Fox Fire in the Inning

The summer before freshman year, I felt like a zombie going through the motions. Wake up, scroll TikTok, contemplate existence, repeat. But baseball? That was supposed to be my thing.

"You okay, man?" Marcus asked. He'd been my friend since third grade, back when the biggest problem was who got the blue Gogurt.

"Yeah. Just... thinking." I adjusted my cap, trying to look like I had my life together.

The sky turned that weird purple-green color that means weather is about to get chaotic. Coach blew the whistle. "Everyone inside! Lightning's coming!"

But I didn't move. Neither did Marcus. We stood there while thunder cracked like the sky was splitting open.

"Bro, we're gonna die," Marcus said, but he was grinning.

A flash of lightning illuminated something orange-red near the outfield fence. A fox. It stood there watching us, calm as anything, while rain started hammering down.

"Is that...?" Marcus whispered.

The fox tilted its head, almost like it was acknowledging us, then vanished into the woods.

"Did you just hallucinate that?" I asked, suddenly feeling more alive than I had in months.

"No way. That was literally magic." Marcus was soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, looking absolutely ridiculous. And in that moment, I realized something.

I'd been so caught up in worrying about high school, about fitting in, about whether I was cool enough or smart enough or whatever enough, that I'd forgotten how to be present. How to see things.

"Race you to the dugout," I said.

"You're on, zombie boy."

We sprinted through the rain, dodging puddles, laughing like little kids. The fox was gone, but something shifted inside me. Maybe growing up wasn't about becoming someone new. Maybe it was about remembering the parts of yourself that were already there, just waiting for lightning to strike.