Owen nodded.
“Agreed.”
The Royals’ first-base coach, Victor Lane, volunteered.
A retired minor-league umpire attending the charity event agreed to stand near first base.
His name was Harold Mercer.
He had worked professional games for twenty-four years.
Harold approached Cameron.
“Son, understand the conditions?”
Cameron nodded.
“One pitch.”
“One fair bunt.”
“And I have to reach first before the defense gets me out.”
Harold nodded.
“Correct.”
Cameron looked toward the mound.
“What if the pitch is outside the strike zone?”
Brent laughed.
“Already making excuses?”
Harold ignored him.
“A pitch you cannot reasonably bunt shouldn’t decide the challenge.”
Owen nodded.
“We’ll use a controlled strike.”
Brent frowned.
“You said one pitch.”
Cameron answered before anyone else.
“I’ll take one legal pitch.”
Harold studied him.
“That’s fair.”
The officials agreed that Daniel would deliver one controlled strike suitable for bunting.
If the pitch was clearly unsuitable, the attempt would be reset.
If Cameron made a fair bunt, normal force-play rules would determine whether he reached first safely.
No runner would be placed on base.
No additional fielders would be added.
The defensive alignment remained Owen’s responsibility.
Brent pointed toward the envelope.
“Everybody satisfied?”
Cameron nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
The superstar grinned.
“Then let’s finish this.”
But Owen wasn’t finished.
He approached Cameron again.
“Son, one question.”
Cameron looked up.
“Yes?”
“Did your grandfather ever teach you the dead-angle bunt?”
Cameron hesitated.
Then smiled.
“He called it something else.”
Owen narrowed his eyes.
“What?”
“The disappearing bunt.”
The veteran coach felt a chill.
Samuel Ellis had used that phrase decades earlier.
It described a bunt that appeared to invite an easy fielding play.
But the ball’s placement forced a defender to move away from his assigned base.
The technique required precise timing.
It also required the defense to become overconfident.
Owen looked toward Brent.
The superstar was still laughing.
Then he looked toward Cameron.
The boy had spent years practicing with a cracked bat.
He had no private coach.
No expensive training equipment.
No personal hitting facility.
But he understood something Brent had overlooked.
An aggressive defense could be manipulated just as easily as an inexperienced one.
Owen turned toward the infield.
“Brent!”
The superstar looked up.
“What now?”
“Don’t charge until you read the ball.”
Brent laughed.
“Coach, I know how to field a bunt.”
Owen didn’t smile.
“Then prove it.”
Cameron stepped into the left-handed batter’s box.
The crowd grew quiet.
Daniel Price adjusted his cap.
Harold Mercer moved into position near first base.
Marissa clasped her hands.
Owen watched Cameron’s feet.
The boy placed his front foot slightly closer to the plate.
His shoulders remained relaxed.
His eyes moved from the pitcher to the first baseman.
Then toward Brent.
Daniel looked toward Owen.
The coach nodded.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Cameron raised the bat.
Brent crouched.
The first baseman leaned forward.
The second baseman shifted toward first.
Daniel began his motion.
Cameron squared around.
The crowd held its breath.
Then Owen saw something that made his blood run cold.
Cameron wasn’t aiming down the third-base line.
He was opening the bat’s angle toward the space between the pitcher and first baseman.
Exactly where the defense’s responsibilities overlapped.
“FIRST BASE!” Owen shouted.
But Daniel had already released the baseball.
Cameron softened his hands.
The pitch touched the barrel.
A quiet wooden click echoed across home plate.
The baseball rolled toward the right side of the mound.
Brent sprinted across the grass.
The pitcher broke toward the ball.
The first baseman charged forward.
And Cameron exploded toward first.
For one brief second, the ball seemed to belong to everybody.
Then the first baseman reached it.
He bent down.
His glove closed around the baseball.
And he looked toward first base.
Nobody was covering the bag.
