saw me working at the field. He heard my name."
Her face hardened.
"Did he say anything?"
"He told me to go back to mowing."
Mom suddenly stood.
"You're not going back there."
My heart dropped.
"What?"
"I'm serious."
"Mom, we need that money."
"I don't care."
I stared at her.
"We do care. Rent is due next week."
She turned away.
"That's my responsibility."
"But I want to help."
She looked at me with tears in her eyes.
"You're fourteen years old."
I lowered my voice.
"I know."
"You should be playing baseball, not working yourself exhausted."
I thought about Tyler's expensive equipment.
The perfect field.
The boys who had never worried about an electricity bill.
Then I thought about Mom's cracked hands.
"I don't have their choices."
She stepped forward and hugged me.
"Maybe that's about to change."
The following afternoon, Arthur came to our apartment.
He arrived wearing the same brown vest and carrying a worn leather briefcase.
Mom opened the door.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Arthur whispered, "Angela."
Mom's eyes filled.
"Mr. Whitmore."
He lowered his head.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."
She let him inside.
I watched them sit at our small kitchen table.
Arthur looked around the apartment.
His expression grew sad when he noticed the buckets catching water from a leaking ceiling.
Mom apologized for the mess.
Arthur shook his head.
"Please don't."
Then he opened his briefcase.
Inside were photographs, scouting reports, and newspaper clippings.
Every one involved my father.
My hands trembled as I picked up the first article.
DAVID JOHNSON STUNS SCOUTS WITH ELECTRIC FASTBALL.
I stared at the headline.
Dad had never shown me that.
Arthur watched me.
"Your father was special, Malik."
I looked up.
"Was he really that good?"
Arthur nodded.
"Good enough that several organizations were interested."
Then his expression darkened.
"But somebody interfered with his chance."
Mom stiffened.
"Arthur."
He looked at her.
"I know what we suspected back then. But I recently found something."
He opened another folder.
Inside was an old training schedule.
Several sessions had been added in handwritten ink.
Arthur pointed toward a signature.
Marcus Reynolds.
I frowned.
"What is this?"
Arthur spoke carefully.
"After your father was injured, we were told it happened during his own private workout."
Mom covered her mouth.
Arthur continued.
"But these records suggest Marcus arranged the session and pushed David into it."
I looked at him.
"Can you prove it?"
He shook his head.
"Not yet."
My anger burned.
"Then why are you telling me?"
Arthur leaned forward.
"Because yesterday, when I saw Coach Marcus trying to get you off that field, I realized the past might be repeating itself."
He paused.
"Malik, I'd like to offer you a legitimate chance to play."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"The Whitmore Foundation sponsors a youth baseball development program. We provide coaching, equipment, transportation, and academic support."
I stared at him.
"You'd do that for me?"
"Only if you want it."
My voice shook.
"Do I have to pay?"
Arthur smiled gently.
"No, son."
I looked at Mom.
She was crying again.
I could barely believe what I was hearing.
Then Arthur said something that brought the room back to silence.
"There's one problem."
My stomach tightened.
"What problem?"
He looked toward Mom.
"Westbridge Academy is one of the organizations that controls access to the regional development league."
I frowned.
"Coach Marcus?"
Arthur nodded.
"And yesterday, he submitted a written objection to Malik's eligibility."
Mom stood.
"On what grounds?"
Arthur's expression became cold.
"He claims your son is too old for the division he's entering."
I stared at him.
"But I'm fourteen."
"I know."
He pulled out a copy of the objection.
Then he pointed to the attached document.
It was a birth record.
My name was on it.
May you like
But the birth date was wrong.
According to the paper, I was seventeen years old.
