In the Be A Man Universe, one swing of the bat can carry more than just a ball—it can carry the weight of doubt, dreams, and redemption. This excerpt from an upcoming coming-of-age African American novel captures a pivotal moment in a young athlete’s life, where failure looms and legacy hangs in the balance. With vivid characters, raw emotion, and a pulse-pounding playoff game, this story invites readers into a world where manhood, identity, and resilience collide. Step into the dugout—and discover what it truly means to finish strong.
The aluminum bat felt heavier than usual as I trudged back to the dugout, the sting of my third strikeout still buzzing in my palms. The scoreboard glared down like a judge—5-0, fifth inning. Playoff game. Lose this, and our season was done. With that, my high school career, too. With no guarantee I would walk on to NC State’s baseball team, maybe my entire baseball career is over, too.
I kept my eyes on the dirt, each step kicking up little clouds that matched the storm brewing in my heart. Tommy caught me just before I reached the dugout. “Keep your head up,” he said, gripping my shoulder. “And don’t grab your glove. We’re not done.”
His voice had that kind of weight that made you believe, even when you didn’t want to. I slid onto the bench, heart thudding, watching as he stepped into the box with Montell in the on-deck circle. One ding of the bat later, and Tommy was rounding first. Montell followed with a walk, his massive frame lumbering down the line like a freight train. He had earned the nickname Beast during the previous season, and the world was afraid of his power.
Then came the switch-hitting Rocky—lined out to left. Two outs. Germaine stepped up, and on a 2-1 count, he sent a missile to right field. It slammed off the base of the wall, and the crowd erupted. I even heard Grandpa Walton screaming over everyone. Tommy scored easily. Montell, all three hundred pounds of him, was chugging around third like a runaway semi. He made it. The score 5-2.
Zack walked. Adam dropped a blooper just past the shortstop’s reach. Bases loaded. Billy was up, and they gave him a free pass. Intentionally walked another run, an odd sight in baseball. The score 5-3. That meant Jason was next—our leadoff legend. And I was in the on-deck circle again.
I couldn’t believe it. After three strikeouts, I was back here. Jason took a pitch to the ribs—another run. 5-4. We were down by one. The crowd was buzzing; the dugout alive. Tommy jogged over, eyes locked on mine. “Finish it,” he said.
I nodded, but my stomach twisted. Lefty pitcher. Bases loaded. I hadn’t faced many southpaws. My glove work had been flawless—two double plays, a sliding stop deep in the hole, even an over-the-shoulder snag in shallow left. But none of that mattered now. The golden sombrero loomed.
First pitch came in—a fastball, belt-high, tailing in. My sweet spot. I swung. And this time I didn’t miss.
The ping of the bat echoed like a horseshoe striking a stake through the humid August air, slicing through the tension that had gripped the field all afternoon. For a split second, everything froze—my breath, the crowd, even the pitcher’s follow-through. Then the ball soared, a rising arc slicing across the sky, tailing toward deep left-center.
I didn’t run. Not yet. I watched, just like I did my first home run.
The outfielders turned and sprinted, their cleats kicking up dust as they chased the ball like it owed them money. But it was already gone—clearing the fence by a whisper, just enough to make the crowd erupt like a church choir catching the Holy Ghost.
Grand slam. My first.
I dropped the bat, not my bat, as I noticed I had grabbed the wrong one before going out into the on-deck circle. My trot, slow and deliberate, made the crowd go wild. My teammates spilled out of the dugout, screaming, jumping, pounding the fence. Tommy, already waiting at home plate, arms wide, grinning like he knew this moment was coming all along.
As I rounded third, the weight I’d been carrying—the strikeouts, the doubt, the fear of fading out—lifted off me like steam rising from hot pavement. I wasn’t just finishing the inning. I was rewriting the ending, my favorite thing to do.
We were up 8-5 now, and the energy in the stadium had flipped. Parents were on their feet, little kids banging the bleachers with empty soda bottles, and Coach was wiping his eyes behind his sunglasses like he’d just seen a miracle.
When I stepped on home plate, Tommy wrapped me in a hug so tight I thought my ribs might crack. “Told you,” he said, voice thick with pride. “You finished it.”
But I knew it wasn’t just about the game. It was about proving something—to myself, to everyone who ever doubted me, and maybe even to the ghost of every strikeout I’d ever taken.
And as I sat back down on the bench, sweat dripping, heart still racing, I realized something: this wasn’t the end of my high school career. It was the beginning of something bigger.
Be A Man Universe 