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Instead of bristling like I thought he might, he said, “Sorry about that, Coach.”
I nodded, pleased he’d made eye contact and listened. “I’ll hit you another one.”
He got back into position, and I hit another one to him. That time, he fielded the ball with ease and set his feet before he threw to the first baseman’s glove.
“Much better.” I wanted coachable kids who were willing and eager to learn. So far, I hadn’t seen any with a bad attitude, which was encouraging. I was pleased Hunter just seemed genuinely eager to improve. That was the kind of player I wanted on my team. Plus, his arm was impressive when he took his time to throw.
After fielding, I told the kids to get water, then asked, “Raise your hand if you want to pitch.”
That was the problem. Every kid wanted to pitch. Not everyone could. It would be great if every kid learned to do it, but only a few would be talented enough to be the main pitchers. Those were the ones I hoped to find.
Pitching was king. There was nothing more important to a team at their level than the ability to throw strikes.
“Hey, Coach. You need some help?” one of the dads asked from his spot on the fence.
Grateful for his offer, I asked, “Can you help warm up the pitchers?”
He lifted his glove to show me he had one. “You got it.”
I sent a few kids to the warm-up bullpen on the side of the field, outside the fence, and the others to the outfield. They formed three lines, and I hit pop-ups to left field, center, and then the line in right field.
I hit a particularly difficult ball to Hunter. I whistled as he dove and missed. It was a spectacular dive for an eight-year-old. Not something I usually saw in kids that young.
He immediately got up and hustled to get the ball in. When I heard the satisfying thwack of the ball hitting Ethan’s glove, I called out, “Way to go for it. You’ll get it next time.”
Hunter nodded before jogging to the end of the line.
“That kid has an arm on him,” Ethan murmured.
I dipped my head, so my ball cap blocked my words from any parents trying to read our lips. “He does.”
Hunter wanted it. He wasn’t there to have fun or play with his friends like some of the other kids. His focus was on the drills and my instructions.
I needed to keep my distance from his mother, but that would be impossible if I chose him for my team. Unfortunately, he was talented. He had a rocket of an arm and a love for the sport that came out in his play.
Every few minutes, I’d head over to the pitchers to look. There was one who showed potential, but most weren’t accurate or fast. I was looking for consistency.
Setting the ball in the bucket, I asked the kids to come in. Everyone hustled, which I appreciated. When they stopped in front of me, I asked, “Has everyone had a chance to pitch?”
“I haven’t yet, sir,” Hunter said.
I tipped my head toward the practice mound just outside the fence. “Go warm up, then.”
I told the kids to get a drink, put their gloves away, and get out their helmets for base running. The kids ran through twice, and then I had them take another break to check on Hunter. I watched him dig his foot in the dirt before setting his gaze on the catcher’s mitt. Then he wound up and threw hard.
Goose bumps erupted on my forearms as I crossed them over my chest, attempting to keep my face neutral because the parents were watching. He pitched eight more equally hard strikes. Only one was outside the strike zone.
The kid had it.
“Come over here,” I said after his last pitch.
I leaned on the fence as Hunter approached. I was very aware that the parents were watching us closely. The one thing that stood out with Hunter was that he was confident. He knew he could throw.
“You like to pitch?” I asked him. I liked how he looked in the field, but he was my top prospect for pitching.
Looking at me, he said, “I love it.”
I liked that answer, but I needed to know if he had experience. Some kids could only throw when there wasn’t a batter. “You pitch in games before?”
