Fox in the Inning

Leo's buddies called him Fox because of his sly base-stealing and that rusty orange hair he refused to dye. But today, caked in dust and sweat, he felt more like a cornered animal than a clever one.

Varsity tryouts. Junior year. The last chance to prove he wasn't just the scrawny kid who'd struck out in front of half the school during freshman gym class.

"You're up, Fox," came the call from the dugout. His knees practically vibrated. At the plate stood Miller — a senior built like a brick wall, the team's ace pitcher who'd been glaring at Leo since he walked onto the field. Miller, whose teammates called him Bull because once he locked onto something, he didn't let go.

The first pitch whizzed past, high and tight. Leo flinched, and someone from the outfield snickered. Great. Everyone watching. Again.

"Don't let him get in your head," his best friend Marley had said earlier, while they sat on the bleachers watching JV get demolished. "Miller's all fastball, no brains. Just wait for your pitch."

Second pitch: low and outside. Ball. The count evened.

Leo remembered last summer's tournament — his triumphant moment, stealing home and sliding into the plate dirt-first, cleats flying. The whole team cheering. For once, he wasn't the quiet kid in the back of English class. He was Fox, the baseball player with guts.

Third pitch came fast, right down the middle. Leo's bat connected with a sharp crack — and then his heart sank as the ball sailed foul by inches.

"Last chance, kid," Miller called from the mound, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Leo exhaled. He wasn't that scared freshman anymore. He wasn't just trying to survive. He stepped into the box, eyes locked on Miller's grip. The pitch came — another fastball, but this time Leo saw it. He swung, and the ball soared toward center field, dropping perfectly between two fielders.

As he rounded first, the dugout erupted. Fox had come through again.