Wesley wore a gray T-shirt, dark jeans, and sneakers with holes at the toes. He carried his father's glove and a backpack with a water bottle and a granola bar. Inside, the air changed. Pristine artificial turf glowing under halogen lights. Digital scoreboards cycling sponsor logos.
The smell of new leather and fresh laundered uniforms. Boys warmed up in matching gear. Parents filmed with cameras that cost more than Nina's monthly rent. Wesley found the registration table. A woman with a clipboard looked at his address, a South Side zip code, and her expression shifted.
Not much. Just enough. “Registration fee is $200.” Wesley didn't know. Earl didn't know.
Nobody from their side of the expressway knew. He had $14 in his pocket. He stood frozen while families behind him moved forward with credit cards. A boy in line said to his father loud enough, “Is he lost?” Wesley started to speak.
“Just let me throw, just three pitches.” When a voice cut across the field like a blade. “What the hell is this?” Garrett Sullivan walked toward the table. He moved like he owned the ground beneath him, because in this building, he did.
His eyes found Wesley in Two seconds, and what happened next didn't bother wearing a mask. Sullivan looked Wesley up and down. Sneakers, jeans, gray T-shirt, the old glove. The way you'd look at something stuck to the bottom of your shoe. “Who let you in here?”
Wesley opened his mouth. Sullivan didn't let him speak. “No, seriously. Who opened the door and thought this was acceptable?” He turned to the registration woman. “Is this a joke? Do we not have standards anymore? Do we just let anyone wander off the street now?”