Walter se quitó las gafas de sol.
“Has estado escuchando demasiadas historias.”
Nia señaló hacia el montículo.
“Tres lanzamientos.”
Colin Webster se inclinó hacia el micrófono.
“Podría hacerse daño desde esa distancia.”
“Yo lanzo desde esa distancia.”
“¿Juegas al sófbol?”
“Béisbol.”
Más risas resonaron entre los asientos.
El rostro de Nia permaneció sereno, pero sus dedos se apretaron alrededor del viejo guante.
Elaine bajó la voz.
“¿Quién te trajo aquí?”
Nia miró hacia el túnel oscuro más allá del banquillo de primera base.
Un hombre estaba parcialmente oculto tras la pared de hormigón.
Llevaba una camiseta gris de mantenimiento del estadio y apoyó una mano en el hombro opuesto.
Desde las gradas, parecía otro trabajador esperando instrucciones.
Nia volvió a mirar a Elaine.
“Mi padre.”
El receptor asignado al desafío se situaba detrás del plato.
Se llamaba Owen Lucas, un prospecto de diecisiete años de Arizona.
Ya se había comprometido con un programa universitario importante.
Owen se quitó la máscara.
“La atraparé.”
Su entrenador se agarró a la barandilla.
“Owen, no conviertas esto en una broma.”
Owen miró a Nia.
“¿Tienes un pitch de calentamiento?”
“No necesito uno.”
Esa respuesta provocó otra oleada de risas.
Walter put his sunglasses back on.
“This event has insurance rules.”
Elaine checked the time.
The next scheduled pitcher was still stretching near the bullpen.
The crowd had become more interested in Nia than in the official challenge.
Thousands of phones were recording.
Elaine understood that dragging a thirteen-year-old Black girl off the field after she asked for the same chance once given to Marcus Reed would become the only thing anyone remembered from the showcase.
She called the medical coordinator.
Then she spoke with the stadium attorney through her headset.
Finally, she approached Nia.
“Three pitches,” she said. “You stop immediately if your arm hurts.”
Nia nodded.
“No additional attempts.”
“I only need three.”
Walter muttered something to Ronald Pierce.
Ronald laughed.
Elaine looked toward the radar technician.
“Activate the official unit.”
The crowd’s laughter changed.
It became nervous excitement.
Nia crossed the grass.
She did not jog.
She walked slowly, carrying the glove in her left hand.
At thirteen, she was five feet four and weighed less than many of the equipment bags stacked near the dugout.
Her staff shirt reached halfway down her thighs.
Her sneakers left shallow marks in the dirt.
When she reached the mound, she placed the glove on the rubber and removed a baseball from her back pocket.
The announcer tried to make the moment sound playful.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have an unexpected challenger.”
Nia rolled the ball between her palms.
Owen Lucas crouched behind home plate.
“What do you throw?” he called.
“Fastball.”
“Anything else?”
“Not in three pitches.”
He smiled.
“Where do you want the target?”
The challenge used three electronic target squares.
The first illuminated high and inside to a right-handed batter.
Nia stood on the first-base side of the rubber.
She was right-handed.
She placed her middle finger across the narrow seam.
Her index finger rested slightly off-center.
Her thumb folded beneath the ball at an unusual angle, almost touching the side of her ring finger.
Walter Briggs leaned forward.
The movement was small.
Nobody around him noticed.
Nia brought her hands together.
Her windup was compact.
No wasted motion.
She lifted her left knee, rotated, and drove toward the plate.
The ball left her hand with a dry hiss.
Owen’s mitt snapped backward.
The sound echoed across the stadium.
The target square flashed green.
For half a second, the radar screen remained blank.
Then the number appeared.
89.4 MPH
The crowd stopped laughing.
Colin Webster lowered his microphone.
Ronald Pierce removed his cap.
Walter did not move.
Nia stepped behind the mound and waited for the ball to be returned.
The announcer’s voice cracked.
“Eighty-nine point four.”
People began standing.
A thirteen-year-old throwing nearly ninety miles per hour from a regulation mound was not normal.
But speed was only part of the record.
The first pitch earned 99.8 combined points because it struck the upper target almost perfectly.
Owen threw the ball back.
Nia caught it with the old glove.
The second square illuminated low and outside.
That was the hardest location for a right-handed pitcher.
Many prospects lost the challenge there.
They pulled the ball toward the middle or drove it into the dirt.
Nia took the sign.
In the tunnel, the man in the maintenance shirt pressed his back against the wall.
His name was Devin Carter.
He was thirty-nine years old.
He had once stood on the same mound.
No photograph of that day appeared on the center-field screen.
No record in the showcase program carried his name.
But Devin remembered the dirt beneath his cleats.
He remembered the radar display.
He remembered Walter Briggs telling the technician to turn it off.
Nia lifted her leg.
Her second fastball traveled lower.
Owen shifted his glove less than an inch.
The ball struck the corner of the target.
Green light.
90.1 MPH
The stadium erupted.
People climbed from their seats.
Players in both dugouts rushed to the rail.
Elaine Porter stared at the scoring tablet.
Nia’s combined total after two pitches stood at 198.9.
She needed 90.8 points on the final throw to break Marcus Reed’s record.
Any strike above eighty-five miles per hour could do it if she hit the target cleanly.
The third square illuminated on the outer edge at the knees.
Owen rose and walked to the mound.
Elaine called after him.
“What are you doing?”
Owen removed his mask.
“The ball has a cut.”
The crowd booed, believing he was delaying the attempt.
He handed the ball to Nia.
A faint scratch crossed one seam.
She examined it.
Luego miró hacia el cubo cerca del banquillo.
“Bola nueva.”
Uno de los trabajadores de campo lo corrió.
Nia eligió una pelota de béisbol ella misma.
Walter observó cómo ella presionaba la costura.
Dedo índice ligeramente levantado.
