Lawson hesitated.
Samuel pointed toward Isaiah.
“Start with him.”
“We need to verify his age, equipment, and physical condition.”
“Do that.”
“Throwing ninety-nine at thirteen is dangerous.”
“It can be.”
“So I am not comfortable allowing him to continue.”
Five minutes earlier, Lawson had dared Isaiah to embarrass himself.
Now he spoke as though he had always been concerned for the boy’s health.
Denise heard the difference.
So did everyone else.
Isaiah picked up his glove.
“I don’t need to throw again.”
Lawson looked relieved.
Isaiah continued.
“But I want to hit.”
A few boys laughed nervously.
Lawson frowned.
“This is the pitching group.”
“You said this is a competitive program.”
“It is.”
“So evaluate everything.”
Samuel’s eyes brightened.
Denise recognized the look.
Daniel had worn the same expression whenever someone underestimated him.
Coach Lawson folded his arms.
“What position do you play?”
“Shortstop.”
“You throw ninety-nine and play shortstop?”
“I pitch two innings a week for school.”
“What school?”
“Lincoln Middle.”
Lawson searched his clipboard.
“They didn’t win a game last season.”
“No, sir.”
“And you think you belong on a state tournament team?”
Isaiah looked at the line of boys behind the dugout.
Most were staring at their shoes.
A few had laughed at him.
One had not.
Tyler Ames, the catcher, had removed his chest protector and was watching silently.
Isaiah turned back to Lawson.
“I think that’s what tryouts are supposed to decide.”
A man near the fence said, “Let the kid hit.”
Another parent agreed.
Soon several voices joined.
Lawson looked at the phones, the scout, and the growing crowd from the neighboring fields.
He could not refuse without revealing exactly what Denise had accused him of doing.
“Fine,” he said. “One round.”
The hitting station was on Field Two.
Word traveled before they arrived.
Coaches stopped drills.
Players gathered along the fence.
Parents whispered about the radar readings.
Isaiah carried his faded glove and the old baseball Lawson had handed him.
His taped cleats scraped against the concrete walkway.
Denise walked beside him.
“You don’t have to prove anything else,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“To him?”
Isaiah shook his head.
“To me.”
At Field Two, Coach Lawson chose a bat from the rack.
It was too heavy.
Isaiah knew it immediately.
So did Samuel.
The scout reached for a lighter bat.
Lawson blocked him.
“Players use team equipment.”
Samuel’s voice hardened.
“Then give him equipment suitable for his size.”
Lawson stared at him.
Samuel stared back.
A younger assistant coach quickly selected a thirty-one-inch bat and handed it to Isaiah.
“Try this.”
Isaiah took two practice swings.
The bat felt balanced.
He stepped into the cage.
A pitching machine had been set to seventy miles per hour.
Lawson increased it to eighty-five.
The assistant coach looked uncomfortable.
“He’s thirteen.”
“He throws ninety-nine,” Lawson replied. “He can handle eighty-five.”
Isaiah tightened his grip.
The first pitch came high and inside.
He turned away.
The ball struck the backstop.
Lawson fed another.
This one crossed the outside edge.
Isaiah let it go.
“Swing the bat,” Lawson called.
“I’m waiting for a strike.”
Several parents laughed, but this time the laughter was with Isaiah.
Lawson pushed the next ball into the machine.
It came waist-high.
Isaiah stepped and drove it toward right-center field.
The ball struck the fence on one bounce.
The next pitch was lower.
He lined it over the second baseman’s position.
Then came a pitch inside.
Isaiah pulled it down the left-field line.
He hit seven straight balls hard.
Not wild swings.
Not lucky contact.
Each ball went to a different part of the field.
Samuel watched Isaiah’s feet.
The torn cleats stayed beneath him.
His head remained still.
His hands moved directly to the ball.
Daniel had not only taught him to pitch.
He had taught him baseball.
Lawson stopped the machine.
“That’s enough.”
Isaiah stepped out.
“Do I make the team?”
Lawson removed his sunglasses again.
“Selections are posted next week.”
“You already told three boys they made it,” Tyler said from behind the fence.
His father turned toward him.
“Tyler.”
“It’s true.”
Lawson’s face reddened.
“Those players were returning members.”
“The flyer said every position was open,” Denise said.
“Returning players receive priority.”
“That wasn’t on the flyer.”
“This is my program.”
Samuel stepped beside Isaiah.
“No,” he said. “It is a nonprofit program operating on county-owned fields.”
Lawson looked at him sharply.
Samuel continued.
“I reviewed the public records before coming today.”
“Why were you reviewing North Ridge?”
“Because for three years, your program reported twelve full scholarships.”
Denise looked at Lawson.
“How many did you give?”
Samuel answered.
“Two.”
Murmurs spread around the cage.
Lawson’s expression hardened.
“That is an accounting issue unrelated to this child.”
“It became related when his mother paid her last twenty dollars to enter a tryout advertised as scholarship-supported.”
“You know nothing about our finances.”
“I know your equipment sponsor donated four hundred pairs of youth cleats last year.”
Every eye moved toward Isaiah’s taped shoes.
Samuel’s voice remained calm.
“Where are they, Coach?”
Lawson glanced toward the assistants.
One looked away.
Another studied the ground.
“They were distributed.”
“To whom?”
“Players in need.”
“Names?”
“That information is private.”
Samuel opened his leather notebook.
“Then perhaps the county recreation board can review it.”
Lawson stepped close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
“You came here to scout players, not audit me.”
“I came because someone asked me to look at a thirteen-year-old catcher named Tyler Ames.”
Tyler’s mouth fell open.
His father looked stunned.
Samuel turned toward him.
“You frame pitches well. Your throwing footwork needs work, but you protected that boy’s first fastball instead of blaming him when it knocked you backward.”
Tyler’s cheeks turned red.
Then Samuel looked at Isaiah.
“I did not come here for him.”
The scout’s gaze moved to the taped cleats.
“But sometimes the player you are supposed to find is not the player you were sent to see.”
Lawson pointed toward the exit.
