Chapter 6: Sixty Days
The first morning, Dennis made Jordan run.
Not sprints.
Not drills.
Just run.
Around the warning track.
Lap after lap after lap until his lungs burned and his legs felt like wet concrete and his old cleats squeaked against the turf on every third step.
Dennis stood in the center of the field with a stopwatch and said nothing until Jordan stopped on his own and put his hands on his knees.
"How many laps?" Dennis called.
Jordan straightened.
"Twelve."
"Thirteen." Dennis clicked the stopwatch.
"You lost count around lap eight.
That's when most people do." He walked toward him.
"A baserunner who loses count loses the game.
Do it again."
Jordan did it again.
That was how the first week went.
By the second week, Dennis had introduced the film room.
A small room behind the coaching offices with two monitors and a wall of external hard drives labeled by year and team.
Dennis pulled up footage of stolen base attempts.
Successful ones.
Failed ones.
He played them without sound and made Jordan narrate what he saw.
"Tell me what the runner's doing wrong."
"He's watching the pitcher's face."
"Why is that wrong?"
"The face doesn't give anything away.
The body does."
"Which part of the body?"
"Depends on the pitcher."
"Good.
Now watch this one."
Jordan watched.
"His hip," Jordan said.
"The left hip rotates before the right foot comes up.
That's the commit point."
Dennis stopped the footage.
Turned to look at the boy.
"How did you know about commit points?"
"I read about it."
"Where?"
Jordan hesitated.
"I wrote away to the library for a book on pitching biomechanics.
It took three weeks to come in.
It was written for coaches."
"How old were you?"
"Eleven."
Dennis turned back to the screen.
He restarted the footage.
"Tell me what the catcher is doing wrong," he said.
His voice gave nothing away but his jaw had shifted slightly, the way it did when he was trying not to show that something had surprised him.
In the third week, Chase appeared.
He did not make an announcement.
He simply showed up at the film room door on a Tuesday afternoon and asked Dennis if he could observe.
Dennis shrugged.
Chase sat in the back corner and watched Jordan work through forty minutes of footage without saying a word.
Afterward, in the hallway, Chase caught up to Dennis.
"He's not doing what I thought he was doing," Chase said.
"What did you think he was doing?"
"I thought it was pattern recognition.
Like a smart kid who picks up on things quickly." Chase paused.
"But he's not just reading tells.
He's building a model.
In his head.
Like a full mechanical picture of every pitcher he watches."
Dennis said nothing.
"He's eleven and he's writing away for biomechanics textbooks," Chase said.
"Eleven when he started.
He's fourteen now." Dennis picked up his clipboard.
"He's had three years to build on it."
"Dennis." Chase stopped walking.
"What are we dealing with here?"
Dennis looked at him.
"I don't know yet," he said honestly.
"But I know I've never seen it before.
Not in twenty-three years."
Chase leaned against the hallway wall.
He was quiet for a moment.
"I want to work with him," he said.
"Directly.
Not observing.
Actually working with him."
"That's not your call to make," Dennis said.
"It's his."
"Then ask him."
"Ask him yourself."
Chase found Jordan outside at the first-base line, running lead-off footwork drills alone.
Jordan saw him coming and did not stop the drill.
He completed the full sequence — three steps, weight shift, rotation, push — and then straightened up.
"You want something?" Jordan asked.
Chase almost smiled.
Almost.
"I want to work with you," he said.
"Throwing.
Catching.
Real game speed.
Dennis's drills are good.
But you need to see what it feels like when the person behind the plate actually knows what they're doing."
Jordan looked at him for a long moment.
"Why?"
"Because I was wrong about you," Chase said.
"And I was wrong about your father.
And I'm better at doing something about it than I am at talking about it."
Jordan looked down at his cleats.
The old ones.
Tape still on both.
"Thursday afternoons," Jordan said.
"I have school until three."
"I know.
I checked."
Jordan looked up sharply.
"You checked my schedule?"
"Dennis told me.
I asked." Chase held his gaze.
"I'm not laughing at you.
I'm not trying to manage you.
I want to work with you.
That's it."
A long pause.
"Thursday," Jordan said.
"Don't be late."
Chase nodded.
Turned to go.
"Mr.
Dalton."
Chase turned back.
Jordan's expression was steady.
Careful.
"If you ever say anything like that about my father again," he said, "I'm done.
No second chance."
Chase held the boy's eyes.
"Understood," he said.
He walked back toward the tunnel.
His footsteps were slower than they'd been on his way out.
The weeks moved forward.
By week five, three other coaches had found reasons to be present during Jordan's sessions.
They tried to make it look casual.
Clipboard adjustments.
Equipment checks.
Water bottle refills.
Dennis noticed.
He said nothing.
By week seven, Dennis submitted an early note — not a report, a note — to the director of player development.
A man named Gerald Sutton, who had been with the Falcons organization for nineteen years and had developed two All-Stars and one Hall of Fame candidate.
The note said only: *You should come see this before the evaluation closes.
Don't wait.*
Gerald Sutton read the note twice.
He walked to the window of his third-floor office and looked down at the practice field.
He could see a small figure at first base, running leads with a precision that reminded him of someone he had not thought about in a long time.
May you like
He picked up his phone and called his assistant.
"Clear my Thursday afternoon," he said.
