“Wait.”
Everyone turned.
Owen pointed toward the field technician.
“Measure exactly where that kid released it.”
Gary frowned.
“Why?”
Owen did not look at him.
“Because if that location is where I think it is, we’re not talking about a normal showcase throw.”
Micah remained alone in deep center.
Still holding his patched glove.
Unsure whether he had done something good or something that was about to get him fired.
Owen Carlisle had spent most of his adult life measuring baseball players.
Not judging them as people.
Measuring baseball.
Running speed.
Bat speed.
Reaction time.
Arm strength.
Accuracy.
Spin.
Body projection.
He disliked dramatic evaluations.
One great swing did not make a hitter.
One fast pitch did not make a pitcher.
One spectacular throw did not make an outfielder.
But measurements mattered.
And the radar display beside the dugout had registered Micah’s throw at a speed Owen almost never saw from players his age.
That alone interested him.
The distance interested him more.
The official center-field throwing drill normally began at a marked cone.
Micah had not been standing near that cone.
He was much deeper.
Because Frank had told him to keep going.
The field technician carried a measuring wheel toward center.
Frank joined him.
Owen followed.
Several scouts came too.
Micah waited.
When they reached him, Owen asked:
“Where were your feet when you threw?”
Micah pointed.
“About here.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank studied the warning-track marks.
The transfer had left a faint scrape where Micah’s right cleat pushed off.
The technician placed the wheel there.
Then began measuring toward home.
While he worked, Owen looked at Micah’s glove.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“You play high school?”
“Not right now.”
Gary finally spoke.
