Without wearing the uniforms, we looked like a strange bunch. Myself and Proctor wore our Depression-era trousers, and shirts, while everyone else wore pelts, furs, and leather. Not exactly athletic wear.

The mid morning air was crisp, nothing new. As we neared noon, the crowd had built up. A lot of relatives of those trying out for the team had come with them to observe, watch them try to play this weird thing called baseball. The bleachers forming the U-shape around the infield weren’t full to capacity. But, there were probably a couple hundred villagers scattered on the long benches.

There was a high wood framed fence also in a U-shape in front of the stands. There was a cotton and wool blended netting attached to the wood frame. This would serve as protection for the audience from any errant baseballs that might come their way either from foul balls off the bat, or from wild throws from would be players.

Trevor, the helpful giant, had organized all the villagers who wanted to try out for the team in a long line at the south west corner of the ball park, near one of the shipping containers.

But, Proctor came first. He removed a batting glove from its plastic packaging, and he took a helmet from the pile we’d created near the Home dugout. I had the rest of the guys already on the team roster seated in the Home dugout along the pine bench. They watched Proctor walk holding his bat to home plate, and I stood on the pitcher’s mound. I could tell by the bouncing knees, and leg twitches from everyone in the dugout, there were a lot of nerves going around. They’d already made the team, thanks to the System forcing me to name players right away - but, I guess they were nervous regardless to have their skills evaluated. Understandable.

Proctor approached the plate, and he took up a batting stance (a bit of a crouch, with the bat held high behind his head) on the left side. I was surprised to see he batted left, as my understanding of baseball was that most players batted from the right side of home plate.

I smiled as he took his stance, and adopted an announcer’s voice. “Now batting,” I said. “Proctor Smythe.”

With one foot on the rubber rectangle in the center of the pitcher’s mound, I readied myself to throw Proctor the first pitch.

I had a ball glove on my left hand, and threw with my right. I had a Moonlight Magic ball cap on my head. I twirled the baseball in my right hand, and felt the raised stitching, and the smoothness of the cow hide covering. There were many baseballs nearby at the base of the mound to my right, overflowing a metal pail full of them. I felt entirely self conscious given how many people were watching from the stands.

The people watching were fairly quiet. They weren’t what you’d expect as a crowd at a sporting event, but this was an entirely novel experience for them. They were still learning what baseball was, and were probably unsure how to perceive anything they were seeing.

Part of me felt a bit vulnerable too, because we hadn’t bothered setting up the metal square protection fence the System had included with all the baseball equipment when they dropped the shipping containers. The protection fence was meant to sit in front of the pitcher’s mound, and it had a corner removed to allow for pitches to be thrown over it, and it would act as a barrier I could hide behind in case someone hit a ball right at me with such velocity I’d have no time to react.

We’d see how it went with Proctor I suppose, and then if I felt like we’d need the protection barrier, we could set it up.

“Don’t murder me,” I said jokingly to Proctor.

“I shall do my best,” he said, with a slight smile.

The first evaluation was Proctor’s ability to make contact (assessing his hitting prowess). I’d also be evaluating his power. Contact evaluation would take twenty five pitches. Power evaluation would be made based on twenty five contacts. So, I’d have to throw additional pitches to Proctor, potentially, until he made contact enough times to evaluate his ability to send the ball far off his bat.

And, in fairness to Proctor or anyone else batting, I had to make sure to keep pitches within the strike zone, and I wouldn’t count swings and misses, or poor contact from hitters if my pitch was subpar.

Suddenly, I understood the nerves I could see among those in waiting and watching in the dugout. As I wound up to throw the first pitch to Proctor, my stomach dropped, and it growled. Adrenaline was causing me to shiver. The cold wind swishing around us wasn’t helping.

In case you’ve never seen a baseball pitch: I reared back, swung my hands overhead with my right hand holding the ball buried into the glove on my left. At the same time I pulled my left knee into my mid section while my right foot remained planted against the rubber. My arms swung down in front of me, and I took my right hand holding the ball out of the glove. Then I stepped down with my left foot, planting all my weight on that leg, and I threw the baseball overhand with my index and middle fingers sliding off the red stitches. The ball spun rapidly and flew in a slight arch toward home plate.

It was a good and accurate pitch. I had to make sure not to put all my strength into it too, especially after mega boosting my strength with the soda a few days back.

Wouldn’t you know it? Proctor smacked the first pitch he saw. It hit the barrel (the meatiest part) of his bat, and plunged to the dirt, rolling well to my right over to the shortstop position (roughly half way between second base, and third base).

It wasn’t a powerful hit, but hey, it was contact.

“Nice work,” I said.

“A fluke, I should think,” Proctor said.

He readied himself again to receive another pitch.

SMACK!

Another ground ball. This one went over the chalk line to the right which ran from home plate to third base. That officially put the ball in foul territory which - in a game situation - would mean ‘foul ball’ and therefore it wouldn’t count. But, for the purposes of assessing contact, it didn’t matter if it wasn’t in fair territory. He’d made contact, and that as all I cared about.

“Two for two,” I said. “Somebody ate their Wheaties this morning.”

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“Their what?” Dillard shouted from the dugout.

“Never mind.”

Proctor swung and missed on the third decent pitch I threw. But, he made good contact on the fourth, and sent a low line drive into left field.

Two pitches later, he had another hit.

“You’ve got a good eye,” I said.

“Thank you.”

This process proved to be a ton of fun, and it wasn’t long before I’d forgotten about being under the watchful eye of so many people on the bleachers. My only hope was that the crowd of onlookers were entertained too. Best I could tell, they were.

Once I’d thrown Proctor twenty five decently hittable pitches, I was thrilled that he’d made contact with nine of them. Nine! To me, making contact with seven of them would mark his contact ability as ‘Elite’. I would submit his ability to the System as such, and they’d likely designate him as such.

However, he hadn’t hit one power shot of those nine times he’d made contact. So, I continued pitching to him until he could make contact sixteen more times in order to see if he could hit any power shots.

Dozens of pitches later, Proctor had managed sixteen more contacts. His last contact, he launched the ball deep into left center (half way between left field position, and center field) which made it almost all the way to the warning track (a track of dirt running along the front of the outfield wall) in the air.

“Good one!” I said.

With that, Proctor’s hitting evaluation was over.

Proctor Smythe:

Contact: 9/25 = Elite

Power: 1/25 = Average

For the second assessment, we decided Proctor and I would switch roles, and we could get my own Contact/Power evaluation done. We agreed, just to be safe, to set up the protection barrier in front of the pitcher’s mound. I apparently now had the strength of four men, and the last thing I wanted was for Proctor to get hurt.

With that done (with Gak and Denton’s help), we commenced my evaluation.

“You’ve been the teacher,” Dillard shouted at me, as I prepared to step up to the plate on the right side. “You’d best impress.”

I laughed. “No pressure or anything,” I said.

Proctor impressed me with his pitching ability. He wasn’t rearing back and trying to throw hard fastballs, just the same as I hadn’t when I’d pitched to him. But, he was good at throwing decently hard pitches, while keeping them accurate, and dancing around the strike zone. I’d hoped that boded well for how he’d do in the pitching assessment later.

Admittedly, I started to feel a bit embarrassed, and sweat crept up my back when I swung and missed the first three good pitches Proctor threw.

Oh no, was all I could think. I’m going to make a fool of myself, and I’m the freaking franchise owner. I didn’t even want to play for the team in the first place, but just manage it instead. There were a few muffled laughs from the stands too. Family members of those who’d be trying out, snickered when I swung hard, and completely missed those first three pitches.

But… I made up for it.

Over the next twenty two decent pitches, I made good contact with nine of them. Yep, nine. The same number as Proctor.

“Well done,” Proctor said.

“Just copying you, I suppose,” I said.

In terms of power, not to sound cocky, but the result was predictable. I sent two of Proctor’s pitches deep to center field near the warning track. One of the pitches I hit well past the line where we’d be building the outfield wall. As soon as that one left the bat, Dillard whistled at the sight. It exploded in a high rainbow arc, and landed somewhere out in the mud and scrub grass. A clear home run in a game situation. Yeah, my strength advantage from the soda was apparent.

My hitting evaluation was done, and I was pleased.

Adam Bridger:

Contact: 9/25 = Elite

Power: 3/25 = Elite

Was it a bit greasy to potentially have the team’s owner also be the team’s best hitter? Maybe. But, the System was pulling the strings.

And, I shouldn’t have been getting ahead of myself. We still had plenty of current players, and potential players to assess who might even top my efforts at the plate. What a great thing that would be for the team and the village if that was the case.

I thanked Proctor for pitching to me in my evaluation, and I took to the mound once again so I could pitch to Dillard.

“Now batting,” I announced, “Dillard Coal.”

“Yous doing that for all of us?” Dillard said, bat in his hand.

“It’s fun,” I said.

“Sure.”

Dillard batted right, and he did his best to copy the batting stance I’d taught him.

“Remember what I said,” I instructed, “always keep your eye on the ball.”

“Ya don’t need to tell me,” Dillard said. “Used to hit rocks smaller than that one in your hand.”

I appreciated his competitiveness.

My pitching to Dillard dialed in even better than it’d been for Proctor. I was hitting the strike zone with high frequency.

Impressively, the rather non athletic looking guy made contact four times of the twenty five good pitches he saw. One of those hits he flew deep into right field, a power shot.

Then in the additional pitches I threw to assess his power, he hit four more power shots. More than me.

“Dillard!” I shouted on the last shot he sent well into left field. “Who knew?”

“Well… me,” he said, completely serious. “I knew.”

I shook my head, and laughed.

“That’s barbarian strength right there,” Gak said from his seat in the dugout. And, I saw Dillard’s chest puff out with pride as soon as he heard it.

Hard not to smile at that.

Dillard Coal:

Contact: 4/25 = Above Average

Power: 5/25 = Elite

I had to go over and give the man a hug. He looked at the infield dirt at his feet sheepishly.

“Aye, aye,” he said, and his cheeks turned rosy. “I’ve got this baseball thing licked, ain’t it?”

“Sure thing,” I said.

When I took to the pitcher’s mound again, I pointed my ball glove toward the dugout.

“Does the barbarian want to go next?” I said, smiling at Gak.

“I’ll go,” Denton said, standing up, and grabbing a bat off the floor in front of him.

“Alright,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

As I gripped the baseball in my pitching hand. I could see Trevor amble over from the head of the line up of prospects.

“Hello, boss,” Trevor said. “Don’t mind my asking… how much longer before you call someone from the line?”

“Are they getting unruly?” I said.

Trevor shook his head. “But, I fear some might leave if left waiting too much longer.”

I nodded slowly. “Understood,” I said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

My thoughts turned to the relatives of would be players too. If the people in line were restless, I’d imagine some of those in the stands were too. I couldn’t single out any specific example of impatience among those seated around the field, but I’m sure they were out there.

It had me thinking back to when I’d talked about a team mascot. I was going to need something to keep the home crowd entertained. Baseball was definitely a game of ebbs and flows. There were times you’d need to keep the audience engaged while not a lot was happening on the field. A musician maybe? Even something like the distraction of a food vendor wandering the bleachers would help.

Which sparked to mind all those bags of sunflower seeds we’d received from the System.

“Hey, Proctor,” I called to my friend from the mound. “How’d you like to sell some concessions?”