Outside, the sun was bright on the diamond. Davon walked with Rose to the bus, the folder of papers tucked safely under her arm. He felt lighter, not triumphant, just cleared, like a sky after a storm that had never quite broken. He could pitch again without a question hanging over him, and that, he realized, was worth more than any applause.
Chapter 20: Back to the Wall
After the review, Davon did not go to the park. He did not go to the bus stop or the library or Maya's house. He walked home, changed out of his good shirt, and went out back to the cinder-block wall behind the duplex. The wall was exactly as he had left it: grey, rough, a little stained near the bottom where rain had splashed up over the years. It did not ask him questions. It did not need paperwork. It simply stood there, waiting for a ball.
He picked up the scuffed tennis ball from its usual spot by the back step. It was soft now, the fuzz worn thin, the bounce a little unpredictable, and that unpredictability had taught him more than a perfect ball ever could. He threw it, easy at first, watching it hit the wall and come back to his glove hand. Throw, bounce, catch. Throw, bounce, catch. The rhythm settled his breathing in a way nothing else had all week.
Rose watched from the kitchen window for a while, then came out with two glasses of water and set one on the step. She did not interrupt him. She sat on the step, her bad knees stretched out in front of her, and watched the way she used to watch when he was small and the wall was taller than he was.
"You missed this, didn't you?" she said after a while.
Davon caught the ball and held it for a moment. "I didn't know how much," he said. "At the park, everything is a test or a practice or a review. Here, it's just throwing."
"That's why you started," Rose said. "Don't lose that part. The rest is good, but this is the root."
He threw again, working through his pitches in miniature: a fastball straight and true, a change-up with slower fingers, a breaking ball that curved off the wall at a funny angle. None of it counted for anything, and that was the point. He was not trying to impress a scout or clear a board or win a spot. He was remembering the clean feeling of a ball leaving his hand exactly where he meant it to go, and the small satisfaction of catching it again on the return.
The evening light turned gold, and the wall threw long shadows across the narrow yard. Davon slowed down, throwing softer now, enjoying the sound of the ball against concrete, the chirp of crickets starting up, the smell of supper from the kitchen. His shoulder felt loose, his mind felt quiet, and for the first time since showcase day, he felt entirely himself, not a video, not a trial player, not a question to be reviewed, just a boy with a tennis ball and a wall.
Then he noticed movement at the side of the yard. Andre Johnson stood there, half hidden by the corner of the building, watching with wide eyes. Andre was fourteen too, younger in spirit, and he sometimes mowed with Davon at the park, carrying the smaller tools and asking endless questions. He held a tennis ball of his own, a newer one, bright and fuzzy, and he looked as if he were not sure whether he was allowed to come closer.
Davon smiled and waved him in. "You want to throw?" he asked.
Andre nodded, shyly, and stepped into the yard. Davon showed him the spot to stand, not too close, not too far, and how to hold the ball with his fingers across the seams. Andre's first throw hit the wall low and bounced wild, and he laughed, embarrassed. Davon laughed too, kindly.
"Again," Davon said. "The wall doesn't mind. It just bounces it back until you get it right."
Andre threw again, and this time the ball came back cleaner. He caught it, grinning, and threw a third time. Davon watched him, remembering himself at that age, alone with a wall and a borrowed dream, and felt something settle deep in his chest. He had been through a showcase, a bullpen, a first relief inning, a board review, and he had come back to where it all began, not because he had failed, but because this was where he learned why he loved to throw.
Andre asked how Davon had learned the breaking ball, and Davon showed him the grip patiently. Andre tried it, and the ball wobbled off the wall, and they both laughed. Davon told him not to worry about the break yet, only about throwing straight and finishing low.
Rose stood to go inside, pausing at the door. "Supper in twenty minutes," she said. "Both of you."