Chasing Sunsets

My dad's been saying the same thing since I was twelve: "Baseball builds character." What he really means is baseball builds exactly the kind of character he has — the kind that wakes up at 5 AM to run laps before school and thinks orange slices are a revolutionary halftime snack.

I'm standing in left field during tryouts, my glove basically a decoration since nothing ever comes out here. Coach Miller — they call him The Bull behind his back, mostly because he's built like one and has about the same patience — is watching us like he's waiting for someone to mess up so he can unleash his signature "constructive criticism."

"You there! Rodriguez! You're running like you've got somewhere better to be!"

I freeze. That's me. I absolutely do have somewhere better to be: anywhere but here.

Then I see her — Maya Chen, leaning against the backstop, orange streaks in her hair that match the sunset behind her. She's not watching the tryouts. She's sketching in this beat-up notebook, and suddenly I'm not thinking about how much I suck at baseball anymore. I'm thinking about how I'd rather be running toward something real instead of away from something fake.

The Bull blows his whistle. "Last chance, ladies. Show me what you've got."

I step up to the plate. The pitching machine fires, and I don't think about form or mechanics or my dad's voice in my head. I think about Maya looking up from her sketchbook, about orange sunsets and chasing things that matter. I swing.

I miss.

But I don't care. Because after tryouts, I walk over to where Maya's sitting, and my voice doesn't shake at all when I say, "Nice streaks."

She looks up, actually smiles. "Thanks. It's supposed to be temporary, but I'm kinda digging it."

"Yeah," I say, and for the first time in forever, I'm not running anymore. "Me too."