Malik glanced toward Dean Mercer, hoping someone would interrupt.
Nobody did.
“I didn’t say that.”
Grant stepped closer.
“Then tell me what you saw.”
Malik hesitated.
There were teammates watching now.
A cameraman turned his lens toward the confrontation.
Malik knew his position at Carson Field depended on staying invisible.
His mother needed the money.
But Grant had asked him a direct question.
“Your front shoulder,” Malik answered. “It’s opening before your hands get through the hitting zone.”
Silence.
Dean Mercer slowly turned around.
Malik continued, unaware of how badly his words had wounded Grant’s pride.
“When Eddie throws inside, you’re pulling away from the ball. If you stay closed a little longer, you’ll make better contact.”
Grant stared at him.
Then his face reddened.
“You carry baseballs for a living,” he snapped. “Don’t act like you know how to hit one.”
A few players laughed nervously.
Malik lowered his eyes.
“I was only answering your question.”
“Oh, now you’ve got an attitude?”
“No, sir.”
Grant shoved his bat toward the teenager.
“Fine. Let’s see what you can do.”
Dean immediately stepped forward.
“Grant, come on. He’s a kid.”
Grant ignored him.
“One pitch,” he announced loudly. “Eddie throws you a full-speed fastball. If you even touch it, I’ll admit you were right.”
Malik looked at the bat.
“And if I miss?”
Grant smiled coldly.
“Then you’re finished in my dugout.”
The words struck harder than Malik expected.
Finished.
Not just embarrassed.
Unemployed.
He imagined his mother opening another overdue bill at the kitchen table.
He imagined telling her he had lost the one job he loved because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Dean stepped between them.
“This is ridiculous. He’s fourteen.”
Grant leaned around him.
“What’s the matter, Malik? All that baseball knowledge disappear?”
Several players chuckled.
Malik felt heat rise into his cheeks.
For one moment, he considered walking away.
Then he remembered something written near the bottom of his father’s notebook.
A hitter cannot control what people say. He can only control what happens when the ball arrives.
He raised his head.
“I’ll take the pitch.”
Dean closed his eyes.
Grant’s grin widened.
“Now we’re talking.”
As Malik accepted the bat, something unusual happened behind home plate.
Walter Sloan leaned forward.
He had been watching the boy since the confrontation began.
Walter was seventy-four, thin, silver-haired, and deeply respected throughout professional baseball.
During nearly fifty years of scouting, he had discovered several future All-Stars.
But he hadn’t visited Carson Field in almost seven years.
Most people assumed he had retired.
The truth was considerably darker.
Walter had avoided the stadium because it reminded him of a decision that had destroyed another man’s life.
And now, watching Malik grip the bat, he noticed something familiar.
The placement of the boy’s fingers.
The relaxed shoulders.
The strange, almost imperceptible movement of his back foot.
Walter’s breath caught.
“No,” he whispered.
He moved closer to the netting.
Meanwhile, Malik stepped toward home plate.
Eddie Knox watched from the mound with obvious discomfort.
“Grant, you sure about this?”
“Throw your best fastball.”
“It’s a kid.”
“He wanted to play.”
Malik adjusted his grip.
Then he glanced toward left field.
Owen Brooks, the Captains’ starting left fielder, stood approximately 280 feet from home plate.
Malik studied the distance.
He turned toward Grant.
“Tell your left fielder to move back.”
Grant laughed.
“You think you’re going to hit it over Owen’s head?”
Malik looked toward the outfield wall.
“About twenty feet farther than where he’s standig.”
Grant stared at him.
“Are you serious?”
“If the pitch comes where you promised.”
Another wave of laughter swept through the nearby players.
But Walter Sloan wasn’t laughing.
His hands had begun trembling.
He recognized that answer.
Not just the confidence.
The way Malik had studied the field before speaking.
The deliberate calculation.
The refusal to boast.
Walter remembered another young hitter who ha
d once said almost the same thing before stepping into a batter’s box.
A hitter whose name had been erased from conversations throughout Carson Field.
Walter suddenly stood.
“You should listen to that boy.”
Grant turned.
His expression changed when he recognized the elderly scout.
“Walter Sloan?”
Walter approached the railing.
“Move your left fielder back.”
Grant gave a disbelieving laugh.
“Since when do you take orders from ball boys?”
Walter ignored the insult.
His eyes remained fixed on Malik.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Malik Turner, sir.”
Walter gripped the railing harder.
“Turner?”
“Yes, sir.”
Walter swallowed.
“And your mother?”
“Renee.”
The elderly scout went completely still.
For several seconds, he appeared unable to speak.
Grant noticed.
His own smile faded.
“Walter,” he said carefully, “what’s going on?”
But Walter was staring at the teenager’s hands.
Those hands.
That stance.
That name.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Malik returned to the batter’s box.
Owen reluctantly retreated toward the warning track.
Dean watched from beside the cage, his face tight with concern.
Eddie adjusted his grip around the baseball.
“You ready?” he called.
Malik nodded.
The crowd noise seemed to fade into a distant hum.
He dug his back foot into the dirt.
Relaxed his shoulders.
Lowered his hands.
And remembered the final instruction his mother had given him that morning.
Don’t try to impress anybody. Just see the ball.
Eddie began his windup.
His arm whipped forward.
A full-speed inside fastball came screaming toward home plate.
Malik didn’t flinch.
His front shoulder stayed closed.
His hips rotated.
His hands followed.
And the wooden bat met the baseball with a sound so sharp that several players instinctively ducked.
CRACK!
The ball exploded toward left field.
Owen turned and sprinted.
The crowd rose.
The baseball kept carrying.
Higher.
Farther.
Owen reached the warning track and looked over his shoulder.
He couldn’t reach it.
The ball struck the outfield wall above his head, nearly 400 feet from home plate.
For one stunned second, the stadium seemed to forget how to breathe.
Then it erupted.
Players shouted.
A catcher pulled off his mask.
