Chapter Three: The Last-Place Club's Secret Adviser

“That'll put him down two strikes!” the coach protested. “Trust me.” Gao watched. The pitch missed by a finger, and the umpire called a ball. The commentary had been wrong. Cheng understood then: he did not hear fate. He heard only the most likely road from the present. One ball, one strike. No third prediction came. The Mandarin feed had failed; only English remained. The power disappeared. Han prepared. Gao glanced back, waiting. Everyone looked to Cheng. He could blame his equipment. But if every win had to wait for the future to speak, he would always be the voice's servant. “Lin! Han's pitch distribution after one hundred?” “Forty-two percent cutters, thirty-one fastballs, twenty-seven changeups.” “Left-handed hitter, runners on?”