Coach B shut the system down.
The overlay disappeared instantly, like it had never existed. The replay froze, then reset. Just another missed call in a long season of them.
The next morning, the world felt stubbornly normal.
Practice started at 10:05, like always. The grounds crew dragged the infield perfectly flat. Players stretched along the foul line, headphones in, laughing about something he didn’t ask about. Reporters waited behind the rope, already shaping tonight’s narrative.
Coach B ran drills. Took notes. Corrected footwork.
And yet—every time the crack of the bat echoed—he felt a delay, like his mind was half a second behind his body.
He started noticing patterns he’d once ignored. Certain umpires expanding the zone late. Certain parks where rallies always felt heavier. Nothing provable. Nothing actionable.
One night, after a loss that felt familiar in the worst way, Assistant Coach Ramirez lingered in the clubhouse. Everyone else filtered out. The room smelled like sweat and pine tar.
“You ever feel like we’re playing uphill in some parks?” Ramirez asked, not looking up.
Coach B knew this moment mattered more than it should.
He had two ways to respond.