Outfield Escapes

Leo stood in right field, glove dangling from his hand like a dead thing. The baseball diamond stretched before him—green grass that was supposed to feel like home but felt like performance. Parents cheering. Coach yelling. Meanwhile, Leo was calculating how many minutes until he could bail.

"You got this, Leo!" his dad screamed from the bleachers. Same dad who'd started him on those nasty vitamin gummies last winter—tropical fusion flavor, supposed to help him "bulk up" for the team. They sat in his backpack like accusations, little rubbery squares of everything he wasn't.

A flash of orange caught his eye.

A fox, sleek and absolutely unbothered, trotted along the fence line. Not playing. Not performing. Just existing. It paused, flicked its tail like whatever, and Leo felt something weird in his chest—like jealousy, but weirder.

"BALL!" someone hollered, and Leo realized with dawning horror that the baseball was arcing toward him like a judgment comet. He raised his glove, closed his eyes, and—

Whap. Into the glove like destiny.

"Nice catch, man!" Tommy called out, actually impressed for once.

Leo stood there frozen, heart pounding. The fox was gone. But something had shifted. Later, when his dog Barnaby met him at the fence with that whole-body wag that said you're still you no matter what happens, Leo actually smiled.

Maybe next time he wouldn't close his eyes.

Maybe tomorrow he'd actually take the vitamin.

Maybe the fox would come back.

Baby steps.