Wesley sat on the bus home, forehead against the window, glove pressed to his chest. He didn't cry. He replayed Sullivan's words, every one, and whispered to himself so quiet only the glass could hear, “Three pitches.” That night he sat at the kitchen table in an empty apartment, the glove laid flat in front of him, initials J I staring up like eyes. He picked up his phone and typed, “Garrett Sullivan MLB career stats.”
He read everything. And when he was done, he looked at the glove and said to the empty room, “Who are you? Who are you really?” The answer to that question would change his life. But the person who held it was not his mother. It was a 68-year-old man in a crumbling batting cage and a ghost with the same initials on his hand.
The apartment was quiet when Nina got home. Wesley was sitting at the kitchen table. The glove laid flat between them, initials up like evidence in a trial. “Mama, whose glove is this?” Nina set her bag down.
“Your grandfather's.” No, it wasn't. He turned the glove over, ran his finger along the stitching. Tight, professional, machine grade. “I looked it up. This is custom fitted. These stitches come from a factory that only makes gear for signed players.”
He looked at her. “Whose glove is this, really?” Nina sat down. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the initials, J I, and something behind her eyes collapsed.
She told him everything. James Irving, his father, the most dominant left-handed pitcher to come out of Chicago's amateur circuit in a generation. Scouted at 19, signed at 20. Fastball clocked at 96. The kind of velocity that makes scouts call their bosses from the parking lot.
They called him the next great arm. But James was loud. Not arrogant, honest. He saw black players paid less than white players with the same stats. Black coaches passed over for men with half their experience.
Scouting reports called white pitchers cerebral and black pitchers athletic. The same code words generation after generation. James spoke about it publicly, named names, cited numbers, made powerful people uncomfortable in rooms where comfort was the only currency. At 22, his contract was quietly terminated. No other team called.