First and second, nobody out.

The scouts in the stands started buzzing.

"Wh-what was that?"

"Those guys are Low-A?"

They couldn't believe it.

And no wonder. Jake Miller had been crushing the hitters through two innings. One of the best aces in Double-A. And he'd given up back-to-back hits to players at a level far below his own.

Hits happen all the time in baseball, sure, but this was a different case. A gap in level isn't just a number. The spin rate on a pitcher's ball, the path of his breaking stuff, the very depth of reading the other man's move—all of it is different. Clearing that gap isn't something you do by making up your mind to. If it were that easy, why would there be levels separating pros from amateurs, the minors from the majors?

But in the middle of all that confused murmuring, one man—Paul, the Dodgers' top scout—had his chin propped on his hand, looking intrigued.

Figures. I had it right.

Those two who'd reached base were a type the current major league farm system didn't have.

Baseball these days is all launch-angle revolution this and that, and the trend has everybody from the one hitter to the nine hitter taking a big swing looking for one shot.

But these two were different.

They know exactly that the important thing right now isn't a home run. It's taking the momentum.

The pitcher had too much going for him. That meant the first thing to do was cut off his rhythm, and from the first inning through the six hitter, nobody had managed it. They'd insisted on their own swings, their own extra-base hits, and died under his stuff.

But not Cash and Mark. Those weren't swings openly hunting something big. They were swings meant to stack runners up and give the pitcher trouble, and nothing else.

Paul checked the scouting reports on his tablet again.

Seven hitter, Cash. This kid led Low-A in home runs. Eight hitter, Mark. Power's his strength too.

Both were sluggers who wouldn't lose a strength contest to anyone. And they'd…