The batter stepped out, tapped his cleats, crowded the plate even more, daring Tyler to come inside. Every muscle in his body was loaded for a fastball, locked in, certain. Tyler rocked.Β
Same arm speed, same arm slot, same leg kick, identical mechanics. Every single part of the delivery screamed fastball. The ball came out swimming.Β
The second perfect pitch. A changeup. Same release, same motion, but the ball floated.Β
It drifted toward the plate like a held breath, 10 mph slower than the fastball the batter was expecting. He was already committed. His swing fired early, hard, and underneath.Β
The bat cut through nothing but air, a violent, empty swing that nearly pulled him off his feet. The ball arrived in the catcher's mitt a full beat after the swing was done. The gap between bat and ball was humiliating.Β
Not close, a canyon. Strike three! The batter corkscrewed, his back knee dipped, his helmet tilted, the bat hung behind him in the air like a question nobody in that ballpark could answer.Β
The bleachers went quiet. Not polite quiet, stunned quiet. The kind where people look at each other before they look at the field because they need somebody else's face to confirm what they just saw was real.Β
A voice from the third row, barely above a whisper, "Where did this kid come from?" Prescott was standing perfectly still.Β
No clipboard, no barking, no pacing. Just standing there with his arms at his sides like a man watching his own house burn from across the street and realizing he left the stove on.Β
The younger scout had his phone out. He wasn't taking notes anymore. He was recording. Two down, one to go.Β
But the third batter had been watching everything. And he wasn't going to chase anything. This one was different.Β
You could see it in the walk. No swagger, no aggression. He choked up on the bat, shortened his stance, took a long breath before stepping in.Β
Smart kid. He'd watched two teammates swing through fastballs and flail at a changeup that made them look foolish. He wasn't making the same mistake.Β
He was going to be patient. Disciplined. Make Tyler work. A walk would do.Β
A foul that stayed alive, anything to deny the clean sweep and prove the lawn-mowing kid was human after all. First pitch, fastball outside. The batter laid off.Β
Ball one. Second pitch, changeup low. He read it this time, let it go.Β
Ball two. Count two and zero. In the dugout, Prescott allowed himself a thin smile.Β
His arms uncrossed slightly. The crowd shifted. For the first time in 5 minutes, doubt crawled back in.Β