Chapter 5: What Dorian Barrett Wrote
The letter was dated August 14, 1983.
Tariq read the first line.
Then he read it again.
*Isaiah — I need you to understand that what happened was not my decision.
The recommendation I submitted was honest.
What was done with it afterward was not.*
Coach Carter read over Tariq's shoulder.
Her hand came to rest on the fence rail.
Her knuckles went white.
Raymond kept his eyes on the field.
"Dorian Barrett submitted a formal recommendation to the league office recommending Isaiah Mason for a professional tryout.
Full endorsement.
Detailed breakdown of the pitch mechanics, the control, the trajectory variation." He paused.
"The recommendation was received.
Logged.
And then a league administrator named Wallace Pruitt buried it."
Coach Carter went still.
"Pruitt."
"Gerald Pruitt's father," Raymond said.
"Wallace Pruitt ran league administration for twenty-two years.
He had a particular way of deciding who deserved to be seen and who didn't." His voice stayed level.
"Isaiah never knew the recommendation existed.
Dorian never knew it had been buried.
They each thought the other had moved on." He looked down at his hands.
"I found out by accident, three years later.
A clerk who was cleaning out old files showed it to me.
Thought I'd want to know." He exhaled.
"I didn't know what to do with it.
Isaiah had already left baseball.
Dorian had already moved his family to Bellhaven.
The moment had passed." He folded the letter back along its worn creases.
"I kept it because I couldn't stand the thought of it disappearing."
Tariq was looking at the letter in Raymond's hands.
"Does Cole know?" Tariq asked.
Raymond considered the question carefully.
"I believe he knows more than he admits.
Whether he knows about the letter specifically — I'm not certain." He looked toward the equipment bay.
"But he knows the name Gerald Pruitt.
And he's been working with Gerald Pruitt's son for three years."
Coach Carter straightened up.
"Gerald Pruitt is on the event committee."
"Gerald Pruitt organized this event," Raymond said.
"Cole Barrett provided the celebrity draw and the check.
Pruitt's organization controls the distribution." He looked at her.
"Southside's registration wasn't rejected for being one day late.
I'd encourage you to look more carefully at who processed that rejection."
The pieces landed one at a time.
Coach Carter felt each one settle into place.
"They set this up," she said.
"I think they've been setting things up for a long time," Raymond said quietly.
"And I think today was the first time something went wrong with the plan."
He held the letter out to Tariq.
Tariq looked at it without touching it.
"What do I do with this?"
"That's not my decision," Raymond said.
"It was your grandfather's story.
Now it's yours."
Tariq took the letter.
His hands were steady.
Coach Carter noticed that.
Fourteen years old, holding something that could rewrite what his family had believed for forty years, and his hands were completely steady.
She was about to speak when her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.
She pulled it out.
A text from Marcus Webb: *We need to talk before you leave.
Somewhere private.
Bring the boy.*
She showed it to Raymond.
The old catcher read it and nodded slowly.
"The scouts know something too," he said.
"I saw Marcus Webb's face when I said Dorian Barrett's name." He pushed himself to his feet with effort, one hand on Tariq's shoulder for support.
"That man recognized the name before I finished saying it."
Across the field, Cole Barrett had broken away from Pruitt and was walking back toward the infield.
His expression had reorganized itself into something easier — the practiced public face of a man who had spent years managing cameras and crowds.
He spotted Tariq.
He changed direction slightly and walked toward the dugout.
Coach Carter stepped forward so she was between Cole and Tariq before Cole had covered half the distance.
Cole stopped.
He looked past her at the letter in Tariq's hand.
His practiced expression didn't collapse.
But it shifted — just around the eyes, just for a second — in a way that told her everything Raymond had said was true.
"We should talk," Cole said.
His voice had lost its performance quality.
It was quieter.
More careful.
"Yes," Coach Carter said.
"We should."
Cole looked at Tariq directly for the first time since the pitch.
Not with the showman's condescension from earlier.
With something more complicated than that.
"Your grandfather was a great pitcher," he said.
"My father told me that." He stopped.
Seemed to weigh what he was going to say next.
"He also told me there were things he wished he'd done differently."
Tariq looked at him.
"Did he tell you what those things were?"
Cole didn't answer.
"Then I guess," Tariq said carefully, holding the letter at his side, "we both have things to figure out."
Cole's eyes went to the letter again.
May you like
His jaw tightened.
And then Gerald Pruitt appeared at the edge of the infield, phone in hand, moving toward them with the brisk walk of a man who has just received news he doesn't like.
