His confidence didn't shatter. It cracked. A fracture running through the center of everything he believed about who deserved to stand on this field. In his box, Crane leaned forward. He had planned this reveal to the second, whispered to the empty chair beside him.
This one's for you, James. Behind the backstop, Earl opened his notebook to the last page. His own handwriting. Three pitches. Make them count.
He held it up so only Wesley could see. Wesley read it, nodded once. The umpire stepped forward. Silence so complete you could hear the stadium lights humming 60 ft above. Countdown.
Pitch one of three. Wesley adjusted his father's glove, pressed the initials into his palm, set his feet on the rubber. 15,000 people held their breath. What happened next would be replayed 22 million times, and it started with a fastball that made a World Series champion swing at air. Wesley stood on the mound, 12 years old, 60 feet, 6 inches from a man who had hit baseballs thrown by the best arms on the planet for 15 seasons.
15,000 people in the seats, millions streaming. The air had weight, pressing against skin like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. He adjusted his father's glove, cracked leather settled against his palm, initials biting into the skin between thumb and forefinger. Earl stood behind the backstop, arms folded, notebook closed. He gave Wesley a single nod.
The nod that meant throw. Sullivan settled into his stance, back foot dug in, bat cocked, hands loose, weight balanced, eyes locked on Wesley's release point. This was muscle memory. 15 years of professional hitting encoded in bone. His body knew how to hit a baseball the way most people know how to breathe.