No shaking hands. He simply took his hands off the fence, stepped back one pace, and waited. His posture didn't change.Β
His breathing didn't change. His eyes never left the mound. He watched the struggling pitcher the way a surgeon watches a procedure going sideways.Β
Not with emotion, but with precision. He wasn't angry. Anger is what happens when you're surprised by cruelty. Tyler wasn't surprised.Β
He was processing. He already knew what was broken on that mound. He'd known for 20 minutes.Β
He knew how to fix it. And he knew, with the quiet certainty of someone who has been underestimated his entire life, that nobody here was going to let him.Β
The Marietta squad scored again. A line drive to right center cleared the bases. Four runs crossed the plate.Β
The Bulldogs were hemorrhaging on showcase day, and Prescott's neck was turning the color of the infield clay. His clipboard shook slightly in his hand. The parents who'd been laughing a moment ago were looking away now.Β
Not at Tyler, not at the field, just away. Because watching your expensive program collapse in front of evaluators isn't entertaining anymore. Then the unexpected thing happened.Β
The older scout stood up from his folding chair. Slowly. He tucked his notepad under his arm, walked to the fence line, and stopped at the section where Tyler was standing.Β
He didn't introduce himself. Didn't ask Tyler's name. Didn't acknowledge the laughter or the insults. He just leaned on the rail and spoke.Β
Conversational. Casual. The way you'd test a theory you were already 80% sure about. "What would you throw first pitch to a kid who crowds the plate?"Β
Tyler didn't blink. "Fastball inside, belt high. Not to hit him. To move his feet. Then changeup, low and away. He'll chase."Β
The scout tilted his head. The answer had come too fast. Too clean. No hesitation.Β
No hedging. Like asking a carpenter which nail to use. The answer was already loaded before the question landed. He looked at Tyler the way a man looks at a lock when he realizes the key has been in his pocket the whole time.Β
He wrote something on his notepad, folded it, and walked back to his chair without another word. No goodbye. No explanation. Just turned and walked.Β
Tyler didn't know what the man wrote. He didn't know his name, his title, or what organization he worked for. But he knew the man had listened.Β
Really listened. Not the way adults listen when they're being polite, the way they listen when they're taking notes. And in Tyler's world, a world of chain link fences and cinder block walls and mornings where nobody sees you, being listened to like that was rarer than being praised.Β
It was rarer than being noticed at all. Prescott saw it. He saw the scout talking to the lawn boy.Β