Chapter 4: Showcase Day
By early afternoon, Riverbend Athletic Park had transformed. The bleachers behind Field Two were full, folding chairs lined the fence, and the air smelled of sunscreen, popcorn from a parent's cooler, and freshly cut grass. Two scouts had arrived, and Davon noticed them at once, because they did not look like parents. They stood apart, near the backstop, watching with the stillness of people who were paid to notice things.
One was an older man, sixty-three, with grey hair and a notepad he held like a habit. That was Frank Delaney, a regional scout who had been watching youth baseball in Georgia for decades. The other was Sarah Kim, thirty-one, with a tablet in her hands and a calm, focused expression. She tapped notes as she watched, checking numbers, and Davon wondered what numbers she was checking. Velocity, probably. Spin, maybe. He had read about those things in the library book, but he had never seen them measured in person.
Maya Torres found Davon near the fence again, her phone already out. "Scouts are here," she whispered, as if it were a secret, even though everybody knew. "Delaney and Kim. My dad says Delaney finds arms nobody else looks at."
Davon nodded, his eyes on the field. The Falcons were warming up, Cody Sullivan on the mound, Marcus Bell crouched behind the plate. Marcus was fifteen, steady and broad-shouldered, with a catcher's calm that Davon admired. He framed pitches well, he called a good game, and he did not panic when a pitch sailed wide. Davon had watched Marcus for weeks, and he trusted the boy's glove in a way he trusted very few things.
The game began, and for two innings, Cody was good. Not great, but good enough. His fastball had life, his curveball broke late, and the Falcons' defence turned two clean outs behind him. The parents cheered, Callahan shouted encouragement from the dugout, and Delaney wrote something small in his notepad. Sarah Kim tapped her tablet, frowning slightly, and Davon guessed she was seeing what he was seeing: Cody's arm was working, but only just.
In the third inning, the trouble started. Cody's first pitch sailed high. His second missed outside. His third hit the dirt in front of the plate, and Marcus had to block it with his chest. The batter walked. The next batter singled. The next walked too. The bases were loaded, and the Falcons' lead, which had felt comfortable, began to feel thin.
Callahan came to the mound, his voice low for once, and Davon could not hear what he said. Cody nodded, but his face was pale, and when he returned to the rubber, his arm dropped even lower. He overthrew the next pitch, and it sailed over Marcus's glove to the backstop. A run scored. The crowd groaned. Callahan shouted from the dugout, telling Cody to dig deep, to throw harder, and Davon closed his eyes for a second, because he knew exactly what would happen next.
It did. Cody walked another batter. Another run scored. The Falcons' infielders shifted nervously, the outfielders crept in, and the visiting team's dugout grew louder with every pitch. Beasley stood at the dugout steps, his arms folded, watching the bullpen. But the bullpen was empty. The Falcons' second pitcher was home sick, Davon heard a parent say, and the third had already thrown too many pitches in a morning game. There was nobody left. That was the phrase that went around the bleachers like a ripple: nobody left.
The bases were loaded. The count was full. The next batter stepped in, tapping his bat against his cleats, and the whole park seemed to hold its breath. Cody took a deep breath, wound up, and threw. The ball sailed high and outside again, and the batter trotted to first. Another run scored. The Falcons were now behind.
Callahan threw his clipboard down, then picked it up again, his face red. He looked toward the bullpen, toward the dugout, toward the sky, as if a pitcher might fall out of it. Davon, standing behind the chain-link with his work boots dusty and his hands empty, felt the moment gather around him like a storm gathering over the field. He did not know what he was going to do. He only knew that he could see the problem, and that nobody on the field was fixing it, and that the game was slipping away while everybody watched.
Maya, beside him, lowered her phone for a second. "Davon," she said quietly. "Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Davon did not answer. He was watching Cody, who was staring at the ground, his shoulders slumped, his glove hanging at his side. And he was watching Marcus, who was standing up behind the plate, looking toward the dugout, waiting for somebody to make a decision. The showcase, the scouts, the parents, the bases loaded: it was all there, and it was all waiting, and Davon took a breath that felt like stepping off a ledge.