Turned the first in his fingers.
Put it back.
Tried another.
Put that one back too.
Damian shouted from home plate.
“You choosing a lucky one?”
Malachi ignored him.
He selected a ball with slightly raised seams.
Then placed the other two into the bucket.
Leonard’s pencil stopped.
Malachi turned his back to home plate.
He looked at the flags above left field.
Then the pennants near right.
Then the high American flag beyond center.
A light breeze was moving toward the first-base side.
Not strong.
But enough.
Malachi crouched and picked up a tiny pinch of warning-track dust.
He let it fall.
Damian laughed.
“We’re playing baseball, kid.”
“Not sailing.”
Malachi finally looked toward him.
“You want the ring back before I throw?”
The stadium reacted.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“Throw the ball.”
Malachi did not.
He pressed his index and middle fingers across the seams.
Not the normal four-seam grip Leonard expected.
The fingers sat slightly diagonal.
Thumb lower.
Ball deeper against the hand.
Then Malachi adjusted his feet.
His right foot pointed almost toward the foul pole instead of home plate.
His front shoulder closed far beyond a normal outfield throwing position.
He lowered his center of gravity.
Leonard took one step toward the field.
Something about the motion bothered him.
Not because it looked wrong.
Because it looked deliberate.
Leonard had seen a variation of that release used by a handful of players who practiced extreme-distance throws.
The throw was not designed to travel on a straight line.
It used a high-spin launch.
Strong backspin.
A steep initial angle.
Then a late drop.
But Malachi was doing something else too.
His front side was pointed slightly off target.
He was compensating for the crosswind before he even began moving.
Damian shouted again.
“Hurry up.”
Leonard walked onto the dirt.
“Back off.”
Damian looked at him.
“What?”
“Let the boy set.”
Damian laughed.
“You coaching against me now?”
“I’m keeping you from turning a fifteen-year-old into entertainment.”
“He agreed.”
“So did you.”
Leonard looked toward center field again.
Malachi lifted the baseball near his face.
His elbow angle changed.
Then Leonard saw the final detail.
The boy was not preparing to throw directly at the ring.
He was preparing to throw beyond it.
High.
Hard.
Letting the ball drop almost vertically toward the plate.
The result could be dangerous for anyone standing close.
Leonard turned toward the players gathered around home.
“Clear the batter’s box.”
Nobody moved at first.
Damian stared.
“Why?”
Leonard never looked away from Malachi’s throwing hand.
“Because if he releases that ball the way I think he will, nobody should be standing near the plate.”
One catcher laughed nervously.
“You think he’s throwing ninety-five from four hundred feet?”
“No.”
Leonard pointed.
“Move.”
Something in his tone worked.
Players stepped away.
A photographer moved behind the backstop.
A coach removed a bucket beside the plate.
Damian remained near the first-base line.
His ring still sat in the center of home plate.
Malachi took four steps backward until his heels almost touched the padded wall.
The stadium became quiet.
He inhaled.
Looked once at the flags.
Once at home plate.
Then he ran.
First step short.
Second longer.
Third explosive.
His right foot crossed behind.
His left foot struck the warning track.
His hips opened.
His shoulder came through.
And the baseball left his hand.
For the first hundred feet, it looked completely wrong.
The throw climbed high toward right-center.
Damian laughed.
“There it goes.”
Leonard said nothing.
The ball kept climbing.
Then its speed and spin began working together.
What looked like a wild throw stopped drifting right.
It hung.
Not literally.
But long enough that everyone watching seemed to forget to breathe.
Then it began moving left.
The wind carried it.
Backspin held it.
Gravity finally won.
The ball descended toward the infield.
People behind home plate began shouting.
Damian stopped smiling.
The ball crossed shallow center.
Still high.
Then second base.
Dropping now.
Fast.
Leonard took another step backward.
“Stay clear!”
The baseball fell toward home plate at a steep angle.
For one impossible second, it looked as though it would land directly on top of the ring.
Instead, it struck the dirt less than three feet in front of the plate.
CRACK.
The hard Arizona infield kicked it upward.
The baseball skipped.
Shot forward.
And slammed directly into Damian Cross’s championship ring.
The ring flew six feet into the air.
Hit the back edge of the plate.
Then rolled into the left-handed batter’s box.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
Malachi remained against the center-field wall.
His throwing arm hung by his side.
Then the stadium exploded.
Children screamed.
Players ran toward home plate.
Someone near the dugout shouted, “He hit it!”
Another voice yelled, “He actually hit it!”
Damian stared at the ring lying in the dirt.
Leonard exhaled.
Malachi bent over with both hands on his knees.
Not celebrating.
Recovering.
A throw like that used everything.
Legs.
Back.
Shoulder.
Timing.
He finally stood.
Then began walking toward the infield.
Damian picked up the ring.
A small line of dirt marked one edge.
The diamonds were fine.
His face was not.
“That bounced.”
Leonard looked at him.
“Yes.”
“The bet was hit the ring.”
“He hit the ring.”
“I meant in the air.”
Malachi was close enough to hear now.
“You didn’t say that.”
The crowd reacted again.
Damian looked around.
Every phone was pointing at him.
Leonard said quietly, “Give him the ring.”
Damian stared.
“It’s my championship ring.”
“You put it on the plate.”
“It was a joke.”
“Not to him.”
“He’s fifteen.”
“Exactly.”
Damian looked at Malachi.
The boy did not hold out his hand.
That seemed to make Damian more uncomfortable.
“You really expect me to hand you this?”
Malachi answered quietly.
“No.”
Damian blinked.
“You don’t?”
“I expect you to keep your word.”
That was worse.
Damian looked toward Leonard.
Leonard said nothing.
Finally, Damian extended the ring.
Malachi accepted it.
It looked enormous in his palm.
