“If you even touch it, I admit you were right.”
“And if I miss?”
“You leave my dugout.”
“He does not belong to you,” Dean Mercer said.
Grant looked at the hitting coach.
“He works for the stadium.”
“Then the stadium can assign him somewhere else.”
Grant turned back to Malik.
“Well?”
Malik knew he should refuse.
Renee had warned him repeatedly.
Do not draw attention.
Do not argue with players.
Do not believe access to the field makes you one of them.
The stadium job helped pay for groceries.
Losing it would matter.
But something in Grant’s voice reached an old place inside Malik.
The place built from years of being spoken around.
Spoken over.
Dismissed before anyone asked what he knew.
Malik accepted the bat.
It was heavier than the one he used at the public batting cages.
The handle had fresh pine tar.
He walked toward the box.
Then he stopped.
Grant smiled.
“Changed your mind?”
Malik looked toward left field.
The Captains’ starting left fielder, Owen Brooks, stood about two hundred and eighty feet from home plate.
“Tell your left fielder to move back.”
The players burst into laughter.
Owen spread both arms.
“Back where?”
Malik pointed toward the warning track.
“About twenty feet.”
Grant laughed louder than anyone.
“You think you’re hitting it over his head?”
Malik adjusted his grip.
“If the pitch is where you said it would be.”
Behind home plate, an elderly man in a faded green jacket rose from his seat.
His name was Walter Sloan.
He was seventy-four and had spent nearly fifty years evaluating baseball players.
He had signed future All-Stars before most people learned their names.
He had also stayed away from Carson Field for almost seven years.
Walter pointed toward Grant.
“You’d better listen to that boy.”
Grant looked at him.
“You know this kid?”
Walter’s eyes remained on Malik.
“Yes.”
The stadium seemed to shrink.
Malik tightened his grip.
Grant’s smile disappeared.
The batting-practice pitcher was a former minor leaguer named Eddie Knox.
He had been throwing at seventy-five percent speed.
Grant told him to throw the next pitch as hard as he could.
Dean Mercer objected.
“He is fourteen.”
Malik looked toward Eddie.
“Inside fastball.”
Eddie frowned.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Walter Sloan moved closer to the railing.
“Malik.”
The boy looked back.
Walter gave him one slow nod.
That was all.
Eddie stepped onto the mound.
Owen Brooks reluctantly moved toward the warning track.
The other players gathered around the cage.
Some were amused.
Some curious.
Carter Fielding, the Captains’ veteran catcher, put on a mask and crouched behind the plate.
Grant folded his arms.
“Let’s see it.”
Malik entered the box.
He did not imitate Grant’s stance.
His feet were slightly wider.
His hands rested lower.
He tapped the plate once.
Then he looked at Eddie’s right shoulder.
The pitcher began his motion.
The ball came hard and inside.
Malik’s front shoulder stayed closed.
His hands moved directly toward the pitch.
The sound of contact cut through the stadium.
Not a weak foul.
Not a defensive swing.
A clean, violent crack.
The ball rose toward left field.
Owen turned.
Ran back.
Then stopped at the warning track and watched it strike the wall above his head.
The crowd erupted.
Malik remained in the box.
He did not celebrate.
He placed the bat gently on the ground.
Grant stared toward left field.
The pitch had not merely been touched.
It had been driven nearly four hundred feet.
Carter removed his mask.
“Kid, where did you learn to do that?”
Malik looked toward Walter Sloan.
The scout walked through the gate behind home plate.
“From the man Grant Holloway spent ten years pretending never existed.”
Grant slowly turned.
“What does that mean?”
Walter reached Malik.
For several seconds, he studied the boy’s face.
Then he said, “You swing exactly like your father.”
Malik froze.
Grant’s expression changed again.
This time, the humiliation disappeared.
Something closer to fear took its place.
“You said his father?”
Walter looked directly at Grant.
“Darius Turner.”
No one laughed.
Dean Mercer whispered the name as if hearing a ghost.
Luis Ramirez looked toward the older players.
“Who is that?”
Carter Fielding answered quietly.
“The best hitter this organization ever buried.”
Darius Turner had signed with the Harbor City Captains at nineteen.
He grew up outside Mobile, Alabama, in a neighborhood where the baseball field had no lights and the outfield fence leaned inward after every storm.
Walter Sloan discovered him at a regional junior-college game.
Darius was not the largest player.
He did not have the strongest arm.
But he understood the strike zone better than anyone Walter had ever evaluated.
Pitchers tried to move him off the plate.
He stayed balanced.
They threw breaking balls below his knees.
He refused to chase.
Inside fastballs were his specialty.
Darius kept his front shoulder closed so long that pitchers believed they had beaten him.
Then his hands arrived.
In his fourth minor-league season, he hit .347 with twenty-eight home runs.
The Captains called him up in September.
He played twenty-one games.
He hit seven home runs.
Four came on inside fastballs.
The next season was supposed to make him a star.
Then Grant Holloway arrived.
Grant had been the organization’s top draft pick.
He came from a wealthy family.
His agent had negotiated marketing commitments before his first professional at-bat.
The Captains wanted his face on posters.
Darius threatened that plan.
During spring training, Darius outplayed him.
He hit for average.
Power.
Defense.
He was also popular with teammates.
The club faced a choice.
Keep both players and allow performance to decide.
Or protect the investment already built around Grant.
They chose the investment.
At first, the coaches moved Darius around the lineup.
Then they reduced his playing time.
Statistics sent to other clubs understated his performance.
A medical report claimed he had chronic wrist pain.
He did not.
Trade discussions disappeared.
When Darius questioned the reports, the organization called him difficult.
