Bullpen Sessions

The cable bill was overdue again, which meant no ESPN, no TikTok, and basically no life. Just me and Chunk—our 150-pound English mastiff who smelled like stale corn chips and regret—staring at the black screen.

"Dad's gonna flip when he finds out," I muttered, tossing a baseball at the ceiling. Catch, toss. Catch, toss.

Chunk let out this dramatic sigh, like *bro, just pay the bill.* Which was rich coming from a dog who'd eaten three remotes this year alone.

My dad, the Bull (that's what everyone called him—third-generation mechanic, built like a tank, about as subtle as one), was already on my case about baseball. "You're too soft, Leo," he'd say, watching me pitch from his lawn chair, beer in hand. "Need more fire. More grit."

But here's the thing nobody at school knew: I was secretly training for the varsity team. Tryouts were next week, and I'd been practicing at 5 AM every morning before Bull woke up. My arm felt like it might fall off, but I had something to prove—not just to him, but to myself.

That night, I heard Chunk barking like someone was murdering us. I grabbed my bat and crept downstairs, heart hammering.

There was Bull in the backyard, standing under the floodlights he'd rigged up, holding a bucket of baseballs. His old pitching machine sat beside it, all rusty and probably lethal.

"You're late," he grunted, tossing me a ball. "I seen you practicing, Leo. Your form's garbage."

I stood there, mouth open. "You... you watched me?"

"Cable's been out for three days, kid. Only thing on is your 5 AM pity party." He cracked this tiny smile—like, actually cracked a smile, which I was pretty sure was illegal in 47 states. "Now quit gawking and throw."

Chunk sat up, tail thumping like a metronome, like this was the best thing that'd happened since someone dropped a pizza crust.

We stayed out there till 3 AM. Bull taught me grip, taught me how to read a batter's stance, taught me stuff he'd learned playing semi-pro back before he became The Bull. Chunk chased every foul ball like his life depended on it.

"Why didn't you tell me you played?" I asked, wiping sweat from my eyes.

He shrugged, all fake-casual. " figured you'd ask when you were ready."

Tryouts came and went. I made varsity. Bull was there in the stands, cable bill fully paid, Chunk in a tiny baseball jersey (my mom's idea, obviously). When I struck out the final batter to seal the win, Bull stood up and clapped.

Not hollered, not screamed. Just clapped.

But Chunk? Chunk went absolutely feral, barking like we'd just won the World Series, knocking over popcorn, basically living his best life.

Some nights now, we still go out back. Just me, Bull, the pitching machine, and Chunk—our weird little bullpen sessions under the floodlights. Cable's working again, but honestly? Nothing beats watching Bull pretend he doesn't cry when he talks about his playing days, while Chunk snores like a chainsaw beside the mound.

Funny how the stuff you think makes you a loser—no cable, no fame, just you and a smelly dog and a dad who won't say he loves you—ends up being exactly what makes you win.