One of the events or drills I was most looking forward to was judging running ability. Well, not really judging as it is being officially measured. I had the stopwatch vision ability right in front of my eyes, and I was eager to try it out.

We’d be running people up the first base line from home plate. They’d sprint as hard as they could from the side of the plate where they’d bat, and push with everything they had until stomping on first base where I’d stop the timer.

There was a twitch in my legs due to my nervousness. I was like a horse in the starting gate prior to the derby. Proctor paced back and forth in front of the dugout, so I could tell he was anxious too.

“Should I go first, or you?” I said.

Proctor shrugged.

Then an idea hit me.

“Gak,” I called to the big man seated before us. “Flip a bat in the air, would you?”

“Huh? Why?”

“Can you please?” I said.

He grunted, and obliged.

The bat flipped from his right hand, and the fat part of the barrel landed pointing mainly in Proctor’s direction rather than mine.

“Looks like it’s you,” I said to Proctor.

He grinned. “Quite scientific.”

Proctor bats left, which gave him a minute speed advantage because his side of home plate was just a bit closer to first base.

He took his place next to home, and I stood adjacent to first base, 90 feet in front of him. I had the stopwatch in the corner of my vision cued, and ready.

“Good to go?” I called to Proctor.

“All set,” he said. He crouched a bit, readying himself to run hard.

My left hand dropped which we’d agreed upon as the ‘go’ signal.

Proctor didn’t exactly have the form of a competitive sprinter, but he’d acquitted himself quite well. He crossed first base with a time of 4.2 seconds.

Running:

Proctor Smythe:

Left of plate to 1B: 4.2 sec = Average

“I’m impressed,” I said. I meant it genuinely, but Proctor’s side eye expression had me wondering if he’d thought I was being sarcastic.

“Thanks,” he said.

I think he was disappointed with his time, which was insane to me. He was fast.

“Now me,” I said.

We didn’t bother having Proctor watch from first base, as the timer in my vision would simply trigger on its own the second I took off from home plate.

I was running from the right side where I’d be batting.

By the time I took my spot next to home, my legs were shaking so bad, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to run at all. My stomach was churning too, something awful. I was wondering if I was going to have to run off to throw up behind the visitors’ dugout before the sprint. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. A wave of calm hit me just before I burst from the proverbial gates.

Running:

Adam Bridger:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.5 sec = Poor

Yeah, I chunked it. I don’t know. I thought I’d given the run of my life. It felt like I was flying up the chalk line, my legs pumping like an oil pump jack on overdrive. But, 4.5 seconds? According to the System’s specifications, that wasn’t good enough.

It’s confusing, because I knew I basically had superhuman strength. You’d think that would translate into sprinting speed, but turns out there’s a skill to it, and it’s about more than just brute strength.

“Man,” I said to Proctor, shaking my head. “I’m terrible.”

“Not with the bat in your hand,” Proctor said. “Chin up.”

“My turn, morons,” Dillard said, with a giggle.

Time to put my abysmal performance behind me, and take up my spot at first base again.

“Show me what you got,” I said.

He was better than me, and I felt a bit embarrassed, worried everyone would score a better time crossing first base.

Running:

Dillard Coal:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.2 sec = Average

“Nice,” I said. “Good job.”

“Better than most of these fools,” Dillard said. He waved at the guys seated in the dugout, and they barked back at him.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“I wouldn’t get cocky just yet,” I said. And, I smiled. “Your time’s considered average.”

“Bah,” Dillard scoffed. “Won’t be average when the rest is poor, ain’t it?”

“Alright, Denton,” I said, “let’s go.”

Running:

Denton Carkner:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.4 sec = Below Average

Not great, but still better than me.

“Beat ya good, didn’t he?” Dillard said.

“He did,” I said, and I nodded gravely.

Dillard found it all highly amusing.

“Our boss’s slow as a pester,” Dillard said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Watching Gak take his place at the right side of home plate entertained me. Without knowing what to expect, I was quite curious to know how a man of his height would fare sprinting as hard as he could. What a sight that would be to see him coming at you, hard as he could, on the battle field.

“Ready?” I said to the big guy.

“Aye.”

He beat me too. Fabulous.

Running:

Gak Bar:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.4 sec = Below Average

“Good effort,” I said, trying to offer some form of encouragement. He wasn’t having it.

“Nah,” Gak grumbled. “I’ve run better.”

“We get three tries each, don’t we?” Proctor said. “Isn’t that what you said? And, you’d take the average?”

I frowned. “Wouldn’t do any good, I don’t believe,” I said. “I could easily run even slower than the first time. Let’s just keep it to one.”

“Bah,” Gak said, clearly not in agreement.

“Whatever you think,” Proctor said. “It’s your show.”

I couldn’t imagine running any faster than I already had.

“You can’t really go down,” Denton said to me. “There’s no grade lower than ‘Poor’ is there?”

I knew he meant well, but I couldn’t help but chuckle at his comment.

“Thanks a lot,” I said. “No, let’s just keep it to one sprint each. We’re burning daylight here as it is.”

“Fine.”

“Torag, you’re up,” I said. “Ulrich, you’re after him, in case you wanted to stretch a bit.”

Then came a five minute explanation on the concept of stretching. These people, Ulrich the athlete included, had never heard of the idea. Guess I still needed to improve at reading the room, so to speak. Stretching wasn’t a thing in the stone age, apparently.

Running:

Torag Gill:

Left of plate to 1B: 4.4 sec = Poor

Finally, someone else as bad at sprinting as me.

“What a waste of my time,” Torag said, and he spit into the infield dirt.

I had something nasty to say in retort, but decided against it. The entire aura of this guy… I couldn’t stand him.

Running:

Ulrich Farrowhill:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.1 sec = Elite

Moonlight’s most famous athlete lived up to his name. His running stride was a thing of beauty. Efficient. Economy of movement personified. I’m not sure his head moved above or below a straight level as he sprinted. He just floated on this imaginary plane from home to first.

“Wow,” I said. “Well done.”

“Thank you.”

“You made it look easy,” I said.

He simply bowed his head, and returned to the dugout. He received a few pats on the back from the guys.

Next came the dirty Quallons. The less said about them, the better.

Running:

Jorn Quallon:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.3 sec = Average

Jeremiah Quallon:

Right of plate to 1B: 4.2 sec = Above Average

Jux Quallon:

Left of plate to 1B: 4.3 sec = Below Average

Fair to say, the System had done a good job magically healing these terrible people so that they could take part. I was happy none of them rated as ‘Elite’ runners, however. I’d use any excuse I could when it came time in order to keep them out of the actual game line up, and have them warming the bench in the dugout for all eternity. If I could get away with it… if… We’d have to wait and see.

“Ready for a few others now?” Trevor asked me, walking over from the villagers’ queue.

“Sure, send over a few more,” I said.

We’d bring three prospects into the dugout, and run them through, and then evaluate three more, and so on.

By the time I’d measured time for everyone in attendance, mentally, my 40 man roster was beginning to take shape. A few names stuck out with each pass through of the different drills.

Clifford Summers was one name I’d noted coming up a couple of times with impressive showings.

Aston Bale, that was another one. Smith Reeve, I remember him showing some notable talent too.

“I wish I could do this,” Trevor said. “I’d like to know how I’d be.”

I felt bad for him. “I know,” I said. “I wish you could take part in it too. I have no say in this. I hope you understand.”

The giant nodded. “I know,” he said, and he pointed to the sky. “It’s them.”

Trevor navel gazed as he walked back to his post, and reorganized the prospect line. I understood the System’s reasoning in not allowing an eighteen foot tall human to compete in baseball games against ‘regular’ humans, but curiosity was killing me regarding what someone his size could do in the sport. No reason we couldn’t run him through these evaluations for fun at the end of all of this.

So, with everyone officially timed to first base, we moved on to pitching. This time, I opted to go first.

Five fastballs.

Surely, my excess strength would grant me a huge advantage in this area.

Proctor and I agreed, for this assessment, we wouldn’t bother having someone in the position of bat catcher set up behind home plate to receive the pitches.

The radar gun vision the System had gifted me with would work from the vantage point of the mound, or behind the plate. For my own evaluation, I’d read the gun - obviously - from the mound. For everyone else, I’d stand behind the back stop, i.e. the fence/netting running which ran around the infield, specifically behind home plate. Proctor decided to hang out next to me, next to the mound.

“You can see the strike zone too, right?” Proctor said. “For accuracy purposes?”

“Yes.”

And, I could indeed see the rectangle in front of me. Basically, my vision resembled the heads up display of a fighter pilot. Er… my idea of a fighter pilot’s display anyway.

The bucket of baseballs just off the mound beckoned me to grab a couple. The wind had died down enough, I knew it wasn’t going to be a factor in effecting the speed or accuracy of the pitches. It was better that way, to get a true assessment of mine and everyone’s abilities.

Just because I’d seen major league pitchers do it on TV, I dug the sole of my right boot into the mound’s dirt in front of the pitching rubber (if you recall, the small rectangular bit in the center of the mound). I snorted like a bull, huffed in a few cold breaths, and spit near my feet. My muscles loosened. I swung my right shoulder in two circles, basically testing the joint, checking for possible hitches. There were none.

“Feeling strong, are we?” Proctor said.

“Ready to throw gas,” I said. Doing my best Clint Eastwood.

With that, I - again, copying from my memory of televised games - curled my upper body, twisted, kicked and planted my left foot, then I flung my right arm like a slingshot, and released the ball from two fingers.

The thing cannon balled from my fingertips when they ripped against those wool stitches, and I’d turned my body into a catapult.

Pure force. It was like watching myself in slow motion. The first pitch felt clean. Everything moved in sync. A real fastball.