Marcus pointed.
“Little more.”
That was when Brent Lawson noticed.
“What are you doing?”
Owen stopped.
Brent walked onto the grass.
“I told you gap.”
Owen pointed toward Marcus.
“He said—”
Brent turned.
The sight of Marcus standing on the field seemed to irritate him instantly.
“You.”
Marcus straightened.
“Yes, sir?”
“What did you tell him?”
Marcus hesitated.
“To move toward the line.”
Brent stared.
“Why?”
“The hitter’s opening early when the catcher shows outside.”
Silence.
One coach near the cage laughed.
Marcus continued.
“He’s trying to drive the outside pitch, but his front side is flying open.”
Brent’s face tightened.
“You pick up baseballs.”
Marcus said nothing.
“You don’t position my players.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were.”
Owen said, “Coach, I asked him why.”
Brent ignored him.
He stepped closer to Marcus.
“You know how many years I’ve coached professional baseball?”
Marcus looked down.
“No, sir.”
“Twenty-two.”
Marcus nodded.
Brent pointed toward the ball bucket.
“So when I say right fielder plays toward the gap, he plays toward the gap.”
Marcus quietly replied:
“Yes, sir.”
“Move him back.”
Owen started returning to his original position.
Then a voice came from behind home plate.
“Leave him there.”
Everyone turned.
Leonard Price stood beside the batting cage.
The head scout had barely spoken all morning.
That was normal.
Leonard had spent more than three decades evaluating players, and he believed talking too much made people miss things.
He was sixty-four.
Thin.
Silver hair beneath a dark cap.
Notebook in one hand.
Stopwatch in the other.
Brent looked at him.
“What?”
Leonard nodded toward Owen.
“Leave him where the boy put him.”
Brent laughed.
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Leonard closed his notebook.
“I want to see something.”
Brent shook his head.
“This is a professional evaluation.”
“I know.”
“And he’s a ball boy.”
“I can read his shirt.”
A few scouts smiled.
Brent did not.
He pointed at Marcus.
“So now we’re taking defensive instructions from staff kids?”
Leonard looked at Marcus.
“What’s your name?”
“Marcus Hale.”
“Marcus, where do you want the right fielder?”
Marcus pointed.
“About there.”
Owen had stopped roughly twelve feet closer to the line.
Leonard looked toward home.
“Why?”
Marcus swallowed.
Everybody was listening now.
“The catcher keeps showing the outside target early.”
Cole Jarvis frowned behind the plate.
Marcus continued.
“When he does, Trevor’s front foot opens before release.”
Trevor Maddox stepped out of the batter’s box.
He looked toward Marcus.
Marcus suddenly wished he had said nothing.
Leonard asked:
“And that puts the ball where?”
“If he gets the pitch he wants, he’ll probably pull across it instead of staying through center.”
“Ground ball?”
“Maybe.”
“What if he catches it clean?”
“Low line drive toward the line.”
Brent crossed his arms.
“Maybe.”
Marcus nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Leonard looked toward the pitcher.
“Throw.”
Trevor stepped back into the box.
Cole crouched.
The pitcher took the sign.
Marcus watched Cole’s glove.
There.
Outside.
A fraction too early.
Trevor’s front foot began to open.
The pitcher delivered.
Fastball.
Outer half.
Trevor swung.
CRACK.
The baseball jumped off the bat.
Hard.
Low.
Right field.
Not toward the gap.
Toward the line.
Exactly toward Owen Keats.
Owen raised his glove.
He did not take a single step.
The ball hit leather.
The entire field went quiet.
Owen looked at Marcus.
Then toward Brent.
Marcus looked down.
Brent’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Leonard’s expression did not change.
He opened his notebook.
Wrote one line.
Then asked:
“Again.”
Trevor stepped away from the plate.
“Hold on.”
Nobody listened.
Leonard looked at Marcus.
“What else?”
Marcus hesitated.
Brent laughed once.
Not confidently.
“Go ahead.”
He gestured toward the field.
“Apparently he’s running the showcase now.”
Marcus knew sarcasm when he heard it.
He also knew the safest thing would be to stop.
Take the victory.
Return to the bucket.
Collect fifty dollars.
Go home.
But his father’s voice came back.
Everybody tells you something.
Marcus looked at the catcher.
Then toward third base.
“If the catcher gives that sign again, the next ball is going down that line.”
Brent stared.
“What sign?”
Marcus pointed carefully.
“When he sets low and outside after showing inside first.”
Cole stood up.
“What are you talking about?”
Marcus looked embarrassed.
“You move your right knee.”
Cole frowned.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
One of the scouts laughed.
Cole removed his mask.
“No, I don’t.”
Marcus said nothing.
Leonard stepped closer.
“Explain.”
Marcus pointed toward Cole.
“When he wants the pitcher to start inside, he stays square.”
“When the next pitch is supposed to go low and outside, he turns his right knee inward before he moves the glove.”
Cole looked down at his knee.
Brent laughed nervously.
“You can see that from here?”
“Yes.”
“And the hitter?”
Marcus looked at Trevor.
“He sees the glove.”
Trevor shook his head.
“I’m not looking back.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
That interested Leonard.
“What do you mean?”
Marcus answered:
“Peripheral vision.”
Trevor stopped smiling.
Marcus continued.
“You don’t look at him.”
“But when the glove flashes early, your head stays still and your front foot opens faster.”
“You know something is away before you consciously know you know it.”
A scout near the dugout whispered:
“That’s actually possible.”
Brent heard him.
“Don’t encourage this.”
Leonard studied Marcus.
“How are you predicting this before the pitch is thrown?”
Marcus looked toward Cole’s glove.
“Because your players are showing everyone what they’re about to do.”
Nobody laughed that time.
Cole put his mask back on.
“I’m not giving anything away.”
Marcus nodded.
“Okay.”
Cole looked irritated.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“You think you know what I’m calling?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly do you know?”
Marcus took a breath.
“I know where you want the ball.”
The catcher stared.
Marcus continued.
“I don’t know the pitch.”
“I don’t know the exact sign.”
“But your body tells the location.”
Leonard turned toward third base.
The third baseman, Eli Barron, stood several feet off the line.
“Eli.”
“Yes?”
“Move to the line.”
Brent stepped forward.
