Not casually. Not like a bored kid killing time. Tyler studied. His eyes tracked every pitcher's arm slot.Β
His lips moved when breaking balls crossed the plate. He was counting spin. He watched release points the way a musician reads sheet music.Β
Instinct. Obsession. Silence. No one taught him this.Β
He learned it from a library book on pitching mechanics he'd checked out four times. He practiced grips on a tennis ball because tennis balls were free and baseballs were not. The cinder block wall didn't have a strike zone painted on it, but Tyler had measured one with a yardstick and scratched the corners with a rock.Β
That wall knew his arm better than any coach who ever lived. Then there was manager Dale Prescott. Prescott arrived at Ridgewood like a man walking into a building with his name on it.Β
Golf cart, aviator sunglasses, clipboard wedged under his arm like a general's baton. He barked drills by last name. He ran practice like a boot camp.Β
Parents orbited him, shaking his hand, offering bottled water, asking about tournament brackets with the kind of reverence most people save for doctors. Prescott ran the Ridgewood Bulldogs, the elite 14 and under travel ball.Β
Season fee, $2,800. And that didn't cover gear, travel, or the optional but heavily encouraged winter pitching camp in Scottsdale. 15,000 for 10 days.Β
One afternoon, Tyler watched Prescott pull a kid aside to fix his throwing mechanics. Prescott told the boy to lock his elbow above his shoulder on release. The instruction was wrong.Β
Dead wrong. Locking the elbow at that angle without adjusting wrist angle kills velocity and stresses the rotator cuff. Tyler had read about it.Β
Tested it against the wall. Knew it in his bones. He said nothing.Β
A parent asked Prescott once about open tryouts. The manager laughed without stopping. We don't do open tryouts.Β
This isn't rec ball. Tyler heard it through the chain-link. He watched one more inning, then got on his bike.Β
But today, something stopped him. The Bulldog starting pitcher was struggling. Not a little.Β
The kid was falling apart. Fastballs sailing high. Breaking balls burying in the dirt.Β
Every pitch leaked more confidence out of him. The bleachers could see it. The coaches could see it.Β
The two scouts sitting in folding chairs behind home plate could definitely see it. Tyler stopped pedaling. He put one foot down on the asphalt and turned back toward the fence.Β
It was showcase day. The kind of Saturday that sharpened everything at Ridgewood. The banners looked crisper. The chalk lines looked whiter.Β
The parents sat straighter. Because today wasn't practice. Today was a performance.Β