Cole looked toward the banner on the fence.

“I deserved that.”

“Yes.”

A reporter moved closer.

Cole noticed but kept his attention on Tariq.

“I brought something else.”

He removed an envelope from his pocket.

Inside was a personal check for ten thousand dollars.

Not from the foundation.

From Cole.

“I want this to fund registration fees for kids who can’t afford them.”

Tariq looked at Coach Carter.

She read the check.

“No conditions?” she asked.

“No name on the field. No photographs. No advertisements.”

Raymond walked over.

“Then why bring it today?”

Cole looked around at the children.

“Because I should have brought it before anyone had to throw a pitch.”

Coach Carter accepted the envelope.

“That money doesn’t erase anything.”

“I know.”

“But it can help someone.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

The council member arrived for the first-pitch ceremony wearing a suit and athletic shoes.

Coach Carter thanked him.

Then she informed him that someone else would throw the first pitch.

She invited Raymond Clark to the mound.

Raymond refused.

His knees hurt.

His shoulder hurt.

He claimed he had no interest in ceremony.

Then Tariq brought him a ball.

“Grandpa would’ve made you do it.”

“That is a terrible reason.”

“You caught his pitches.”

“Against my better judgment.”

“Throw one.”

Raymond looked toward home plate.

Tariq stood there wearing the catcher’s mask.

The old man climbed onto the mound.

He held the ball with stiff fingers.

The crowd applauded.

Raymond raised one hand.

“I wasn’t the player people came to see.”

He looked at Tariq.

“But I once caught a man named Isaiah Mason.”

Aisha lowered her head.

“He was good enough to go farther than baseball allowed him to go.”

Raymond held up the ball.

“He taught his grandson a pitch most players are too impatient to learn.”

He looked toward Cole.

“And that pitch reminded this city that equipment can show how much money a team has.”

Then he pointed at Tariq’s taped glove.

“It cannot show how much courage.”

The crowd stood.

Raymond threw the first pitch.

It traveled slowly.

It did not move.

It bounced three feet before the plate.

Tariq blocked it with his chest protector.

Everyone laughed.

Raymond lifted both arms.

“That is why I was a catcher.”

The game began.

Tariq did not pitch until the fourth inning.

Coach Carter refused to build the entire team around one boy or one famous pitch.

Darnell started and held the Royals to two runs.

Luis made a diving stop at shortstop.

Marcus drove in Southside’s first run with a single through the right side.

By the time Tariq entered, the score was tied.

The Royals had studied his videos.

Their hitters stood deeper in the box.

They waited longer.

The first batter watched a knuckleball float outside.

The second pitch barely moved and was hit hard into left field.

The next batter walked.

Tariq began squeezing the ball.

Raymond noticed.

He walked to the mound with Coach Carter.

“You trying to control it?” he asked.

“A little.”

“That’s why it stopped moving.”

“There are two runners on.”

“Baseball has runners sometimes.”

Tariq glared at him.

Raymond lowered his voice.

“That one pitch against Cole was not your whole life.”

Tariq looked toward the stands.

Hundreds of people had come expecting magic.

“What if I can’t do it again?”

“Then you become a pitcher instead of a story.”

Tariq looked at him.

“What does that mean?”

“Stories need one perfect moment. Pitchers need the next pitch.”

Coach Carter held out her hand.

“Do you want to stay in?”

Tariq looked at his teammates.

Darnell crouched behind the plate.

Luis tapped his glove at shortstop.

Marcus called from center field.

“We got you, Seven.”

Tariq nodded.

“I’m staying.”

Raymond returned to the dugout.

Tariq stopped thinking about Cole.

He stopped thinking about the cameras.

He stopped thinking about the ten-thousand-dollar check.

He focused on Darnell’s mitt.

The next pitch danced outside and returned over the corner.

Strike one.

The batter fouled the next pitch straight back.

With two strikes, Darnell called for another knuckleball.

Tariq shook his head.

He threw a fastball.

It was not fast by professional standards.

But after two floating pitches, it looked quick.

The batter swung late.

Strike three.

The next hitter grounded into a double play.

Southside escaped the inning.

The Falcons won in the seventh when Luis scored from second on a shallow single and a throwing error.

The boys rushed onto the field.

Tariq joined them.

No single player carried the team.

No single pitch saved the game.

That mattered to him more than he expected.

Afterward, Cole waited outside the dugout.

He offered his hand.

Tariq shook it.

“Your second knuckleball in the sixth didn’t move,” Cole said.

“You watched?”

“I used to be good at baseball.”

Tariq smiled.

“Could you have hit it?”

“Yes.”

“Raymond said the same thing.”

“He’s probably lying.”

“I heard that,” Raymond called from twenty feet away.

Cole laughed.

This time, the sound did not make anyone lower their eyes.

Months passed.

The Southside program expanded.

The registration fund paid fees for thirty-two children.

The Falcons donated their repaired equipment to a younger team instead of throwing it away.

Tariq kept the cracked helmet Cole had mocked.

It hung inside the dugout.

Beneath it, Coach Carter attached a small sign.

WE BELONGED BEFORE ANYONE PAID TO NOTICE.

Cole returned to baseball slowly.

Not as a hero.

Not as a victim.

He attended Southside practices without reporters.

He helped repair the bullpen fence.

He answered questions from parents about his foundation’s spending.

The board reorganized the charity and published every expense.

Some sponsors returned.

Others did not.

Cole accepted that.

He could not undo the laughter.

He could only decide what he did after hearing it played back.

Raymond trained Tariq for four more years.

The boy grew taller.

His fastball improved.

The ghost pitch became more consistent without ever becoming predictable.

Scouts began appearing behind the backstop.