Read an excerpt from Testify

The first time I put a baseball in play during a game, my mother ran beside me all the way to first base. I was twelve years old, and I wanted the earth to swallow me.

Until that moment, nearly every trip to the plate had ended the same way. I would hear my name, pull on my helmet, take a few practice swings, and look to the third-base coach for a sign. Then I would step into the batter's box and begin to shake. My stomach tightened. My legs trembled. I was afraid of the ball, and most of the time I swung at nothing but air.

The parents cheered anyway. Every time I struck out, they clapped and called, "Good try, Bruce!" I would jog back to the bench, embarrassed but grateful, and wait for another chance.

Baseball had entered my life only a short time earlier. Near the end of fifth grade, my friend Billy and his father suggested that I join the Winterfield Youth League in Charlotte. Mr. Sells was deeply involved with the league, and Billy played baseball, basketball, and football. I had watched a few football games, but I had never imagined myself wearing a uniform.

Looking back, I suspect Mr. Sells understood that I needed somewhere to go and something constructive to do. My mother was under psychiatric care and no longer working, while my father worked two jobs to keep our family moving forward. Home carried worries I did not know how to name. Sports offered a place to breathe.

I was uncertain, but I signed up. A week or so later, I arrived at Little League tryouts with no idea what to expect. The other boys seemed to know where to stand, how to throw, and what to do. I knew none of it. I may have been the last player chosen; if not, I was close. Still, when the tryout ended, I belonged to a team, and that was enough to make me excited.

The first practice was every bit as humbling. I lagged far behind the other players in fielding, hitting, and the basic rhythms of the game. I learned slowly, partly because embarrassment made me tentative. Everyone else looked experienced and confident. Beside them, I felt small.

When the season began, I rarely played. I usually came to bat only when we were comfortably ahead in our last inning or so far behind that the outcome no longer mattered. But coach Spruill was patient. His son, one of our strongest players, played most of his life. Coach Spruill expected me to work, stayed on me when I needed it, and encouraged me when I struggled. That combination made a difference......