Professional defenders were incredible.
Not magical.
Cameron studied the difference.
Luis Vargas threw two warm-up pitches.
The second hit Trevor Hall’s glove with a crack loud enough to make Cameron flinch.
Brent saw it.
“You can still walk away.”
Cameron shook his head.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Brent pointed toward the $20,000.
“That money’s staying where it is.”
Cameron looked at him.
“Maybe.”
The dugout erupted.
Even Owen smiled.
Then he became serious.
“One pitch.”
Cameron stepped into the box.
Luis came set.
Every infielder was in.
Brent almost even with the pitcher.
Miguel halfway between first and the mound.
Second baseman Drew Keller shaded in.
Eli moved toward the middle.
Trevor crouched.
Cameron scanned once.
There truly was nowhere obvious.
A dead bunt down third?
Brent would eat it.
First-base line?
Miguel was already charging.
Straight ahead?
Luis was one of the best athletes on the staff.
Pop it?
Out.
Push it too hard?
Someone behind would recover.
Except Cameron noticed something.
Miguel’s first responsibility was the ball.
Drew’s was to cover first if Miguel charged.
But with everyone unusually far in, Drew had moved closer to home than normal.
His route back to first would be longer.
Brent was cheating toward the line.
Luis had a violent follow-through that carried him toward first-base side.
Trevor had been told to attack anything in front.
Too many people wanted the same three feet.
Cameron thought of Reggie Neal.
Don’t look for empty space.
Look for movement space.
Luis started.
Fastball.
Cameron did not deaden it.
He changed the angle at the last instant.
The ball came off harder than the first bunt.
It traveled toward first-base side.
Miguel charged.
Luis finished toward the same side.
Trevor came out.
For half a second, three professional defenders moved toward one baseball.
That half second was Cameron’s opening.
The bunt passed just outside Luis’s glove.
Miguel reached across his body.
He got it.
Barehanded.
Perfect field.
Cameron was already sprinting.
Drew Keller raced toward first.
Miguel flipped.
The throw was good.
Drew stretched.
Cameron dove headfirst.
Dust rose.
Everyone looked at Owen.
He did not signal immediately.
He walked toward first.
Looked at the base.
Then at the coach standing nearby who had recorded the play on high-speed video.
Brent shouted:
“He’s out.”
Owen said:
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
They replayed it.
Frame by frame.
Miguel’s ball leaving his hand.
Drew’s foot arriving at the bag.
Cameron’s fingers reaching.
One frame.
Two.
Three.
Owen stopped.
Cameron’s fingertips were on the front edge of first.
The ball had not yet entered Drew’s glove.
“Safe.”
For one full second, nobody reacted.
Then the field exploded.
Players screamed.
Fans stood.
Cameron remained on the ground.
He looked toward the dugout.
Then toward his mother.
Marissa had both hands over her mouth.
Brent stared at the replay screen.
“No.”
Owen smiled.
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“The bet was one.”
“Again.”
Cameron got up.
Dust covered his shirt.
Owen looked at him.
“You want another?”
Cameron was breathing too hard to answer immediately.
Then:
“Yes.”
Brent pointed toward him.
“This time everybody knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Cameron smiled.
“They knew last time.”
That shut Brent up.
The second attempt was completely different.
Luis threw a breaking ball.
Cameron bunted toward third.
Brent charged perfectly.
Barehand.
Throw.
Out by almost a full step.
Brent celebrated as if he had won a postseason game.
“There.”
Cameron walked back.
Owen asked:
“What happened?”
“Bad angle.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
Brent said:
“Or maybe reality.”
Cameron ignored him.
Owen asked:
“Why bad?”
Cameron pointed toward Brent.
“I thought he’d keep his glove hand lower.”
Brent looked surprised.
Owen asked:
“You were watching his glove?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if he charges with the glove already low, he can field through the ball.”
“And if it’s high?”
“He has to drop.”
Owen nodded.
“How much time?”
Cameron shrugged.
“Not much.”
“Enough?”
“Sometimes.”
Owen smiled.
That answer was the reason he kept testing.
Cameron did not claim magic.
He understood margins.
Owen arranged five more bunts.
No money involved now.
No spectacle.
Testing.
Cameron beat one.
Lost four.
On one, he was out badly.
On another, the bunt went foul.
Brent started laughing again.
Owen did not.
He wrote something on a card.
Then asked Cameron to run from home to first without swinging.
Cameron did.
Again.
Then again.
A strength coach timed him.
The numbers were good.
Very good for fourteen.
But not unbelievable.
Brent looked confused.
“I thought he’d be faster.”
Owen said:
“He isn’t winning because of top speed.”
Then he marked the first ten feet.
“Time that.”
Cameron ran.
The strength coach looked at the stopwatch.
Then again.
Another time.
Owen nodded.
“There.”
“What?”
“Acceleration.”
Cameron reached near-max running form unusually early.
But even that was only part of it.
Owen returned him to the batter’s box.
“Normal swing stance.”
Cameron set up.
“Run.”
He did.
Then:
“Bunt stance.”
Run.
The difference was obvious.
From bunt position, Cameron effectively removed part of the transition most batters needed after contact.
Owen said:
“That’s the stolen distance.”
Brent folded his arms.
“So he’s gaming the box.”
Owen turned.
“You mean using it?”
Brent said nothing.
Owen continued:
“The batter’s box has legal boundaries.”
“He knows them.”
“The defense has responsibilities.”
“He knows those too.”
“The pitcher has momentum.”
“He watches it.”
“The corner men have preferred glove paths.”
“He watches those.”
Owen looked toward Cameron.
“How long have you been doing this?”
Cameron answered:
“A few years.”
“Who taught you?”
“Coach Neal started it.”
“Where?”
“Jefferson Community Field.”
Owen recognized the name.
“Reggie Neal?”
Cameron nodded.
Owen laughed.
“Of course.”
Brent frowned.
“You know him?”
“Everybody who coached youth baseball in this city knows Reggie.”
“What is he, some old pro?”
“No.”
Owen smiled.
“High-school geometry teacher.”
That got a laugh.
Then Owen added:
“And one of the smartest baserunning coaches I’ve ever met.”
Reggie Neal arrived at the stadium forty minutes later.
Owen called him.
He was sixty-seven, retired, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt with a faded school logo.
