He set his phone down, laced his cleats by the door for the morning, and went to sleep thinking about a simple plan: throw his own game, trust Marcus behind the plate, and let Cody stand beside him. Saturday would be loud. That was fine. He had learned to pitch through noise before, with a tennis ball and a wall and nobody watching at all.
Chapter 22: The Big Game
Saturday morning smelled of cut grass and hot dogs, and Riverbend Athletic Park filled early. Parents unfolded chairs along the first-base line. Maya Torres climbed into the bleachers with her phone already in her hand, and Earl Jackson stood by the gate with his arms folded, watching the field the way a man watches his own front yard. On the far side, the Marietta bus sat with its doors open, and their navy uniforms moved in neat lines during warm-ups.
Davon Mitchell sat in the Falcons dugout, tying his cleats twice, the way Coach Tom Beasley had taught him. His stomach felt tight, but not sick. It was the same tightness he felt before a spelling test he had studied for, a feeling with work underneath it.
Coach Ron Callahan gathered the team in a circle. He did not shout. That alone told Davon how much this game mattered. "Play your game," Callahan said. "Trust the man behind you. Davon starts. Cody, you are ready in the pen. Marcus calls it."
Davon walked to the mound with the ball in his hand, and the crowd noise thinned to a hum. Marcus Bell crouched behind the plate, gave him a nod, and held his glove low. First pitch: fastball, low and true. The Marietta leadoff hitter swung late and fouled it off. Second pitch: change-up, and the boy swung over it. Strike three came on a breaking ball that clipped the outside corner, and the Falcons bench erupted.
But the second inning was harder. A Marietta hitter laid down a bunt that Davon fielded a beat too slowly, and the next boy lined a double into the gap. Two runners on, nobody out, and the noise from the Marietta dugout rose like a wave. Davon felt his shoulders creep up toward his ears. He looked at Marcus, who walked out to the mound, slow and calm.
"Breathe," Marcus said, tapping his own chest. "You do not have to strike out the world. Get a ground ball. We turn two."
Davon nodded. He threw a fastball inside, just as he and Cody had planned, and the hitter grounded sharply to second. The Falcons turned the double play, clean and quick, and the third out came on a fly ball that the center fielder caught with room to spare. Davon jogged off the field with his glove swinging at his side, and Cody met him at the dugout steps with a slap on the back.
"That is how you do it," Cody said.
The game stayed close. In the fourth, the Falcons scored twice on a single up the middle, and the home bleachers shook with cheering. In the fifth, Marietta answered with a run of their own, and Davon had to pitch out of a jam again, this time with a runner on third and one out. He threw his change-up when the count was full, trusting it the way he trusted the wall at home, and the hitter popped it straight up. Marcus caught it, and Davon felt something loosen in his chest.
By the sixth inning, his arm felt heavy, the way Beasley had warned him it would. Beasley came to the mound with Callahan, and they did not argue about it. They just looked at Davon, really looked, and Beasley said, "You have given us six good ones. Cody finishes."
Davon handed over the ball without a fight. That surprised him more than anything. A month ago, he would have begged to stay in. Now he understood that finishing was not the same as quitting. He sat on the bench, ice on his shoulder, and watched Cody take the mound.
Cody was steady. He threw hard, his elbow high, and he got the first two outs of the seventh on ground balls. Then Whitfield stepped in, with the tying run on second base, and the whole park seemed to hold its breath. Cody threw a fastball up in the zone, and Whitfield swung hard and missed. The next pitch was inside, and Whitfield fouled it back. On the third pitch, Cody threw his best breaking ball of the day, and Whitfield swung over it. Strike three.
The Falcons won, five to three, and the two teams lined up to shake hands. Whitfield found Davon in the line and shook his hand longer than the rest. "You pitch smart," he said, simply. "See you next time."
Davon walked off the field with dirt on his cleats, his arm pleasantly tired, and the noise of the crowd still ringing warmly in his ears. Rose was waiting by the fence with a paper cup of water, and she did not say anything about winning. She just looked at him, smiled, and said, "You looked like you belonged out there, baby."