He was back in the place where he had thrown it thousands of times.
But now every throw had witnesses.
He delivered the first.
It moved late and hit the lower-right corner of the mattress.
Ortiz’s eyebrows rose.
He had seen the video.
But seeing it here, under bad light on cracked concrete, made it more impressive.
Second pitch.
Slightly high.
Still moved.
Ortiz said,
“Good miss.”
Isaiah looked confused.
Ortiz explained,
“A good miss tells me you know where it was supposed to go.”
Third pitch.
Perfect.
Late drop.
Hard bite.
The mattress snapped backward against the fence.
Walter closed his eyes for one second.
Maybe remembering Malcolm.
Maybe just grateful that the pitch had survived.
Ortiz looked at Lena.
“We can work with this.”
Lena’s face remained guarded.
“How carefully?”
“As carefully as you want.”
“No showcases for a while?”
Ortiz nodded.
“No showcases for a while.”
“No throwing for cameras?”
“No.”
“No adults telling him he’s a star before he learns how to be healthy?”
Ortiz smiled.
“Absolutely not.”
Lena looked at Isaiah.
He was breathing hard, eyes bright.
For the first time since the video went viral, she saw not fear, not pressure, but joy.
She turned back to Ortiz.
“Then we’ll try.”
Isaiah’s face lit up.
Walter looked toward the porchlight.
The bulb flickered once.
Then steadied.
It felt almost too perfect.
But some moments earned their own symbolism.
Before leaving, Walter stood with Isaiah near the fence.
“I spoke to Caleb Monroe today.”
Isaiah’s smile faded slightly.
“Oh.”
“He asked for your mother’s permission to call.”
Isaiah looked toward Lena.
“She said yes?”
“She said she’d think about it.”
Isaiah nodded.
Walter studied him.
“Do you want to hear from him?”
Isaiah did not answer right away.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
“He embarrassed me.”
“Yes.”
“But he also got embarrassed.”
Walter nodded.
“Yes.”
Isaiah looked at the baseball.
“What if he only apologizes because people are mad?”
Walter’s face softened.
“Then you don’t owe him comfort.”
Isaiah looked up.
Walter continued,
“If he apologizes, you can listen.”
“You can accept.”
“You can refuse.”
“You can say you need time.”
“That choice is yours.”
Isaiah absorbed that.
So many adults had made choices around him lately.
Who could throw.
Who belonged.
Who got attention.
Who got defended.
It felt strange to be told one choice belonged only to him.
He nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Walter placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Remember, Isaiah.”
“You asked for one pitch.”
“You did not ask to become responsible for everyone else’s conscience.”
Isaiah did not fully understand the sentence yet.
But he would.
Later.
When the calls came.
When the attention grew.
When people wanted him to be inspiring, forgiving, grateful, humble, impressive, and available all at once.
For now, he simply held the baseball and looked at the porchlight above the courtyard.
The place where his father had taught him to make the ball listen.
[End of Part 8]
Part 9
Caleb Monroe called two days later.
Lena Reed made him wait until Saturday afternoon.
Not because she wanted to be difficult.
Because Isaiah had school.
Training.
Rest.
Homework.
And a life that did not need to bend around a superstar’s guilt.
When the call came, Lena put it on speaker at the kitchen table.
Isaiah sat beside her with his hands folded.
Walter was not there.
Coach Ortiz was not there.
No cameras.
No reporters.
No social media team.
Just Isaiah, his mother, and the voice of the man who had laughed at him.
“Mrs. Reed?”
Caleb’s voice sounded different without a microphone.
Less polished.
“Yes,” Lena said.
“Isaiah is here.”
There was a pause.
“Hey, Isaiah.”
Isaiah looked at the phone.
“Hello.”
Another pause.
Caleb cleared his throat.
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the showcase.”
Lena said nothing.
Isaiah said nothing.
That forced Caleb to continue.
“I was wrong.”
The words sat in the kitchen.
Isaiah’s face did not change.
Caleb continued,
“I embarrassed you.”
“I laughed at you.”
“I judged you by how you looked before I saw what you could do.”
His voice tightened.
“And I used the crowd to make myself feel bigger.”
Lena’s eyes moved to Isaiah.
He listened carefully.
Caleb said,
“That was on me.”
“Not the event.”
“Not the schedule.”
“Not people taking it out of context.”
“Me.”
That was the first sentence Lena respected.
Caleb took a breath.
“I’m sorry.”
Isaiah looked down at the table.
He had imagined this moment many ways.
In some versions, he yelled.
In some, he hung up.
In some, he accepted instantly and everyone felt better.
Reality was quieter.
More complicated.
Finally, Isaiah said,
“You made everybody laugh.”
Caleb’s voice softened.
“I know.”
“I almost left.”
“I know.”
“My mom told me not to shrink.”
Caleb was silent.
Then he said,
“She gave you good advice.”
Isaiah rubbed his thumb against the table edge.
“Did you mean it?”
“When I said you didn’t belong?”
“Yes.”
Caleb took longer to answer.
Lena appreciated that he did not rush.
“I think in that moment, yes.”
Isaiah looked at the phone.
Caleb continued,
“And that’s what I’m most ashamed of.”
“I didn’t know anything about you.”
“I just saw old shoes and decided the field wasn’t for you.”
Isaiah swallowed.
The honesty hurt more than a polished apology would have.
But it also felt cleaner.
Caleb said,
“I don’t expect you to forgive me because people online want a nice ending.”
Lena leaned back slightly.
Good.
Isaiah asked,
“Then why are you calling?”
“Because I owed you the apology whether you forgive me or not.”
Isaiah looked at his mother.
She gave nothing away.
This was his choice.
He turned back to the phone.
“I hear you.”
Caleb waited.
Isaiah added,
“I’m not ready to say it’s okay.”
Caleb answered quietly,
“It wasn’t okay.”
That helped.
Isaiah nodded slowly.
“Then… thank you for saying sorry.”
Caleb exhaled.
“Thank you for listening.”
The call could have ended there.
But Caleb spoke again.
