Chapter 8
The morning of the regional tournament, I woke up before sunrise.
My uniform was hanging beside my bedroom door.
Navy pants.
White jersey.
Blue cap.
On the back of the jersey was my name.
JOHNSON.
I stood there staring at it for almost five minutes.
For years, I had watched other boys wear uniforms with their names printed across their shoulders.
I never imagined I would have one of my own.
Mom appeared in the doorway.
She was holding a small plate of eggs and toast.
"You're going to need breakfast, superstar."
I laughed nervously.
"Please don't call me that."
She smiled.
"Why not?"
"Because I haven't done anything yet."
She stepped closer.
"Malik, look at me."
I did.
"You got here without letting people destroy your kindness. That means more to me than any trophy."
My throat tightened.
She kissed my forehead.
Then she handed me the plate.
"Now eat before Grandma Ruth calls and asks whether I'm starving her grandson."
I laughed.
Grandma Ruth lived two hours away.
She had already promised to attend the tournament.
For once, our family had something happy to gather around.
When we arrived at the field, the parking lot was crowded.
Cars lined the road.
Parents carried folding chairs.
Players walked toward the dugouts with equipment bags over their shoulders.
I felt small.
Very small.
Coach Harris noticed.
"Nervous?"
I nodded.
"Terrified."
He smiled.
"Good. That means you care."
I looked around.
"There's a lot of people."
He nodded.
"And not one of them will throw the ball for you."
I laughed.
He squeezed my shoulder.
"Remember your preparation. Trust your teammates."
I took a deep breath.
Then I walked toward the dugout.
Our first game started badly.
I wasn't pitching.
Coach Harris had put me at second base so I could settle into the competition.
In the second inning, I misjudged a ground ball.
It bounced off my glove.
A runner scored.
I wanted the ground to swallow me.
I looked toward the dugout.
Coach Harris simply nodded.
"Next play, Malik."
That was all.
No shouting.
No humiliation.
No reminder that I was lucky to be there.
Just two words.
Next play.
In the fourth inning, another ground ball came toward me.
This time, I moved cleanly.
Fielded it.
And made the throw to first.
Out.
My teammates cheered.
I felt my shoulders relax.
We won the first game by two runs.
Then we won the second.
By afternoon, we had advanced to the semifinal.
Coach Harris called me aside.
"Malik, you're starting on the mound."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
He nodded.
"We've prepared for this."
I stared at him.
"Are you sure?"
He smiled.
"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."
I looked toward the stands.
Mom was sitting beside Grandma Ruth.
Arthur stood near the railing.
They all waved.
I swallowed.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
The first batter stepped into the box.
I could barely feel my fingers.
The catcher gave me the sign.
I took a breath.
Lifted my leg.
And threw.
Ball.
Outside.
The next pitch missed high.
Another ball.
My stomach tightened.
Then I heard Dad's voice in my memory.
Don't fight the ball, Malik.
Guide it.
I relaxed my shoulders.
The third pitch crossed the plate.
Strike.
The fourth caught the outside corner.
Strike two.
The batter fouled off the next pitch.
Then I threw a controlled fastball down the middle.
He swung.
Missed.
Strike three.
I heard the crowd cheer.
My heart jumped.
For the first time in my life, I had struck out a batter in a real tournament.
I wanted to shout.
But I remembered Coach Harris.
Stay focused.
One batter at a time.
The game was difficult.
I gave up hits.
I walked a batter.
I made mistakes.
But my teammates helped me.
Our shortstop made a beautiful diving catch.
The catcher blocked a pitch in the dirt.
Our first baseman saved a bad throw.
By the end of my scheduled innings, we were tied.
Coach Harris took me out according to our pitching plan.
I didn't argue.
I knew my arm mattered more than one game.
We won in the final inning.
The dugout exploded.
My teammates rushed onto the field.
I hugged the catcher so hard we nearly fell over.
Then I heard a familiar voice.
"Nice game, Johnson."
I turned.
Tyler stood near the fence.
He wore his Westbridge uniform.
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
"Thanks."
He looked toward the scoreboard.
"You stayed calm after that walk."
I shrugged.
"Coach helped."
Tyler nodded.
Then he said something unexpected.
"I used to think good players never looked scared."
I stared at him.
He smiled faintly.
"Guess I was wrong."
For the first time, I smiled back.
"Yeah."
He stepped away.
"Good luck in the final."
I watched him go.
I still didn't trust him completely.
But I was starting to see him differently.
That evening, Arthur found me sitting beside the dugout.
He handed me a bottle of water.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired."
He laughed.
"That's allowed."
I smiled.
Then he sat beside me.
"Your father would have been proud today."
I looked down.
"Because I pitched well?"
Arthur shook his head.
"Because you helped your teammates after you made mistakes. Because you listened to your coach. Because you didn't let the crowd change who you were."
My eyes filled.
He continued.
"That's the kind of player your father was."
I swallowed.
"I miss him."
Arthur nodded.
"So do I."
We sat quietly for a while.
Then he told me something I hadn't known.
"David once had a chance to blame another player for a mistake that cost his team a game."
I looked up.
"What happened?"
"He refused."
"Why?"
Arthur smiled.
"He told me that winning wasn't worth becoming someone he couldn't respect."
I stared across the field.
Suddenly, I understood why Dad had spent so much time teaching me about honesty.
Baseball had taken something from him.
But he hadn't let it take his character.
That night, the tournament organizers announced the final matchup.
Riverside Youth Development.
Against the Westbridge-affiliated junior team.
My heart stopped.
Tyler's younger teammates would be playing against us.
And Coach Marcus, though barred from coaching during the review, had built much of their program.
Coach Harris read the schedule.
Then he looked at me.
"Malik, I need you focused on baseball. Not revenge."
I nodded.
But as we walked toward the parking lot, I noticed someone standing near a black SUV.
Richard Brooks.
Tyler's father.
He watched me silently.
Then he turned and climbed into the vehicle.
My stomach tightened.
I thought the trouble was finally behind us.
I was wrong.
Because the next morning, just hours before the championship, Coach Harris received a phone call.
His expression changed.
He looked toward Arthur.
Then he said, "We have a serious problem."
May you like
The league had received another attempt to challenge my participation.
And this time, someone was threatening to cancel the championship if I stepped onto the field.
