He had spent hundreds of hours practicing before sunrise.
He had thrown until his fingers blistered.
He had listened to Earl’s corrections and learned to control his body one small movement at a time.
Yet Brent spoke as though Isaiah didn’t even understand the game.
Isaiah slowly raised his head.
“Then give me one pitch.”
The laughter stopped.
Brent blinked.
“What?”
“One pitch.”
Isaiah’s voice trembled slightly, but he didn’t retreat.
“Let me throw one baseball.”
For a moment, Brent looked genuinely surprised.
Then his face relaxed into a cruel smile.
“You want to pitch?”
Isaiah nodded.
“In front of everybody?”
“Yes, sir.”
Brent glanced toward the college scouts.
An opportunity for public entertainment had presented itself.
And he intended to enjoy it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “it seems our ball boy thinks he’s a professional.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
Isaiah’s stomach tightened.
Brent reached into the nearest bucket.
He searched deliberately until he found a battered baseball with damaged stitching.
He held it up.
“Here you go.”
Isaiah caught the ball.
It felt rough against his palm.
Brent pointed toward the pitching mound.
“If you throw faster than sixty miles an hour, you can keep your job.”
Someone laughed loudly.
Isaiah stared at him.
“And if I don’t?”
Brent shrugged.
“Then maybe you’ll learn something about knowing your place.”
Isaiah swallowed.
“Can I warm up first?”
“No.”
“My arm is cold, Coach.”
Brent shook his head.
“Real pitchers warm up. You’re just the ball boy.”
The words struck harder than Isaiah expected.
He remembered his promise to Rochelle.
He knew a full-speed pitch without preparation carried real risk.
For an instant, he considered walking away.
Then he saw Earl standing near the equipment shed.
The old groundskeeper looked frightened.
Not merely nervous.
Frightened.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Isaiah looked toward the mound again.
Brent had already begun waving spectators closer.
The coach believed the outcome was decided.
Isaiah made his choice.
One carefully controlled pitch.
No second attempt without warming up.
He wouldn’t let Brent turn his arm into a spectacle.
Tyler Knox settled into his crouch behind home plate.
The catcher had watched Isaiah carry equipment for months.
He had never seen him pitch.
“Ready?” Tyler called.
Isaiah nodded.
His pulse hammered inside his chest.
He glanced toward the radar unit.
Then he saw Earl.
The old man raised two fingers and touched his chest.
Their familiar signal.
Stay closed.
Isaiah took a slow breath.
He found the damaged seams with his fingertips.
Placed his right foot against the pitching rubber.
Raised his hands.
For one extraordinary moment, the noise of the stadium seemed to disappear.
He could no longer hear the parents laughing.
He couldn’t hear Brent calling something from beside the radar machine.
He saw only Tyler’s glove.
The target.
The distance.
The narrow path between what he had always been told he was and what he might become.
Isaiah lifted his left knee.
His weight settled over his back leg.
His hips began rotating.
His left foot drove toward home plate.
And his right arm accelerated forward.
The baseball left his fingertips with an explosive snap.
Tyler barely had time to react.
CRACK!
The ball slammed into the catcher’s mitt.
The sound echoed across Dawson Field like a gunshot.
Tyler rocked backward.
His glove dropped several inches.
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then every head turned toward the radar display.
96 MPH.
A gasp swept through the bleachers.
One scout stood so abruptly that his chair scraped backward.
Another raised his handheld radar gun and stared at its reading.
Isaiah remained on the mound, breathing hard.
He hadn’t seen the number.
He had only felt the pitch.
He knew it had been fast.
But he had never heard a catcher’s mitt explode with quite that sound before.
“What was it?” he called.
Tyler slowly stood.
The catcher’s eyes were enormous.
“Ninety-six.”
Isaiah stared.
“What?”
Tyler looked toward the screen.
“Ninety-six miles an hour.”
The words seemed impossible.
Isaiah turned.
The number shone on the display.
96.
The stadium erupted.
Some people shouted.
Others stood with their phones raised.
A father near the dugout yelled, “Where did that kid come from?”
Brent Harlan wasn’t cheering.
His smile had vanished.
He stared at the radar display as though it had betrayed him personally.
Then he lunged forward.
“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!”
He struck the side of the equipment with his palm.
“The radar is broken!”
Isaiah’s excitement collapsed into uncertainty.
Brent pointed toward him.
“You think you’re funny? You think this is some kind of trick?”
Isaiah took a step backward.
“I just threw the ball.”
“Nobody your size throws ninety-six!”
From behind home plate, Rebecca Sloan spoke.
“That’s not true.”
Brent turned.
Rebecca had risen from her chair.
Her notebook was open.
“Ninety-six is extraordinary at fifteen,” she said, “but a player’s size alone doesn’t make it impossible.”
Brent forced a laugh.
“Come on, Rebecca. You know this equipment’s acting up.”
“I know the numbers need checking.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why we brought our own gun.”
The recruiter beside her lifted his device.
Brent’s expression tightened.
Rebecca continued.
“It recorded a reading consistent with the stadium display.”
A murmur moved through the spectators.
Isaiah stared at the woman.
For the first time that day, an adult with authority had defended what he’d accomplished.
Brent quickly recovered.
“Fine. One lucky throw. Let’s see him do it again.”
He pointed toward Isaiah.
“Back on the rubber.”
Isaiah hesitated.
“My arm’s still cold.”
Brent sneered.
“Funny how that didn’t bother you thirty seconds ago.”
Earl stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
Every eye turned toward the groundskeeper.
Brent frowned.
“What did you say?”
Earl walked onto the infield.
His movements were slow, but his expression was firm.
“I said that’s enough. The boy hasn’t warmed up properly. You’re not making him throw another full-speed pitch.”
Brent gave a disbelieving laugh.
“Since when do groundskeepers tell me how to run my showcase?”
