Chapter 4
"That's not my birthday."
I grabbed the document.
My name was printed across the top.
Malik David Johnson.
But the birth date was three years earlier than the day I was born.
I stared at Arthur.
"This is fake."
He nodded.
"I believe you."
Mom snatched the paper.
Her face turned red.
"Where did Marcus get this?"
Arthur shook his head.
"That's what I want to know."
I felt a strange mixture of fear and anger.
A week earlier, Coach Marcus barely acknowledged me.
Now he was trying to stop me from playing baseball.
Why?
Arthur placed another document on the table.
"This objection doesn't make Malik ineligible by itself. The league requires verified records before making that decision."
Mom sat down slowly.
"What happens now?"
"We provide the correct documents and ask for a formal review."
I swallowed.
"Can I still practice?"
Arthur smiled.
"Absolutely."
That single word felt like someone opening a locked door.
Two days later, I arrived at Riverside Youth Baseball Center.
It wasn't anything like Westbridge.
The outfield fence needed paint.
The dugout benches were old.
One scoreboard light was broken.
But the moment I stepped onto the dirt, something inside me felt right.
Kids were laughing.
Parents sat in folding chairs.
A coach was helping a little boy adjust his batting stance.
Nobody looked at my shoes.
Nobody asked what my parents earned.
Arthur introduced me to Coach Daniel Harris, a former college pitcher who worked with the foundation.
Coach Harris was tall, with a shaved head and a calm voice.
He studied me carefully.
"Arthur says you've got a strong arm."
I nodded.
"I guess."
He smiled.
"We'll find out what that arm can do safely."
I liked him immediately.
Unlike the boys at Westbridge, I wasn't handed a glove and told to prove myself.
Coach Harris started with basic movements.
Warm-ups.
Footwork.
Balance.
Shoulder mobility.
Then he asked me to throw gently.
I tried.
The first few throws felt awkward.
I had spent years throwing baseballs against brick walls and old tires.
Nobody had ever explained how much proper mechanics mattered.
Coach Harris watched quietly.
Then he said, "You learned this from your father?"
I nodded.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled.
"That explains a lot."
We worked for almost two hours.
He never asked me to throw as hard as possible.
Instead, he taught me how to control my motion without putting unnecessary stress on my growing arm.
At the end, he handed me a bottle of water.
"Malik, your natural talent is impressive."
My heart raced.
"But talent isn't enough."
I nodded.
"I know."
"You need strength, patience, discipline, rest, and schoolwork."
He looked directly at me.
"And you're fourteen. We're not going to treat you like a professional pitcher."
I smiled.
"Okay."
Arthur approached.
"How did he do?"
Coach Harris looked at him.
"Very promising."
Arthur's face brightened.
Then Coach Harris added, "But we're building an athlete, not chasing a radar-gun number."
Arthur laughed.
"Agreed."
For the first time, I felt like someone cared more about my future than what I could do for them immediately.
When practice ended, Arthur gave me a pair of new baseball shoes.
I stared at the box.
They were beautiful.
Black and white.
Perfectly clean.
My name was written on a small label.
I shook my head.
"I can't take these."
Arthur frowned.
"Why not?"
"They're expensive."
He smiled.
"They're part of the program equipment. Every player receives what he needs."
I looked at Coach Harris.
He nodded.
"That includes you."
I swallowed hard.
Nobody had ever said something like that to me before.
Not without expecting something in return.
That evening, I brought the shoes home.
Mom was standing at the stove making rice and beans.
When she saw them, she stopped cooking.
"Malik."
I held up the box.
"They gave them to me."
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
Then she hugged me.
I could feel her tears against my shoulder.
"Your daddy would have loved seeing this."
I smiled.
"I wish he could."
She stepped back.
"I think he'd be proud."
For three wonderful days, everything seemed to be changing.
I practiced after school.
Coach Harris helped me plan a safe training routine.
Arthur arranged transportation so I wouldn't need to walk several miles.
Mom started smiling more often.
Then the trouble began.
On Thursday morning, my school principal called me into her office.
Two adults were waiting.
One was the assistant principal.
The other was a man I'd never seen.
He introduced himself as Mr. Bennett from the regional youth league administration.
My stomach tightened.
"Did I do something wrong?"
Mr. Bennett smiled politely.
"We just need to clarify your age and participation history."
I sat down.
He showed me the false birth record.
Then another document.
It claimed I had played under a different name in a sixteen-and-under travel league.
I stared at it.
"That's not true."
He nodded.
"We're verifying the information."
I looked at the assistant principal.
"Can you tell them?"
She immediately opened my school records.
My real birth date appeared on the screen.
Mr. Bennett studied it.
Then he asked whether my mother could provide a certified birth certificate.
"Yes, sir."
He nodded.
"Good."
But when I reached the hallway afterward, three boys were waiting.
One held a phone.
Another laughed.
"Hey, fake-age kid!"
I froze.
"What?"
The boy turned his screen toward me.
There was a picture of me throwing at Westbridge.
Above it was a caption.
LOCAL GROUNDSKEEPER CAUGHT LYING ABOUT AGE TO ENTER BASEBALL PROGRAM.
My heart sank.
Hundreds of people had already shared it.
I looked at the username.
The original post came from a sports account connected to Westbridge students.
And Tyler had commented beneath it.
Told you he was a fraud.
My face burned.
By lunchtime, everyone was whispering.
Some kids called me a cheater.
Others asked if I was really seventeen.
A boy in my history class laughed and said I should return to cutting grass.
I wanted to disappear.
After school, I went straight to the baseball center.
Coach Harris found me sitting alone in the dugout.
He didn't ask questions.
He sat beside me.
I finally showed him the post.
His jaw tightened.
"That's a cruel thing to do."
I looked down.
"Maybe I should quit."
He turned toward me.
"Why?"
"Because they're never going to stop."
Coach Harris waited.
Then he asked, "Do you love baseball?"
I nodded.
"More than anything."
"Then don't let somebody else's lie choose your future."
My eyes filled.
"But everyone thinks I'm cheating."
"Not everyone."
I looked up.
Arthur stood at the dugout entrance.
He held a manila folder.
Beside him was Mr. Bennett.
Arthur smiled faintly.
"We've received your certified birth record. The league has verified your age."
I jumped up.
"Really?"
Mr. Bennett nodded.
"You're fourteen, Malik. There is no question about it."
Relief washed over me.
Then Arthur's expression changed.
"But we have another concern."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
He opened the folder.
"Someone submitted an additional complaint this morning."
I stared at him.
"About what?"
Arthur looked toward Coach Harris.
Then back at me.
"The complaint claims your mother accepted illegal payments to place you in the program."
I stepped backward.
"That's a lie!"
Arthur nodded.
"I know."
Then he handed me the complaint.
At the bottom was a signature.
Tyler Brooks.
But underneath it was another name.
May you like
The person officially supporting the accusation.
Coach Marcus Reynolds.
