“That day, I missed you.”
Terrence looked down at his shoes.
New ones now.
A local sporting-goods store had offered him several pairs after the video went viral.
Monica allowed him to accept one.
Only one.
Then made him donate the others to Jefferson’s team.
Cal said:
“The embarrassing part isn’t that you were hidden.”
“You weren’t.”
“You were twenty feet from me all morning.”
That stayed with Terrence.
Terrence eventually chose the full junior-college scholarship.
People online called it a mistake.
They wanted Division I.
They wanted the dramatic version.
He chose the place with a respected pitching coach, regular innings, a weight program, and no financial burden for his mother.
Monica approved.
That mattered more.
His first college fall was difficult.
For the first time, almost every hitter had been one of the best players at his high school.
They stopped chasing his running fastball when he could not command it.
His slider got punished.
His delivery occasionally rushed.
His velocity dropped to 91 during one ugly stretch.
The attention that arrived so quickly began feeling dangerous.
Terrence called Ryan.
“I think they were wrong.”
“Who?”
“Scouts.”
“About what?”
“Me.”
Ryan was quiet.
Then:
“Your fastball disappear?”
“No.”
“You hurt?”
“No.”
“You quit?”
“No.”
“Then they weren’t wrong.”
“I can’t get college hitters out.”
“Today.”
“Last week too.”
Ryan laughed.
“Terrence, welcome to baseball.”
Terrence did not laugh.
Ryan continued:
“You thought being discovered was the hard part?”
“It was one hard part.”
“Now you have different hard parts.”
That irritated Terrence because it was true.
So he worked.
Not romantically.
Not until midnight every night.
He worked correctly.
Strength program.
Recovery.
Command drills.
Video.
A better slider grip.
A changeup he could throw behind in the count.
By spring, he was not the ace.
He was the number-three starter.
That was enough.
He threw 61 innings.
Struck out 74.
Walked 28.
Fastball averaged 93-95.
The slider became average.
The changeup became useful.
Professional scouts kept coming.
Including Cal.
Two years after the first showcase, Terrence stood on another mound.
This one at a professional pre-draft workout.
Same loose shoulders.
Different shoes.
Different body.
He weighed 194 now.
Fastball:
Then 96 again.
Movement still there.
Ryan Mitchell happened to be catching.
Not because anyone arranged a sentimental reunion.
Ryan had entered professional baseball after college and was working in the organization’s minor-league system.
When he heard Terrence would throw, he asked to receive the session.
Terrence saw him behind the plate.
“You planning to take your glove off again?”
Ryan laughed.
“Throw hard enough and maybe.”
Terrence’s first pitch ran back across the plate.
Ryan caught it.
Clean.
He looked at his glove.
Then toward Terrence.
“Still rude.”
Terrence smiled.
The scouts behind home plate laughed.
Cal Dugan was among them.
So was Harold Mercer, now consulting part-time.
This time nobody needed to turn the radar on.
It had been waiting for Terrence before he arrived.
That difference was not lost on him.
Terrence was drafted that summer.
Not first round.
Not second.
Not even third.
Sixth round.
Good signing bonus.
Real opportunity.
No guarantee.
Monica cried when the call came.
Then immediately asked the team representative:
“Is that amount before taxes?”
Terrence covered his face.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Somebody has to ask.”
She was right.
Again.
Terrence signed.
First thing he bought was not a car.
He paid off Monica’s remaining medical debt from a surgery she had postponed twice.
Then he replaced her unreliable twelve-year-old sedan with a used Toyota.
Used.
Monica refused new.
“You throw baseballs for money.”
“That does not make us stupid.”
Terrence laughed.
He also donated quietly to Jefferson High’s baseball program.
Pitching screens.
Baseballs.
A portable radar unit.
Nothing extravagant.
Coach Webb called him.
“You know what the radar gun says now?”
“What?”
“That most of my pitchers are slower than they think.”
Terrence laughed.
“Tell them that’s useful.”
“I did.”
“They hate you.”
“Good.”
His professional career was not easy.
No story should pretend otherwise.
A sixth-round pick can disappear in a season.
Terrence spent his first year in rookie ball.
Then Low-A.
His command came and went.
At twenty-two, he missed six weeks with shoulder inflammation.
No surgery.
But enough to scare him.
At twenty-three, the organization moved him temporarily to the bullpen.
He hated it.
Then discovered his fastball played even better in short appearances.
Velocity increased.
The unusual movement became harder for hitters to adjust to when they saw him only once.
The slider sharpened.
By twenty-four, he reached Double-A.
At twenty-five, Triple-A.
Then, one September afternoon, Monica received another call at work.
She still worked at the rehabilitation center.
Reduced hours now.
But she refused to retire just because Terrence earned more money.
Her supervisor found her in a patient room.
“Monica, your son is calling.”
“He knows I’m working.”
“He said it matters.”
She answered.
Terrence said:
“Mom.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing bad.”
She laughed.
“You still say that when something happened.”
Terrence looked around the Triple-A clubhouse.
His teammates were smiling.
He said:
“They called me up.”
Monica became silent.
“Up where?”
“Mom.”
Then she understood.
Major leagues.
The same system whose scouts had once watched Terrence carry equipment without learning his name had finally put his name on a major-league roster.
Monica cried so loudly the patient beside her started crying too without knowing why.
His debut came three days later.
One inning.
Score tied.
Terrence entered from the bullpen.
His first major-league fastball missed outside.
96.8.
Second:
97.1.
The hitter fouled it off.
Then Terrence threw the pitch that had started everything.
Two-seam grip.
Slightly rotated.
Loose wrist.
The ball began off the plate.
Then moved back.
Called strike three.
The catcher caught it.
Held it for half a second.
Then threw around the horn.
Nothing dramatic.
No glove removed.
No scouts gasping.
Just one major-league strikeout.
Terrence preferred it that way.
After the game, a reporter asked:
“Is that the same fastball from the famous showcase video?”
Terrence smiled.
“Pretty much.”
