Terrence Cole watched the black marker move across the showcase board.
The head evaluator had finally written his name again, directly beneath the empty pitching slot. The letters were large enough for everyone near the evaluation table to see.
But the thick black line from the earlier rejection was still visible underneath.
Terrence stared at it.
General Thomas Whitmore noticed.
“Is something wrong, son?”
Terrence shook his head.
“No, sir. I just never thought I’d see my name up there.”
Ryan Mitchell approached from home plate, carrying his catcher’s mitt.
“Well, it’s there now,” Ryan said. “And every scout in this place just watched you throw a hundred and three.”
The general turned toward the evaluation table.
“Then I assume the young man will receive the same consideration as the other athletes.”
The head evaluator cleared his throat.
“Of course, General. We’ll review his information.”
Ryan frowned.
“What information? You didn’t even let him register.”
Several scouts looked up.
The evaluator’s expression tightened.
“We’ll get that sorted out.”
General Whitmore studied him.
“I hope so.”
Then he turned back to Terrence.
“Do you have a way to contact these recruiters?”
Terrence hesitated.
“No, sir.”
“Did anyone explain what happens after an evaluation?”
“No, sir.”
The general looked toward the stadium director, who had been standing nearby.
“Perhaps someone could explain the process before this young man goes back to work.”
The director immediately stepped forward.
“Absolutely.”
Terrence looked from one man to another.
An hour earlier, he had been carrying equipment bags.
Now thirty college scouts were discussing his future.
But one question frightened him more than anything else.
What would happen when the general left?
The stadium director led Terrence into a small office beneath the grandstand.
Ryan came with him.
So did two college recruiters who had asked to speak with the young pitcher.
The head evaluator followed reluctantly.
Terrence sat at the edge of a chair, his hands clasped together.
A recruiter named Daniel Mercer opened his notebook.
“Terrence, let’s start with your baseball background.”
Terrence nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Which high school did you play for?”
Terrence gave him the name of his public school in Georgia.
“How many seasons did you pitch?”
“Two, sir. Mostly when somebody else wasn’t available.”
Mercer looked up.
“Why only two?”
Terrence shifted in his seat.
“I worked after school. Sometimes I couldn’t make practice.”
“What about summer baseball?”
“I couldn’t afford the travel teams.”
“Private coaching?”
Terrence shook his head.
“No, sir.”
Mercer glanced at his notes.
“Who taught you to throw?”
“I watched games. I studied pitchers whenever I could. Then I practiced.”
“Where?”
“At a neighborhood field.”
“With a coach?”
“No, sir. Usually by myself.”
The recruiter stopped writing.
“You developed that arm without formal instruction?”
Terrence nodded.
Mercer leaned back.
The radar reading had been extraordinary.
But he knew that one fast pitch did not automatically make someone ready for college baseball.
He needed to understand whether Terrence could repeat his delivery, control the ball, stay healthy, and handle the academic demands of a university.
“Have you ever had your pitching mechanics evaluated?”
“No, sir.”
“Any shoulder or elbow injuries?”
“Nothing serious that I know of.”
Mercer closed his notebook.
“Then before anyone asks you to throw at maximum effort again, we need to make sure you’re healthy.”
Terrence looked confused.
“Does that mean I did something wrong?”
“No. It means your arm matters.”
Ryan nodded.
“He’s right. Throwing hard is impressive. Throwing safely and consistently is what keeps you playing.”
Terrence looked down at his hands.
Nobody had ever spoken to him about protecting his future as an athlete.
Until that afternoon, he hadn’t been sure anyone considered him one.
The head evaluator finally spoke.
“There’s still the matter of eligibility.”
Mercer turned toward him.
“What about it?”
“This showcase was for registered players.”
Ryan stared at him.
“You agreed to put his name down.”
“Before I knew his background.”
The room went quiet.
Mercer slowly set his pen on the table.
“What exactly about his background made him ineligible?”
The evaluator hesitated.
“He’s an employee here.”
“Is there a rule that prohibits stadium employees from participating?”
“Not specifically.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
The evaluator looked toward the director.
The director folded his arms.
“I’d like to know that myself.”
Terrence felt his face growing hot again.
He remembered the laughter.
The marker crossing through his name.
The order to return to his equipment cart.
Mercer turned toward him.
“Terrence, did you ask to take the place of a pitcher who didn’t show up?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And were you told you could?”
“At first.”
“What happened next?”
Terrence looked at the evaluator.
“He asked where I trained. I told him I worked here and practiced on my own.”
“And then?”
“He crossed my name off.”
Mercer waited.
Terrence swallowed.
“He said I didn’t belong with the other athletes.”
The director looked directly at the evaluator.
“Is that accurate?”
The man stared at the table.
“I handled the situation poorly.”
Ryan spoke immediately.
“You humiliated him.”
The evaluator’s jaw tightened.
“I’ve acknowledged that.”
“No,” Ryan replied. “You said you handled it poorly. That’s not the same thing.”
Mercer raised one hand.
“Let’s focus on making sure Terrence gets a proper evaluation.”
He turned back to the young pitcher.
“Here’s what I can offer. I’d like to arrange a follow-up session with our coaching staff. It won’t guarantee a scholarship, but it will give us a better picture of your abilities.”
Terrence stared at him.
“At a college?”
“Yes.”
“With real coaches?”
Mercer smiled.
“Real coaches.”
Terrence looked toward Ryan.
Ryan grinned.
“Looks like you’re getting more than one pitch.”
That evening, Terrence returned home later than usual.
His mother, Angela Cole, was standing at the kitchen counter sorting bills.
She had finished one shift and was preparing for another.
Their small house was quiet except for the refrigerator humming in the corner.
“You’re late, baby,” she said.
Terrence set his backpack beside the door.
“Something happened at work.”
Angela turned immediately.
“Did you get hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you lose your job?”
“No.”
She studied his expression.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry?”
Terrence tried to answer.
Nothing came out.
Angela crossed the kitchen and took his hands.
“Terrence, talk to me.”
He told her everything.
The empty pitching slot.
The evaluator writing his name.
The black marker.
The laughter.
The pitch.
The radar reading.
And the four-star general who had stepped forward when everyone else remained silent.
Angela listened without interrupting.
But when Terrence repeated what the evaluator had said about his name not belonging beside real athletes, her eyes filled.
“He said that to you?”
Terrence nodded.
“In front of everybody.”
Angela pressed her lips together.
She had spent years trying to protect her son from the humiliation that poverty sometimes brought.
She knew he wore old clothes.
She knew he had missed opportunities because she couldn’t afford the fees.
But she hadn’t known how badly he wanted to prove himself.
Then Terrence pulled a business card from his pocket.
“Mom, a college recruiter gave me this.”
Angela took it.
She read the name.
Then she looked at her son.
“What’s this for?”
“He wants me to come pitch for their coaches.”
Her hands began to tremble.
“Terrence…”
“He said it doesn’t guarantee anything.”
Angela nodded.
“But he wants to see you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pulled him into her arms.
For several moments, they stood in the kitchen holding each other.
Then Angela stepped back.
“Do you know what I wish?”
Terrence shook his head.
“I wish you had told me how much this dream meant to you.”
He looked down.
“I knew we couldn’t afford lessons.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to carry everything by yourself.”
Terrence wiped his eyes.
“I didn’t want you worrying about one more thing.”
Angela touched his cheek.
“You’re my son. Your dreams aren’t a burden.”
The following morning, the stadium director asked Terrence to come into his office.
Terrence arrived wearing the same work uniform he had worn at the showcase.
The director, Mr. Harris, stood beside his desk.
“Close the door, Terrence.”
Terrence obeyed.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
Harris gestured toward a chair.
“I’ve reviewed what happened yesterday.”
Terrence sat.
“The showcase?”
“Yes. Including the way you were treated.”
Terrence lowered his eyes.
Harris continued.
“I watched the stadium’s security footage. The evaluator crossed out your name after learning you worked here.”
Terrence nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“He also made remarks about your background in front of the other participants.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harris sighed.
“That should never have happened.”
Terrence looked up.
The director leaned forward.
“Your job here is important. You help keep this facility running. There’s nothing shameful about that.”
Terrence’s throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
“And your employment should never have been used as a reason to humiliate you.”
Harris paused.
“The showcase organizers have been notified. They’re reviewing the evaluator’s conduct.”
Terrence nodded.
He wasn’t sure what to feel.
Part of him wanted the man punished.
Another part simply wanted to forget the whole thing.
Harris opened a folder.
“There’s something else.”
He slid a document across the desk.
“The university has requested access to our field for your follow-up evaluation. We’ve agreed.”
Terrence stared at the paper.
“They’re coming back here?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
Terrence covered his mouth.
Harris smiled.
“And I’ve approved time away from your regular duties so you can attend.”
Terrence looked overwhelmed.
“Sir, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can thank me by showing up prepared.”
Terrence nodded quickly.
“I will.”
As he stood to leave, Harris added one more thing.
“Terrence?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You don’t have to stop being proud of the work you’ve done here just because someone finally noticed your pitching.”
Terrence smiled.
“I won’t.”
The days before the evaluation were difficult.
Terrence wanted to practice constantly.
But Daniel Mercer had warned him not to overload his arm.
Instead, he followed the instructions the university staff sent him.
He rested.
He worked on light conditioning.
He reviewed basic pitching mechanics.
He studied videos of college pitchers and tried to understand how they controlled their deliveries.
Ryan called him twice.
During the second conversation, Terrence admitted he was nervous.
“What if I can’t throw that fast again?”
Ryan laughed softly.
“Then don’t.”
Terrence frowned.
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t walk in there trying to beat a radar gun.”
“But that’s why they noticed me.”
“That’s why they looked up. It isn’t the only reason they’ll keep watching.”
Terrence sat on the edge of his bed.
“What should I focus on?”
“Throw strikes. Listen to the coaches. Show them you can learn.”
Terrence nodded.
Ryan continued.
“And remember something. You don’t owe those scouts a miracle every time you touch a baseball.”
Terrence smiled.
“Thanks, Ryan.”
“No problem. Now get some sleep.”
After the call, Terrence placed his phone on the nightstand.
For years, he had measured his progress alone.
He had no coach to tell him when to stop.
No teammate to remind him that one bad pitch didn’t define him.
Now he was beginning to understand what being part of a team might feel like.
On evaluation day, Terrence arrived early.
The field was almost empty.
A pitching coach named Marcus Bennett was setting up equipment near the mound.
Daniel Mercer stood beside him.
Ryan had also returned to catch.
“Morning, Terrence,” Mercer called.
“Good morning, sir.”
Bennett walked over and shook his hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Terrence smiled nervously.
“Hopefully good things.”
“Mostly that you’ve got an arm we need to understand.”
Bennett explained the session.
They would begin with a controlled warm-up.
They would examine Terrence’s mechanics.
Then, if everything looked safe, he would throw a limited number of pitches.
They weren’t looking only for velocity.
They wanted to see command, consistency, and his ability to respond to instruction.
Terrence listened carefully.
A qualified medical professional had reviewed his throwing history and checked for immediate concerns before the session.
Bennett made it clear that Terrence should report any pain.
“There’s no prize for hiding an injury,” he said.
Terrence nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
The session began.
His first few throws were ordinary warm-up pitches.
Then Bennett asked him to aim for different areas of the strike zone.
Terrence hit the target twice.
Missed once.
Adjusted.
Hit it again.
Bennett nodded.
“Good.”
After several more pitches, the coach asked him to shorten his stride slightly.
Terrence tried.
The ball sailed outside.
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry, Coach.”
Bennett shook his head.
“Don’t apologize. You’re learning a new movement.”
Terrence tried again.
This time, the pitch landed closer to the target.
“Better,” Bennett said.
Ryan returned the baseball.
“That looked smoother.”
Terrence took another breath.
He delivered again.
The ball struck Ryan’s mitt.
Bennett smiled.
“That’s what I wanted.”
The radar reading was strong, though it did not match the extraordinary number from the showcase.
Nobody seemed disappointed.
Mercer continued taking notes.
Bennett watched Terrence’s mechanics.
Ryan gave feedback from behind the plate.
And Terrence realized something that surprised him.
They were treating him like a pitcher.
Not a stadium worker pretending to be one.
After the evaluation, Mercer asked Terrence to sit with him in the dugout.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired, sir. But good.”
“Any pain?”
“No, sir.”
Mercer nodded.
“Good.”
He opened his notebook.
“Terrence, you’ve got unusual natural arm strength. Your control is better than I expected, considering how little formal coaching you’ve had.”
Terrence listened.
“But there’s a lot you need to learn.”
“I know.”
“Your mechanics need development. Your conditioning needs structure. And college hitters are very different from throwing against an empty field.”
Terrence nodded again.
Mercer closed the notebook.
“None of that means you can’t succeed.”
Terrence looked up.
“It doesn’t?”
“No. It means we need to be realistic about the work ahead.”
The recruiter paused.
“I’d like you to visit our campus.”
Terrence stared.
“Sir?”
“We want you to meet our coaching staff, see the facilities, and learn about the academic requirements.”
“Does that mean I might get a scholarship?”
“It means you’re being seriously considered. We still have to review your academic records, eligibility, and what financial assistance may be available.”
Terrence swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
Mercer smiled.
“But I wouldn’t invite you if I didn’t believe there was a real possibility.”
Terrence looked toward the field.
He remembered standing on the same mound while thirty scouts laughed at him.
Now one of those recruiters was asking him to visit a university.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Mercer shook his hand.
“Thank yourself for doing the work that got you here.”
Two weeks later, Terrence and Angela visited the university.
They walked through buildings larger than any school Terrence had attended.
They toured classrooms, training facilities, and the baseball field.
Terrence stared at the equipment.
The pitching machines.
The video analysis systems.
The indoor training areas.
Everything seemed designed to help athletes improve.
Angela watched her son closely.
She had never seen him so excited.
During a meeting with the coaching staff, Terrence asked question after question.
How often would he practice?
What academic support was available?
How would the coaches protect his arm?
Would he have time to work part-time if necessary?
The coaches answered carefully.
They explained that the demands of college baseball were significant.
He would need to balance classes, training, travel, and recovery.
Nothing would be handed to him.
Terrence nodded.
He wasn’t looking for an easy path.
He wanted a fair one.
At the end of the visit, Mercer invited Terrence and Angela into a conference room.
A financial aid representative joined them.
Mercer smiled.
“We’ve completed the initial review of your records and athletic evaluation.”
Terrence held his breath.
“We’d like to offer you a place in our baseball program, subject to final admissions and eligibility approval.”
Angela reached for her son’s hand.
Mercer continued.
“We can also offer an athletic scholarship package. Combined with the other financial assistance you’re eligible for, it should make attendance possible without placing the full cost on your family.”
Terrence stared at him.
“You’re offering me a scholarship?”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, Terrence couldn’t speak.
Angela began crying.
Terrence looked at her.
“Mom…”
She covered her mouth.
“Baby, you did it.”
Terrence shook his head.
He knew there were still steps to complete.
He knew he hadn’t thrown a single pitch in college yet.
But the door he had spent years trying to open was finally in front of him.
And this time, nobody was crossing out his name.
The news spread quickly through the stadium.
Employees who had worked beside Terrence congratulated him.
Several remembered seeing him leave late at night carrying his old baseball glove.
They had known he loved the game.
They hadn’t known how far that love might take him.
Ryan sent him a message.
Proud of you, man. Now the real work starts.
Terrence laughed when he read it.
He replied immediately.
I know. Thanks for catching that first pitch.
Ryan answered.
Thanks for not breaking my hand.
For the first time in weeks, Terrence laughed without worrying about what came next.
But there was still one unresolved part of the showcase.
The head evaluator.
The organizing company had reviewed witness accounts and footage.
It concluded that the evaluator had violated its standards for professional conduct.
He was removed from future showcase assignments.
The decision wasn’t made because Terrence had thrown a remarkable pitch.
It was made because the evaluator had publicly humiliated a young participant and allowed his personal judgment about the boy’s background to influence access to an opportunity.
When Terrence heard about the decision, he felt conflicted.
He remembered the anger.
The embarrassment.
The black marker.
But he also knew that losing an assignment was a serious consequence.
One afternoon, the evaluator requested a meeting.
Terrence agreed, provided the stadium director was present.
The man entered the office looking uncomfortable.
He sat across from Terrence.
“I heard about your scholarship opportunity.”
Terrence nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
The evaluator stared at his hands.
“I owe you an apology.”
Terrence waited.
“I made assumptions about you because of your job and your family’s financial situation.”
He swallowed.
“I decided you didn’t belong before I ever watched you throw.”
Terrence said nothing.
The man continued.
“Crossing your name off that board was wrong. Mocking you in front of the other players was worse.”
Terrence finally spoke.
“Why did you do it?”
The evaluator looked up.
“I thought I knew what a serious prospect looked like.”
Terrence stared at him.
“And I didn’t look like one?”
The man lowered his eyes.
“No.”
Terrence took a slow breath.
“I wasn’t asking you to give me a scholarship.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t asking you to say I was the best.”
The evaluator nodded.
“I know.”
“I just wanted the same chance as everybody else.”
The room went silent.
Then the man said, “You should have had it.”
Terrence looked toward the window.
For months, he had imagined what he would say if he ever confronted the evaluator again.
Now the words felt simple.
“I hope you remember that the next time somebody comes to you without expensive equipment.”
The evaluator nodded.
“I will.”
Terrence stood.
He didn’t pretend the humiliation had disappeared.
But he no longer needed that man’s approval.
His future was being decided by what he could learn and accomplish.
Not by the judgment of someone who had refused to watch.
Several months later, Terrence began his first semester of college.
The transition was harder than he expected.
He had to learn a new routine.
Morning classes.
Afternoon training.
Study sessions.
Strength and conditioning.
Pitching instruction.
Some days, he returned to his room exhausted.
Other pitchers had spent years in structured programs.
They knew terminology Terrence had never heard.
They understood training schedules and game preparation in ways he was only beginning to learn.
During one practice, Terrence struggled to locate his pitches.
He missed the target repeatedly.
Afterward, he sat alone on the bench.
Coach Bennett approached.
“What’s going on?”
Terrence stared at the ground.
“I thought I was better than this.”
Bennett sat beside him.
“Better than what?”
“Missing the target. Making mistakes everybody else seems to understand.”
The coach nodded.
“You’re comparing your first months of structured training with years of experience other players have had.”
Terrence looked up.
“But I have to catch up.”
“Yes. And you will have to work hard.”
Bennett paused.
“But you can’t learn everything in one afternoon.”
Terrence nodded.
The coach continued.
“That fastball got our attention. Your willingness to learn is what will determine how far you go.”
Terrence looked toward the field.
For years, he’d dreamed of someone noticing his talent.
Now he was learning that being noticed was only the beginning.
He returned to practice the next day.
And the next.
Slowly, his command improved.
His mechanics became more consistent.
He learned how to prepare for different hitters.
He also learned when to rest.
By the end of his first season, he had made several appearances and gained valuable experience.
He wasn’t a star.
Not yet.
But he was developing into a college pitcher.
And he was earning his place through daily work.
General Thomas Whitmore received a letter near the end of that season.
It came from Terrence.
The young pitcher thanked him for what he had done at the stadium.
He explained that he had earned a scholarship and was attending college.
He described his classes, his teammates, and the challenges of learning to pitch at a higher level.
Then he wrote about the showcase board.
He told the general how much it had meant to see his name restored.
General Whitmore read the letter carefully.
Then he wrote a reply.
He congratulated Terrence on his progress.
He encouraged him to continue his education and take care of his health.
And he reminded him that respect was not something a person had to earn through extraordinary achievement.
Terrence had deserved to be treated fairly before he threw that first pitch.
The general’s words stayed with him.
Because for a long time, Terrence had believed he needed to become exceptional before anyone would consider him worthy.
Now he understood that his dignity had never depended on the radar gun.
The scholarship was an achievement.
The opportunity to play college baseball was something he had worked hard to earn.
But basic respect should have been there from the beginning.
The following summer, Terrence returned to the Atlanta stadium.
He had been invited to help at a free baseball clinic for teenagers from families who couldn’t afford private lessons.
The field was crowded with young players.
Some carried new equipment.
Others wore old sneakers and borrowed gloves.
Terrence recognized the nervous expressions.
He remembered how it felt to stand near talented athletes and wonder whether his background made him less deserving.
During the clinic, a fifteen-year-old boy approached him.
The boy held a worn baseball glove.
“Are you Terrence Cole?”
Terrence smiled.
“That’s me.”
“I heard you got a scholarship.”
“I did.”
The boy looked down.
“My mom says we can’t afford travel baseball.”
Terrence nodded.
“That’s tough.”
“Does that mean I can’t play in college?”
Terrence considered the question.
“It can make getting noticed harder. I’m not going to pretend money doesn’t affect opportunities.”
The boy’s shoulders dropped.
“But there are still ways to learn, improve, and look for programs that can help.”
The boy looked up.
“Like this clinic?”
“Exactly.”
Terrence held out a baseball.
“What’s your name?”
“Caleb.”
“Well, Caleb, let’s see how you throw.”
They walked toward an open practice area.
Terrence showed him a basic throwing grip.
Caleb tried.
The ball sailed wide.
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry.”
Terrence shook his head.
“Nothing to apologize for. Let’s try adjusting your feet.”
Caleb tried again.
The ball traveled closer to the target.
Terrence smiled.
“Better.”
They practiced several more throws.
Then Caleb asked, “Did you ever get scared when people watched you?”
Terrence laughed softly.
“Absolutely.”
“Even when you threw that really fast pitch?”
“Especially then.”
Caleb looked surprised.
Terrence continued.
“Being nervous doesn’t mean you don’t belong. It means you’re doing something that matters to you.”
The boy nodded.
Then he stepped back and prepared another throw.
Terrence raised his glove.
“All right, Caleb. Show me what you’ve got.”
The baseball landed in the center of his mitt.
“Nice!”
Caleb grinned.
For the rest of the afternoon, he practiced with a confidence he hadn’t shown when he arrived.
After the clinic, Terrence helped the volunteers collect baseballs and equipment.
The stadium director approached carrying a clipboard.
“Good work today.”
Terrence smiled.
“Thanks, Mr. Harris.”
“The kids loved having you here.”
“I loved being here.”
Harris looked toward the field.
“Hard to believe this is where everything started.”
Terrence nodded.
He could still picture the showcase board.
The black marker.
The scouts.
Ryan standing behind home plate.
And General Whitmore asking why his name had been removed.
Harris noticed his expression.
“Something on your mind?”
Terrence smiled.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“How close I came to walking away that day.”
Harris looked at him.
“Really?”
Terrence nodded.
“When he crossed out my name, I wanted to leave. I thought maybe everybody was right about me.”
“But you stayed.”
“Ryan gave me a chance.”
Harris nodded.
“And you were ready for it.”
Terrence looked toward the empty mound.
“I’d been practicing for years. I just didn’t know if it would ever matter.”
Harris smiled.
“It mattered.”
Terrence picked up the last equipment bag.
As he carried it toward the storage room, he passed the evaluation board.
The temporary names from that year’s events had already been removed.
The surface was clean.
There was no black line.
No crossed-out name.
Terrence stopped for a moment.
Then he continued walking.
He no longer needed to see his name on that board to know he belonged on a baseball field.
He had a college program to return to.
Classes to finish.
Skills to improve.
And younger players who might need the same encouragement he once needed.
At the storage room, Caleb came running toward him.
“Terrence!”
Terrence turned.
“What’s up?”
The boy held out a baseball.
“Can you sign this?”
Terrence laughed.
“I’m not famous, Caleb.”
“I know.”
Caleb smiled.
“But you helped me today.”
Terrence looked at the ball.
Then he took the marker.
He wrote his name carefully across the white leather.
Terrence Cole.
No one crossed it out.
He handed the ball back.
Caleb examined the signature with a huge smile.
“Thanks!”
“Keep practicing,” Terrence said.
“I will!”
The boy ran toward his mother.
Terrence watched him go.
Then he picked up the equipment bag and carried it inside.
The work felt familiar.
So did the stadium.
But his life was different now.
He had earned the opportunity to pursue his education and develop as a pitcher, and he understood how much a fair chance could mean to someone who had never received one.
When the next young athlete approached him asking to be seen, Terrence knew what he would do.
He would learn the kid’s name, hand him a baseball, and watch him throw.
