The ESPN camera zoomed in on Lila Cho's face as she adjusted her earpiece.
"This is Lila Cho reporting live from UT, where an unprecedented showdown is unfolding. A one-armed pitcher, Michael Cobb—once a rising star before a tragic accident—is challenging three of the university's top batters in a duel."
Behind her, the crowd roared as Jason Cole, a 6'4" tower of muscle, stepped into the batter's box.
The camera panned to Michael, standing alone on the mound, his right sleeve pinned up and his left hand gripping a baseball like it was a grenade.
Michael's mind raced fast. Cole's reputation was no joke—but power hitters had one flaw: they hated changeups.
He's expecting heat. Give him slime.
Cole tapped his bat against the plate, smirking.
Michael tuned him out. His left fingers traced the seams of the ball—two-seam grip, fingers slightly off-center.
A modified changeup. With the vial's enhancement, he could tweak his tendons like guitar strings, dialing down the speed without losing control.
Windup normal. Arm speed matches the fastball. Sell the lie.
He kicked his leg high, hiding the ball until the last millisecond. Cole's muscles coiled, his bat twitching—he's hunting a fastball.
Now.
Michael's arm snapped forward. The ball floated out, spinning lazily.
Cole swung like he was chopping wood.
Too early.
The ball dipped, avoiding his bat by inches.
THUD.
It smacked into Tyler's mitt with a wet plop.
"STRIKE ONE!" Tyler yelled, his voice cracking.
The crowd gasped. Cole blinked at the mitt, then at Michael, as if the ball had teleported.
Livestream comments exploded:
@BaseballNerd: THAT WAS A 80MPH CHANGEUP???
@UTFan4Ever: COLE LOOKED LIKE A WINDMILL LOL
Jake whooped, shoving his camera in Cole's face. "How's the weather up there, big guy?!"
Michael snatched another ball. He's rattled. Now double the lie.
This time, he went full fastball grip—four seams, fingertips digging in. Cole's eyes narrowed, his bat hovering higher. He's adjusting for the changeup.
Wrong move.
Michael's arm whipped forward. The ball screamed in, a white bullet.
Cole's swing was late.
CRACK.
The ball hit Tyler's mitt so hard it knocked him onto his back.
"STRIKE TWO!"
Cole's bat trembled. Sweat darkened his jersey. Michael could almost hear his thoughts: Is this a fastball? Changeup? What's coming next?
Time to break him.
Michael reached into his back pocket, pretending to wipe sweat. His thumb brushed the Phoenix Vial in his jeans—still cold, still ticking. [00:38:49…]
One more pitch. Make it mean something.
He grabbed the ball, fingers switching to a splitter grip—straddling the seams. The split-finger fastball would dive like a stone.
Vial's holding. For now.
Cole's knuckles whitened on the bat. He's guessing. That's death in the box.
Michael wound up, mirroring his fastball motion. Cole's eyes locked onto his shoulder, desperate for a tell.
Now.
The ball rocketed out, then plummeted as it crossed the plate.
Cole swung over it.
THWACK.
"STRIKE THREE!"
The crowd erupted. Cole stood frozen, his bat dangling like a dead branch.
His hands trembled as he stumbled out of the batter's box. His ears buzzed like a hive of angry wasps. Three strikes. Three swings. Three misses. Against a guy with one arm.
He glanced down at his bat, the same $400 maple beast that had crushed 28 home runs last season. His mind replayed the pitches.
The first one, that changeup, had floated like a feather before dropping off a cliff. The second, a fastball so fast he'd sworn it left a vapor trail. The third… Jason didn't even have a name for that pitch. A splitter? A devil's curse?
How?
Jason's cleats dug into the dirt as he shuffled toward the dugout. Every muscle in his body screamed that this was wrong. A one-armed pitcher shouldn't have balance. Shouldn't have torque. Shouldn't throw harder than my damn fastball. He'd faced pro prospects—guys with arms like cannons—but none of them made him feel this… small.
A freshman from the team gaped at him. "Dude, what was that?"
Jason shoved past him, muttering, "Shut up."
The crowd's roar pounded his skull. He'd been humiliated. On ESPN. By a cripple. He slumped onto the bench, head in his hands.
His left arm. How's his left arm that strong? Amputees lose muscle mass. It's science! But Michael's throws had cracked like thunder, his form flawless.
Like he'd been born with that one arm.
The livestream counter blazed: 3,212 viewers.
Donation alerts flooded Michael's phone:
[+500–"COLEGOTOWNED!!"]
[+1,000 – "HOLY CRAP THIS IS HISTORY"]
[+1,000 – "WTF AM I WITNESSING"]
…
Luis grinned at the screen. "We're at $30k, Mike! "
Michael didn't react. [00:07:12…]. No time to rest.
He wiped sweat with his stump and glared at Landon, who was tightening his batting gloves like they'd personally offended him.
Landon Shaw tightened his batting gloves, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. The cameras swarmed him as he stepped toward the plate, their lenses hungry for his downfall.
Don't choke. Don't you dare choke.
Katie stood by the backstop, her arms crossed. Landon could feel her eyes on him—judging. She thinks I'm gonna lose. Again.
The livestream comments flashed on the Jumbotron:
@DeltaQueen: LANDON'S SWEATING MORE THAN A PIG AT A BBQ 🐷
@UTAlum89: THIS IS PAYBACK FOR STEALING HIS GIRL
Landon's grip on the bat turned lethal. I'll show them. Show her.
He'd spent all night studying Michael's old tapes. Knew his patterns. Knew his tells. But the Michael on the mound now was a stranger. No windup quirks. No predictable fastballs. Just cold, mechanical precision.
Fine. If I can't hit him…
Landon squared his shoulders. Bunt.
It was a coward's move. A slap to the ego. But if he could drop a bunt down the third-base line, Michael's one arm would fumble the pickup. Landon would sprint to first, smirking all the way.
The ultimate humiliation: beating the "hero" with a baby's trick.
Michael crouched on the mound, his eyes narrowing. Landon's stance was off—feet closer to the plate, bat angled forward.
He's bunting. The realization clicked. Pathetic.
Michael's left shoulder burned, tendons fraying under the vial's unnatural strain. He had to end this fast.
Landon smirked, tapping the plate. "Ready when you are, Ace."
Michael's fingers dug into the ball's seams. You want a bunt? Here's your bunt.
He wound up, his arm whipping forward with a violence that made the crowd gasp. The ball screamed toward Landon's chest—107 mph, rising.
Landon's eyes bulged. He's trying to kill me!
Instinct overrode ego. He jerked back, the bat slipping from his hands as he stumbled out of the box. The ball blasted into the backstop, splintering wood.
"BALL ONE!"