She did not tell him to win. She said, “Your father never got to throw his last pitch. Tomorrow, you throw it for him.” Wesley pressed the glove against his chest. The leather was worn. The initials bit into his skin like a fingerprint from another life.
Not grief, a promise. Tomorrow, 15,000 people would learn what those two letters meant. And one of them, the one holding the bat, would wish he had never laughed. When Wesley stepped onto the mound, the stadium looked like a cathedral built for war. A single mound and home plate sat center field, spotlit from above like a boxing ring.
The rest was dark. 15,000 seats sold out. Jumbotron screens pulsed with a countdown. Three pitches. Camera crews from four national networks lined the baselines.
Sullivan emerged first. Custom uniform, his old number 14 in gold on the back. Polished helmet. A bat engineered for his grip, his swing, his hands. He walked to the plate slow and deliberate, owning every inch of ground.
The crowd erupted. He tipped his helmet, waved, and flashed a smile. The legend. The man who could not be beaten by a child. Then Wesley walked out.
Opposite tunnel. Alone. Gray t-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Father's glove on his left hand. No entourage.