Davon looked out at the diamond, empty in the morning sun. The mound seemed farther away than it had yesterday, and also closer, as if it were waiting for him to decide what kind of pitcher he wanted to be. He was not sure yet. But he knew one thing: he would show up, on time, and do the work right. That part had never changed.
Chapter 12: Home With Rose
The duplex smelled like fried chicken and collard greens when Davon came home that afternoon. Rose had the windows open, and the late light fell across the small kitchen table where his schoolbooks sat in a neat stack. She did not ask him about the park right away. She handed him a glass of sweet tea, pointed at a chair, and went back to the stove as if this were any other day. Davon was grateful for that. He needed a little ordinary time before he tried to explain a morning that had not felt ordinary at all.
"Coach Callahan says one session," Davon said finally. "Mr. Delaney asked for a real look. Not a joke this time."
Rose nodded slowly, stirring the greens. "Good. A joke can make you famous for a day. A real look can teach you something, even if the answer is no."
Davon traced a scratch on the tabletop with his thumb. "What if I can't do it again? What if yesterday was just luck?"
Rose turned off the burner and sat across from him. Her knees complained when she sat, the way they always did, but her eyes were steady. "Then you learn that, too," she said. "Luck doesn't show up on time every other Saturday to mow a field. Luck doesn't study a library book until the pages are soft. You did work, Davon. Don't let one good day make you forget the work, and don't let one bad day make you forget it either."
He thought about the tennis ball against the cinder-block wall behind their building, the rhythm of throw and bounce and catch, the way he had taught himself to watch his arm and finish low. Nobody had filmed that. Nobody had cheered. It had just been him and the wall, summer after summer.
"Mama called?" he asked, because Rose had mentioned it that morning.
"She'll call tonight," Rose said. "She's on nights again in Atlanta. She saw the video. One of the other aides showed her on a break."
Davon felt a twist of pride and guilt at the same time. His mother worked nights as a nurse's aide, lifting and cleaning and checking on people who could not check on themselves, and he was here chasing a game. He had never said that out loud, but Rose seemed to hear it anyway.
"Your mother is proud of you," Rose said firmly. "Don't you go turning her pride into a burden. She works so you can have a chance to choose. Choosing baseball for a season isn't disrespecting her work. Forgetting school would be."
They ate at the table, and Rose told him about her own days cooking at the school cafeteria, how she learned to feed a hundred children with whatever was delivered that morning and still make it taste like someone cared. "Talent is like that," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "It's not just for you. If you get good, you use it right. You help the next kid. You don't walk past him like he isn't there."
After supper, Davon washed the dishes while Rose rested her knees with her feet up. The phone rang just as the sky went purple outside. He picked it up, and his mother's voice came through, tired and warm.
"I saw you, baby," she said. "Three pitches. I watched it three times on my break."
Davon laughed, a real laugh this time. "Mama, it was just—"
"It was not just," she interrupted gently. "You stood up. That's what I saw. You stood up when people laughed, and you did the thing you practiced. I'm proud. Now listen to your grandmother about school, and don't let anybody rush you."
"I won't," Davon promised.
Before bed, Rose asked him to read the trial paperwork aloud, line by line, so they both understood what he would be signing. It talked about practices, about school grades, about telling a coach if his arm hurt. Nothing in it promised him a starting spot, and Rose liked that. "A promise you haven't earned yet is just pressure with nicer words," she said, folding the paper again. Davon agreed. He liked knowing exactly what was expected, because then he could meet it, day by day, without guessing.
Later, Davon wrote in his notebook: show up, tell the truth, do the schoolwork, take care of the arm. It was a list he could follow, and that felt stronger than any speech.
When he hung up, the house felt quieter and fuller at once. Rose was dozing in her chair, her hands folded. Davon covered her with a light blanket, then stepped outside to the wall. He did not throw. He just stood there, palm against the cool cinder block, remembering why he had started: not for a crowd, not for a video, but for the clean feeling of a ball leaving his hand exactly where he meant it to go. That was enough to carry into tomorrow.