Wesley wound up. The motion was smooth, unnervingly smooth for a child. His arm came through in a single whip crack, and the ball left his hand. 60 feet, 6 inches in the time it takes a heart to beat once. Sullivan's eyes tracked it.
His brain calculated. Every signal said fastball. Every calculation said, “Swing now.” He swung. Late.
The ball was already buried in the catcher's mitt with a crack that echoed like a rifle shot. Sullivan's bat cut through empty air. Strike one. The Jumbotron flashed. 71 mph.
71 from a 12-year-old arm. From a youth mound, that translates to facing 95 plus from a regulation distance. The stadium gasped. 15,000 throats inhaling at once. A commentator said, “That can't be right.”
before catching himself. Sullivan stepped out. He didn't look at the crowd. He stared at the mound, and for the first time since the challenge was announced, the smirk was gone. Recalculation.
The thing on that mound was not what he assumed. Nina sat in the stands, hands clasped, knuckles white as bone. Crane was motionless in his box, radiating intensity. Callahan wrote a single number in his notebook and underlined it twice. Earl's eyes closed briefly.
He'd seen that pitch 10,000 times from this boy, and once from his father. Sullivan stepped back in, adjusted his helmet, dug deeper. Countdown. Pitch two of three. Wesley knew what Sullivan would do.
A hitter of that caliber doesn't get fooled twice by the same pitch. Sullivan's brain had calibrated to 71. His timing would adjust. Same fastball again, and Sullivan would connect. So Wesley changed.