"Alright, let's started!" Steve said, positioning himself a few meters from the machine, bat in hand, setting his feet and stance with seriousness. He wasn't playing around.
Andrew, standing next to the machine, turned the speed dial. "Alright, 35 mph. Get ready."
Steve nodded, focused. It was just a warm-up, but even so he had to take it seriously. He had absolutely no intention of spending the next two months calling Andrew "dad."
The ball shot out. Steve reacted instantly. The bat connected with a clean crack and the ball sailed out toward the outfield.
"Easy," Steve murmured, spinning the bat confidently. "Crank it up ten."
The pitches continued: 45, 50, 55, and 60 mph.
Steve handled them all comfortably, finding his rhythm and loosening up his arms. Every contact was solid. Nothing flashy, but clean and controlled.
Little by little, several heads began to turn toward them. Sixty miles per hour wasn't something a twelve-year-old kid could hit. Not even an adult baseball hobbyist would handle it with that kind of ease.
Then it was Andrew's turn. He stepped into the same position and kept exactly the same speed progression: 35, 45, 50, 55, and 60 mph.
He wasn't trying to impress. On some hits the ball even came off faster, but without exaggeration. It was just the first block.
By the time they finished, it wasn't just curious glances anymore. A decent crowd had gathered. More than a dozen kids, Luke's friends and classmates, were watching with their mouths open.
Andrew, who at first had wanted to keep a low profile, had completely forgotten about that by now. He had slipped into competition mode.
"Second block: 65 mph," Andrew said, positioning himself beside the machine.
They would do three pitches at 65 mph and two at 70.
The first 65 mph pitch flew out. Steve connected, but it wasn't as clean. The ball went out, yes, but lower. The second had better contact, and the third was the best of the three.
Then the speed went up: 70 mph, and the difference became obvious.
The first barely slipped past him, and on the second he managed to connect, earning applause from the improvised audience watching the competition.
'I can do better…' Steve thought. He knew he could hit a ball over 70 mph. He still wasn't close to his limit.
Andrew's turn.
The first 65 mph pitch was brutal. The sound of the impact was sharp and forceful. The hit was comparable to Steve's best at 65 mph, and this was Andrew's very first.
"Wooah!" echoed among the kids.
Second 65 mph: another solid contact.
Third 65 mph: a deep drive that went farther than any of Steve's balls, unquestionably the best hit at that speed.
Andrew didn't have Steve's refined technique. He didn't swing the bat with the elegance of someone with more baseball experience. But he was always on time.
At 70 mph, just like Steve, Andrew missed one and connected with another. However, the one he connected with was clearly cleaner. The dry crack of the impact made it obvious.
"Damn monster…" Steve muttered to himself, never taking his eyes off his friend.
What he was seeing wasn't technique. It was absurdly fast reflexes and raw power.
Every pitch now came with shouts, applause, and improvised countdowns. The kids were cheering as if they were watching a real final.
"Last five pitches," Andrew said, stepping closer to the machine.
He handed the bat to Steve, who took it with a furrowed brow and blazing eyes. Howard, who was nearby watching the competition, chimed in, "Scared, Potter?"
"Not even a little," Steve replied with a confident smile as he walked to the batter's spot.
From there, he rested the bat on his shoulder and pointed straight at Andrew. "Crank it up to 75 miles per hour!"
The kids immediately started cheering at the decision, more speed = more spectacle.
The winner would be whoever managed the best contact at the highest speed. If both connected at the same speed, the quality of the hit would be judged: technique, cleanliness of contact, and how far the ball flew.
But if one of them connected at 75 mph and the other didn't, there would be no discussion. Nothing else would matter. Andrew turned the machine's dial without saying a word.
The first ball at that speed, Steve managed to hit with difficulty, but it wasn't a great hit. It counted, valid, but nothing special, even though very few people could say they could make contact at that speed at all.
"Tsch… one more!" Steve said, stepping back into position and taking a deep breath.
The ball fired out without warning. Steve was ready. Contact, another hit, a little better than the previous one.
The next pitch came immediately. Steve rotated his body with everything he had, and this time he completely outdid himself. The sound of the impact was almost apotheotic. The ball flew high, tracing a clean arc against the blue sky.
Steve smiled, following its trajectory. The crowd erupted in applause and exclamations.
'Almost a damn home run at 75 miles per hour,' Steve thought, satisfied. Even if he repeated it, he doubted he could make a better hit than that.
For a moment, he allowed himself to believe it was already over.
Andrew could connect at 75 mph, he had no doubt about that. But beating that hit, with his rougher technique, didn't seem possible.
While the kids were still watching the ball drop onto the grass, Steve, for some inexplicable reason, looked at Andrew.
Andrew was standing behind the batting machine, watching him. Calm. Too calm. With a faint smile that said nothing, and said everything.
That smile lit something in Steve's mind.
'That son of a bitch… he's not impressed. He's comfortable,' Steve thought, frowning.
'Of course… he doesn't care that my hit was perfect. Because he's going to raise the speed,' Steve's thoughts raced.
That's when he understood. It didn't matter how clean, technical, or powerful his hit had been. If Andrew managed to connect at 80 mph, all of that would be automatically invalidated. The aesthetics didn't matter. The distance didn't matter.
'Be satisfied with your 75 mph, it won't be worth anything…' Andrew thought, looking at him with a small, calm smile.
Steve got ready for his fourth pitch. "Crank it up to 80," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
For a second, no one reacted.
"What!?" one kid exclaimed.
"That's crazy!"
"That's high school level!"
The murmuring turned into a general uproar.
Andrew didn't say a single word. He simply turned the machine's dial until it stopped at 80 mph.
Steve swallowed, never taking his eyes off it. The duel had just leveled up.
On a baseball team, a batter being able to hit a ball thrown at 80 mph meant real reaction time, timing, and control. It wasn't a decorative number. In most high school games, good starting pitchers sat around 70-85 mph. And a pitcher who could sit at 80-83 mph was already respected and difficult for most hitters at that level.
Steve settled in, took a deep breath, and the ball shot out at 80 mph. He reacted and made contact.
It wasn't perfect contact, nor as clean as the one at 75. The ball went out toward the outfield on a slightly uneven trajectory, but it was valid.
The crowd erupted again.
But Steve didn't celebrate. He simply turned his head and looked at Andrew.
Andrew was still there, behind the machine, with that same small smile. As if Steve had just done something interesting, but not decisive.
That irritated Steve more than any stupid comment from Howard ever could.
'What are you planning? Going for 85? That would be insane…' Steve thought.
And yet, that smile seemed to say yes.
Then another doubt crept in: that Andrew was playing with him. That the smile was a trick to push him to raise the speed and make him fail. Because if he couldn't improve on his 80 mph hit, his best swing would stay there, and Andrew would only need to produce a better hit at 80 mph, with five tries, to beat it.
The thought turned into a spiral. Instead of calming down, Steve overthought it. But he eventually came to a simple conclusion: the only way to win was to raise it again.
Steve lifted the bat and spoke out loud so everyone could hear him. "Crank it up to 85 miles per hour."
The yard filled with immediate reactions.
"What?!" a kid said, eyes wide open.
"That's how you do it!"
"He's crazy, he won't even see it!"
Claire, who was now watching from close by, looked at Steve with a certain respect. "Steve…"
Mitchell frowned, glancing at the machine and then at the crowd, "This is getting out of hand. At that speed, if it goes anywhere-"
Jay snorted. "What's the worst that could happen? Let him push his limits," he said with a hard expression.
Andrew turned it up again, and this time Steve stepped in, gripping the bat firmly and staring at the machine without blinking.
'Focus…' he thought.
His eyes were burning from not blinking when, suddenly, something shot out of the machine at a brutal speed.
Steve reacted late by the smallest fraction, but he got there. The contact was rough, nothing elegant. The ball came out low and fast, with a dangerous trajectory, skimming the grass.
"Jimmy, look out!" a blond kid shouted at his shorter friend, who was wearing a cap and was distracted, eating a slice of pizza.
Jimmy turned his head just in time and felt the wind brush past his cheek.
The ball passed inches from his face without touching him. There was a second of absolute silence.
Then Jimmy raised his thumb, still holding the pizza in his other hand. "I'm okay!" he shouted, mouth full.
The yard erupted in applause, half for the scare that wasn't, half for Steve's contact at 85 mph.
Mitchell let out a long sigh. "I told you…" he muttered.
Steve started walking, bat in hand, toward the batting machine. At the same time, Andrew left his spot behind the machine and moved toward the batter's box. They walked straight toward each other, locking eyes without saying a word.
Halfway there, Steve extended the bat and handed it to Andrew without stopping.
'I won,' Steve thought.
Andrew took the bat and kept walking. They were already passing each other when a thought crossed his mind. 'I will win.'
Andrew stepped into the batter's box, calmly set his feet, and rested the bat on his shoulder. Steve was already behind the machine, ready to turn the dial.
"Alright," Steve said out loud, "ready at 75."
A murmur of expectation ran through the kids. It made sense. Andrew had finished his previous block at 70. Moving up to 75 was the natural next step, just like Steve had done.
"No," Andrew said.
Steve frowned and looked up. "What do you mean, no?"
Andrew slightly turned his head, looking at him over his shoulder. "Set it to 85."
The yard fell silent.
"What?" someone whispered among the kids.
"Straight to 85!"
"He's crazy!"
Steve stared at him in disbelief. "Are you sure?"
It was insane. Steve had reached 85 gradually: first three pitches at 75, then one at 80, and only at the end one at 85.
Andrew, on the other hand, had finished at 70. A direct jump of fifteen miles per hour.
"Yes. I'm sure," Andrew replied, without changing his tone.
Steve said nothing else. He turned the dial and left it at 85 mph.
"Why did this competition escalate so much?" Alex murmured, more to herself. Even she had left the living room to watch this absurd duel, which now looked like anything but a birthday game.
Andrew settled in. There was no exaggerated tension in his stance, just focus.
First pitch: the ball shot out like a projectile. Andrew reacted, late. The bat passed just behind it.
Second pitch: Andrew managed to graze it, but it was only a nick, a violent foul that flew off to the side. Not valid, and Claire ordered the kids to step back and watch from a safer distance.
Steve clenched his fist, 'Good…'
Third pitch: this time Andrew connected. It was a legal hit, but forced and rough. The ball stayed low and was clearly worse than Steve's.
"He hit it!" someone shouted.
"But it was weak…"
Steve's eyes widened slightly. "No…" he murmured. "He can't be adapting that fast."
The fourth pitch came, and the bat met the ball with better timing. The sound was cleaner. The trajectory, firmer, very similar to Steve's best hit at 85.
The last pitch arrived. Everyone held their breath. Andrew made a minimal adjustment, just a slight shift of weight, and the ball shot off.
The crack of bat on ball was forceful. The ball soared high, traveling a bit farther than the previous one. Not by a ridiculous margin, but enough. Clearly the best hit so far.
Steve let out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous…" he muttered. "It's like every attempt teaches you exactly what to change for the next one."
For a second, no one spoke. Then the yard exploded.
"WOW!"
"He won!"
"That was incredible!"
Jay let out a short laugh, crossing his arms. "I hate to admit it, but that was impressive."
Mitchell shook his head, resigned. "How did we end up turning this into a sports competition?"
Leonard looked at Andrew with a strange expression, half amused and half bewildered. "Great. Now you can join the baseball team when football season ends."
In truth, it wasn't as far-fetched as it sounded. It also didn't mean that Andrew or Steve were baseball prodigies. Hitting a ball at 85 mph was difficult, yes, but they had done it after several attempts, adjusting pitch by pitch, and without doing it perfectly or dominantly from the start.
Their advantage came from somewhere else: a very solid physical and athletic base, developed through years of football. Fast reflexes, hand-eye coordination, explosiveness, and core strength. That allowed them to compete, and not look out of place, in other sports.
On a high school baseball team, they could perform. They could hit, run the bases, catch balls. But they wouldn't stand out the way they did in football.
Besides, at that level it wasn't unusual. Many students played two or even three sports at once. It's a sign that, at this still-not-fully-professional stage, well-developed athleticism often carries over from one sport to another.
Willa smiled without realizing it, arms crossed, clearly impressed. "He always has to take it one step further…"
Howard raised both hands. "I may never beat you at real baseball, but I'm sure I can give you a match in Wii baseball."
Andrew walked up to Steve with a faint smile. "Well played," he said, extending his hand.
Steve accepted the handshake. "Well played…" he replied, still carrying a hint of frustration, but knowing he had lost fair and square.
Andrew knew it. The only way to win that competition wasn't through pure technique. In that, Steve had the edge. His hit at 75 mph had been almost perfect. Matching that on a technical level would have been extremely difficult.
The difference lay elsewhere, in maximum speed.
At that point, what mattered was no longer refined technique, but reflexes, instant reaction, and raw power. And there, Andrew had the advantage. On top of that, he had played the odds: going straight to five pitches at 85 mph gave him more chances to adapt, adjust, and correct on the fly, something Steve hadn't had, because he chose to ramp up gradually and only reached that speed once.
"So, how does it feel to have a new dad?" Willa asked, looking at Steve with a teasing smile.
Laughter burst out immediately.
Steve laughed too. He didn't have many options. "I guess I'll have to accept it," he said with a shrug. "Two months go by fast… I hope."
As the atmosphere relaxed, something else started to happen. The kids, who until moments ago had been watching from a distance, began to walk over toward Andrew.
"Wanna play catch?"
"Can you teach me to hit like that?"
"Can you throw hard?"
Once again, he became the center of attention. Andrew noticed it immediately. But this time, it was different.
Luke was there, at his side. Not with that uncomfortable expression from before, but excited, still with the adrenaline of the competition written all over his face.
"You have to teach me to hit like that," Luke said, barely giving him time to respond. "That was amazing!"
Andrew looked at him and smiled. "Of course, but step by step."
Luke nodded enthusiastically.
And so, almost without meaning to, Andrew ended up playing with Luke and his friends. Throwing passes, correcting stances and joking around. No longer hiding to avoid drawing attention, nor avoiding contact out of fear of ruining Luke's birthday.
And, in truth, Luke didn't mind. He didn't mind Andrew being there with him, playing with his friends, even though he inevitably became the center of attention.
Luke even liked that they admired him. It was inevitable, and besides, Andrew was his family. He felt a certain pride seeing everyone look at him, knowing he was his cousin.
What had hurt him was what happened the day before: that moment when he felt, even if only for an instant, pushed aside within his own family. It wasn't a big talk or a formal reconciliation. But it was a beginning.
In that way, Luke's birthday ended up becoming one of the best he would remember. And just like that, simply, the days kept passing.
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