The second showcase was held on a Saturday at a bigger park, with four diamonds and bleachers that rose higher than Riverbend's, and scouts lined along the fence with notepads and tablets and radar guns. Davon Mitchell had been to a showcase before, but only through a fence, watching. This time he walked in through the gate with the Falcons, his bag over his shoulder, and his name on a printed roster.
He was not first on the list. He was not last. He was a name among many, and that felt strangely good. Nobody pointed at him. Nobody whispered about boots. He was just a pitcher, waiting for his turn.
When his turn came, he took the mound with Marcus Bell behind the plate, and Coach Tom Beasley watching from the dugout with his arms folded. The first inning was not perfect. Davon walked the second hitter on four pitches, all of them just missing, and he could feel the old frustration knocking. He stepped off the rubber, breathed, and looked at Marcus, who gave him the sign for the change-up.
He threw it, and the next hitter grounded into a double play. The inning ended without a run, and Davon jogged off, his heart still thudding, but his head clear.
The second inning was better. He struck out one hitter with a breaking ball on the corner, and got the other two on a pop-up and a ground ball. The third inning, though, was the test. His arm felt heavy, and a hitter lined a double into the gap, and the next boy bunted him to third. One out, runner on third, and the crowd of scouts leaning forward.
Davon did not try to be a hero. He threw a fastball low, got a ground ball to short, and the runner stayed at third. Then he threw his change-up, the pitch he trusted most, and the hitter popped it up behind the plate. Marcus caught it, and the inning was over. No runs. No drama. Just outs, made the ordinary way.
He pitched a fourth inning, and a fifth, and by the end his shirt was stuck to his back and his legs felt like they had run a long way. He had given up two runs in all, on a walk and a double and a sacrifice fly, and he had struck out four. It was not a perfect outing. It was a real one. He had been composed when the count went against him, smart when the hitter was waiting for his fastball, and durable enough to still throw well in the fifth inning.
Afterward, Frank Delaney found him by the water fountain. He did not open his notepad. He just said, "That is what I wanted to see. Not three pitches. Five innings."
Sarah Kim came over with her tablet and showed Davon the numbers, honestly, without dressing them up. His velocity was steady from the first inning to the last. His spin was consistent. "That matters more than one big number," she said. "Anybody can throw hard once. You threw well five times."
Beasley found him in the dugout afterward, while Davon was unlacing his cleats slowly, the way a boy does when he is too tired to hurry. Beasley did not praise the strikeouts. He praised the walk that had not become a rally, and the fifth inning, when Davon's legs were tired and his pitches still found the plate. "That is durability," Beasley said. "That is what a season is made of, not one afternoon."
Cody Sullivan, who had pitched earlier in the day, met Davon in the parking lot with two cold water bottles. "How was it?" he asked.
"Hard," Davon said, honestly. "And good. I walked a boy and I did not fall apart. I think that is the part I am proudest of."
Cody nodded. "That is the part that lasts," he said.
On the ride home, Davon sat by the window and watched the fields go by, and he thought about the first showcase, the one where he had stood outside the fence in work boots and asked to be put in. That day had been about being seen. This day had been about being steady, and about showing that he could pitch when nobody was cheering his name, when the count was full and the runner was on third and the only thing that mattered was the next pitch.
He did not know what the scouts would write, or whether the development programme would call, or what next season would bring. He knew, though, that he had pitched his game, not someone else's idea of it, and that he had walked off the mound with his arm intact and his head up. That was enough for one Saturday. The rest would come, or it would not, and he would keep throwing either way, because throwing was the thing he had loved before anyone watched, and it was the thing he would love after they stopped.
Chapter 28: What Callahan Says