But enough.
Enough for scouts to lean forward.
Enough for the catcher to ask for another.
Enough for Caleb’s laughter to sound out of place.
Darren Price moved toward Walter Hayes.
“Mr. Hayes, we really do have other players scheduled.”
Walter did not take his eyes off Isaiah.
“Then they can watch too.”
Darren lowered his voice.
“Caleb’s camp won’t like this.”
Walter turned slowly.
“I don’t scout for Caleb’s camp.”
Darren stopped.
That answer reminded everyone who Walter was.
He did not need Caleb’s approval.
He did not need sponsor smiles.
He was there for baseball.
Nothing else.
Caleb walked toward the mound now.
Not too close.
Just close enough to make himself part of the picture again.
“Alright,” he said, clapping once.
“Fun little moment.”
He looked toward the crowd.
“Give the kid a hand.”
A few people clapped uncertainly.
Isaiah stood still.
Caleb continued,
“But we’re not turning a professional showcase into a street tryout.”
Walter’s voice cut in.
“No one said street tryout.”
Caleb turned.
Walter pointed toward the catcher.
“The catcher asked for another pitch.”
Caleb smiled.
“The catcher isn’t running the event.”
Ryan Keller, still behind the plate, lifted his mask slightly.
“No.”
“But I caught it.”
A few players reacted.
Caleb stared at him.
Ryan did not back down.
“That wasn’t normal.”
The words spread.
That wasn’t normal.
Isaiah heard them and looked down at the ball.
He did not smile.
He did not pump his fist.
He simply rolled the baseball in his hand, resetting the seams the way his father had taught him.
Walter saw it.
Again.
Same grip.
Same thumb.
Same pressure point.
No panic.
No accident.
Caleb saw Walter watching and felt his control slipping further.
So he did what insecure men often do when talent appears from somewhere they did not approve.
He tried to make the moment smaller.
“Fine,” Caleb said.
“One more.”
Then he pointed at Isaiah.
“But if you bounce it, we’re done.”
Isaiah nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
The answer was respectful.
That made Caleb look worse.
The second pitch took longer.
Not because Isaiah hesitated.
Because everyone else finally understood they needed to pay attention.
Phones lifted in the stands.
Reporters adjusted their focus.
The radar gun operator checked his settings.
College scouts moved closer behind home plate.
One of them whispered to Walter,
“You know this kid?”
Walter shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“Where’d he come from?”
Walter looked toward Isaiah’s shoes, then back to his hand.
“Somewhere with no cameras.”
On the mound, Isaiah exhaled slowly.
The first pitch had not been perfect.
He knew that.
It moved late, but his release was a little high.
His front shoulder opened too soon.
His back foot dragged.
His father would have noticed.
His father always noticed.
“Don’t chase power,” he used to say.
“Make the ball listen.”
Isaiah set his feet.
Ryan Keller crouched again.
This time, he did not set the glove randomly.
He looked toward Isaiah first.
“Where?”
Isaiah lifted two fingers.
Inside corner.
Ryan moved the target.
A low murmur came from the scouts.
Walter’s mouth tightened with interest.
The kid was not only throwing.
He was commanding.
Caleb folded his arms harder across his chest.
“Let’s see it.”
Isaiah came set.
Lifted.
Paused.
Delivered.
The ball came out slightly slower this time.
Caleb almost smirked.
Then it moved again.
Not the same way.
This one started inside, then bent away just enough to clip the corner.
Ryan’s glove snapped sideways.
Pop.
He held it there.
The umpire, who had been standing casually behind the plate, reacted out of habit.
“Strike.”
Then he looked embarrassed, as if he had not meant to make it official.
But the word had already carried.
Strike.
The stands reacted louder this time.
The radar gun flashed.
The speed was not outrageous.
But the movement number on the tracking screen made one of the college scouts whistle softly.
Walter looked down at his clipboard and wrote one word.
Feel.
That mattered more than speed.
Kids could build speed.
Feel was harder.
Feel meant the hand knew things the mind had not learned how to explain yet.
Caleb stepped forward.
“Okay.”
He forced a laugh.
“He’s got a funky little pitch.”
Walter said,
“He’s got command.”
Caleb rolled his eyes.
“Of two pitches?”
Walter turned toward him.
“Do you want him to throw a third?”
Caleb stopped.
He had walked into that.
The crowd sensed it too.
Someone from the stands shouted,
“Let the kid throw!”
Then another voice.
“One more!”
Then more.
“One more!”
“One more!”
Darren Price looked panicked.
This was no longer in the schedule.
But it was becoming the showcase.
Caleb’s jaw tightened.
He could refuse.
But if he refused now, everyone would know why.
Not because the boy did not belong.
Because the boy had begun to matter.
Isaiah looked toward Walter.
Walter did not cheer.
Did not smile dramatically.
He simply held up three fingers.
One more.
Isaiah nodded.
His heart was pounding now.
Not from fear alone.
From memory.
Because the third pitch was the one his father always made him throw when he was tired.
“Anybody can surprise someone once,” his father said.
“Good pitchers repeat.”
Isaiah stepped off the rubber.
Wiped his palm on his faded shirt.
Reset the ball.
The seams felt familiar beneath his fingers.
He looked toward home plate.
Ryan Keller lowered into his crouch.
This time, he said nothing.
He waited.
Isaiah chose the target with his eyes.
Low.
Middle.
Drop late.
Ryan understood and set the glove.
Walter leaned forward.
Every scout behind home plate watched the hand now.
Not the shoes.
Not the shirt.
Not the old glove.
The hand.
Caleb watched too.
For the first time, he looked less like a superstar judging a child and more like a man hoping not to be proven wrong in public.
Isaiah lifted his leg.
Balanced.
Breathed.
Released.
The third pitch was the best one.
It came out smooth.
Quiet.
Almost too easy.
