The next morning, Damon was up before the sun. He laced his sneakers, grabbed the duffel bag he'd packed the night before, and headed out the door. The city was still half asleep, but Damon felt alive more alive than he'd ever felt in his first life.
There was only one thought on his mind.
Baseball.
The park down the block had a field tucked into the corner. It wasn't pristine patches of dirt, a fence bent in places but it had space, a mound, and enough quiet for what he needed. Damon jogged over, stretched, then set his phone up on a tripod against the chain link fence.
"Alright," he muttered, rolling a baseball in his hand. "Let's see what you got for me, Mariano."
As soon as his fingers wrapped around the seams, instinct took over. His body knew exactly how to grip, how to shift weight, how to explode off the mound. He wound up and released.
The baseball hissed through the air and bit at the end, darting in on an invisible edge before slamming into the mitt he'd strapped to a chair.
Pop!
Even from the mound, the sound was different sharp, authoritative. Damon froze, wide eyed, then broke into a grin.
"That's the cutter," he whispered. "That's the cutter."
Pitch after pitch followed. Cutter after cutter, each one breaking late, sharp, vicious. He didn't need to think. His arm slot, his stride, his release they were flawless. Rivera's mechanics were burned into him.
But Rivera hadn't just been a one pitch wonder. Damon cycled through the arsenal. The two seamer that tailed away. The sinking fastball that dropped like a rock. Even a changeup Rivera barely used but Damon's hand executed it clean.
Hours passed, sweat dripped down Damon's brow, and his chest heaved. Still, the smile never left his face.
When he finally stopped, he walked over to his phone and replayed the footage. His green eyes narrowed as he studied each frame. He wasn't just throwing. He was documenting his progress.
"This is it," Damon said, hitting save. "This is what I show them."
For the first time in this new life, Damon had a clear path.
Two days later, Damon stood at the gates of Columbia University. The campus was sprawling, its stone buildings proud and ancient. Students who dormed at campus passed him in every direction, some carrying books, others with headphones in, but Damon's focus was singular.
Columbia wasn't just Ivy League prestige. They were the Lions. Division I baseball. If he wanted a real shot, this was where it began.
His grades had already cleared the bar a 3.8 GPA put him on Columbia's radar. Admissions hadn't hesitated to accept him for the fall. Now came the real test.
Coach Fernandes.
Damon found his office tucked behind the athletic facilities. A small plaque read Head Coach Pedro Fernandes. Damon knocked, then stepped inside when a gruff voice called, "Come in."
The man behind the desk was in his late 40s, with sharp eyes and a frame that still looked built for the game. His desk was neat, except for a baseball resting dead center.
"You must be Damon Sosa," Fernandes said, looking up from a stack of papers.
"That's me," Damon replied smoothly, confidence radiating in his voice. He shook the coach's hand firmly.
Fernandes studied him for a moment. "You've got the grades to get into university but I have never heard about you seems you never played highschool baseball, grades got you in I'll give you that. But this isn't just academics. You came here because you want a spot on my team."
"Yes, sir your right I didn't play highschool baseball," Damon said without hesitation. "But I came prepared and want to show you something hopefully this is enough to get a walk on opportunity."
He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and slid it across the desk. The video lit up Damon on the mound, cutter after cutter snapping in late, pitches biting corners with ruthless precision.
The coach leaned forward, elbows on the desk, watching intently. His brow furrowed as the footage played. When the final pitch popped into the mitt, Fernandes leaned back slowly.
"Hmm Not bad," he admitted. "Not bad at all. That cutter of yours it's got teeth. Reminds me of a certain Yankee closer the way It got a mind of its own I take it that's where you got your inspiration."
Damon's lips quirked. "Funny you say that."
Fernandes ignored the comment. His eyes were sharp, weighing Damon. "But video is one thing. Live pitching is another. Mechanics can look clean on tape, but pressure, batters, and crowds? That's what separates kids with pretty arms from pitchers who can win games."
"I understand," Damon said evenly. "So give me the chance. Let me prove it on the field that's all I ask."
The coach didn't answer right away. He tapped the baseball on his desk, considering. Finally, he said, "Training day for walk ons is September 1st. Classes start the next day. You show up then, and you'll get your shot. No guarantees, you gotta work for it since nobody has scouted you your completely a unknown."
"That's all I need," Damon replied without missing a beat.
Fernandes's lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "You're confident. I like that. But confidence without discipline is nothing. Don't waste my time, Sosa."
Damon stood, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Coach, the only thing I plan on wasting is batters' swings."
For the first time, Fernandes actually chuckled. "We'll see about that kid."
Walking out of the office, Damon's chest thrummed with adrenaline. September 1st. His first real test.
He paused outside, pulling out his phone again. The video of his pitches still played, the cutter biting over and over. He thought of Mariano Rivera, of the legend whose mastery now flowed through his veins.
"This is my second chance," Damon muttered. "And I'm not throwing it away."
The city stretched before him, the air buzzing with possibility. Damon's smile sharpened.
In just a few weeks, he wouldn't just be another freshman.
He'd be a Lion.
And soon after a legend.