The stadium announcer spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a big round of applause for eleven-year-old Elijah Brooks!”
The crowd cheered.
I walked toward the mound.
My legs felt strange.
Not weak.
Just distant.
Like they belonged to somebody else.
I placed my father’s glove against my chest.
Then looked toward home plate.
Sixty feet, six inches.
That was the distance.
The same distance I’d practiced hundreds of times.
But everything around it was different.
The grass was perfect.
The stadium enormous.
The cameras everywhere.
I took a breath.
And remembered my father’s voice.
Find the target.
The first pitch was supposed to be easy.
At least, that’s what Tom Reynolds thought.
He stood beside the dugout, smiling for the television cameras.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, young man!”
I adjusted my grip.
The baseball felt warm against my fingers.
I looked toward the catcher.
He held his glove near the outside corner of the strike zone.
I nodded.
Then began my motion.
My left foot lifted.
My shoulders turned.
And the ball left my hand.
For a moment, I heard nothing.
Then—
POP!
The baseball struck the catcher’s mitt.
The umpire raised his right hand.
“STRIKE ONE!”
The stadium reacted with surprised applause.
I exhaled.
One.
Tom laughed.
“Not bad!”
Melissa leaned toward her microphone.
“Well, folks, it looks like Elijah came prepared!”
Jason Cole stepped out of the batter’s box.
He looked toward me.
Then nodded.
I couldn’t tell whether he was impressed.
Or simply being kind.
The catcher threw the ball back.
I caught it.
Then looked toward the glove on my left hand.
The fishing-line stitches held.
I squeezed the leather.
One down.
Two to go.
The second pitch was harder.
Not because I didn’t know where to throw it.
Because the crowd had stopped laughing.
Thirty thousand people were suddenly interested.
And that felt worse.
When people laughed, I could pretend they weren’t taking me seriously.
Now they were watching.
Waiting.
Expecting.
My fingers tightened around the ball.
The catcher shifted his glove.
This time, he wanted the pitch lower.
I nodded.
Then stepped back.
I remembered the summer my father taught me how to throw a changeup.
We had spent three evenings working on it.
I hated that pitch.
It felt too slow.
Too strange.
Like I was doing something wrong.
My father kept telling me to trust it.
“Speed isn’t everything, Elijah.”
I complained.
“But fastballs look cooler.”
He laughed.
“Cool doesn’t always win.”
I looked toward Jason.
He stood ready.
His bat rested above his shoulder.
I began my motion.
The ball left my hand.
It traveled toward the plate.
Jason started his swing.
Then hesitated.
The pitch dropped slightly.
The catcher received it just above the bottom of the strike zone.
“STRIKE TWO!”
The stadium exploded.
People stood.
Some screamed.
Others clapped so loudly that I could feel the sound in my chest.
Melissa nearly shouted into her microphone.
“HE’S DONE IT AGAIN!”
Tom Reynolds stopped smiling.
Jason stepped away from the plate.
He looked toward me.
Then toward the catcher.
Then back at me.
A small grin appeared on his face.
He tapped the bat against the ground.
“Nice pitch, kid.”
I nodded.
“Thank you, sir.”
The catcher returned the ball.
Two strikes.
One more.
One hundred thousand dollars.
I looked toward the dugout.
Tom was speaking urgently with one of the event organizers.
He glanced at me.
Then shook his head.
I couldn’t hear what he said.
But I could see that he wasn’t laughing anymore.
The stadium announcer began speaking.
“Ladies and gentlemen, one more strike and this young man wins one hundred thousand dollars for a youth baseball program!”
The crowd roared.
I looked toward the stands.
Somewhere among those thirty thousand people, my mother was sitting in the upper section.
She had borrowed money for the bus trip.
She couldn’t afford one of the expensive seats near the field.
But she had promised she’d be there.
I searched for her.
I couldn’t find her face.
There were too many people.
Then I remembered what she’d told me that morning.
“Don’t worry about being impressive, Elijah. Just enjoy the game.”
I smiled.
My father would have said the same thing.
I looked down at the baseball.
One pitch.
That was all.
I stepped onto the rubber.
The catcher gave me a signal.
A fastball.
I shook my head.
He signaled again.
Another fastball.
I shook my head.
Finally, he lowered his glove.
He looked confused.
I pointed toward the inside corner.
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
I took a breath.
The stadium became strangely quiet.
I could hear the wind moving through the flags above the scoreboard.
I could hear Jason adjusting his batting gloves.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
Then I began my motion.
My foot lifted.
My shoulders turned.
And I threw.
The ball traveled toward home plate.
Jason watched carefully.
He started to swing.
Then stopped.
The baseball moved toward the inside edge of the strike zone.
The catcher shifted.
His glove snapped shut.
For half a second, nobody moved.
Then the umpire raised his hand.
“STRIKE THREE!”
The stadium erupted.
Thirty thousand people rose to their feet.
The noise was unbelievable.
Melissa screamed into her microphone.
“HE DID IT! ELIJAH BROOKS JUST THREW THREE STRAIGHT STRIKES!”
I stood on the mound.
Frozen.
The catcher ran toward me.
Jason Cole dropped his bat and began clapping.
Other players rushed from the dugout.
Someone lifted me off the ground.
But I barely noticed.
Because I was looking toward the scoreboard.
Three pitches.
Three strikes.
And somewhere in the stands, my mother was watching.
I had done it.
Tom Reynolds stood near the dugout, staring at the field.
His face had lost its color.
The television cameras turned toward him.
Melissa approached.
“Tom! What an incredible moment! One hundred thousand dollars for a youth baseball program!”
Tom forced a smile.
“Absolutely incredible.”
Melissa laughed.
“And I believe you made a promise!”
The crowd began chanting.
