A retired pitcher on the panel said, “The kid has heart, but Sullivan hit.310 against major-league pitching. A 12-year-old? I don't see it.” Then the Jumbotron changed. The countdown disappeared. Black screen. Two seconds of silence.
Long enough for 15,000 people to stop breathing. Then a video began. It opened on the South Side. Cracked sidewalks, chain-link fences, the mural on the brick wall. Earl's cage.
Rusted roof, flickering bulb. Wesley throwing in the half-dark. Raw, intimate footage. Then the image shifted. A photograph filled the screen.
Enormous. Sharp. A young black man in a professional uniform, mid-pitch, left arm extended. On his hand, a glove. The same glove.
The same initials. A headline appeared. James Irving. The arm that could have changed everything. 90 seconds.
Who James Irving was. The scouting reports. The silencing. The blacklisting. The warehouse.
Death at 29. Then white text on black. His son, Wesley Irving, stands on this mound tonight, wearing his father's glove. The stadium reacted like a body reacts to shock. Silence first.
Then a sound that started low and built. Not cheering, not crying. Somewhere between. 15,000 people processing the same revelation at once. Cameras found Nina.