He wanted the hitter leaning out over the plate, reaching, expecting soft. Second pitch, fastball on the corner, letter high. The batter watched it.Β
Called strike. Count one and one. Now the batter was thinking, timing, adjusting, certain this kid only threw fastballs.Β
Tyler rocked, kicked, and threw the first perfect pitch. Fastball, inside corner, belt high, 74 mph. The ball came out of Tyler's hand on a line that looked like it was aimed at the batter's hip.Β
The kid flinched. His hands started, then froze. The ball cut back across the inside corner and hit the catcher's mitt at the knees with a pop that echoed off the backstop.Β
Strike! The batter blinked. The ball had moved, not a lot, but enough.Β
Enough to freeze a kid who'd been hitting since age six. Next pitch, fastball outside edge. The batter swung late, way late.Β
The ball was in the glove before the bat came through. Timing destroyed. Strike three! Batter one walked back to the dugout in silence.Β
He didn't slam his bat, didn't kick dirt, just walked. Like a man leaving a room where something happened that he couldn't explain to anyone, including himself. A murmur ran through the bleachers.Β
Prescott uncrossed his arms. The older scout set his pen down and just watched. Tyler showed nothing.Β
Got the ball back, rubbed it once against his shorts, stared in for the sign. One down. But anyone can get lucky once.Β
The next batter was bigger, stronger, and angry. Clean-up hitter, broad shoulders, thick wrists. He carried the bat like a personal weapon.Β
In the on-deck circle he'd been swinging big, looping cuts, the kind that say, "I'm about to send this ball somewhere He stepped in, adjusted his helmet, stared at Tyler from under the brim like he wanted to set the mound on fire.Β
This kid had watched batter one go down. He'd adjusted. He was sitting fastball, hunting heat, ready to jump on anything hard and make Tyler pay for it.Β
Tyler gave him what he wanted. First pitch, fastball up and tight. The batter swung hard, fast, fouled it straight back into the screen.Β
Strike one. The swing was close, dangerously close. This kid had bat speed that could hurt you.Β
Second pitch, fastball tailing away. The batter reached, fouled it off the end into the dirt. Strike two.Β
He was making contact, barely, but contact. The bleachers stirred. This at-bat had teeth.Β