Riddles Under the Lights

The baseball field at midnight looked like a different world. The dugout where I'd spent six hours a day all summer sat in shadow, the chalk lines already fading from varsion's game. I should've been sleeping. Tryouts at 7 AM. Coach Miller said scouts might be there, said this could be my shot. Instead, I was wandering the fence line with Frosty—this golden retriever mix who'd been showing up behind left field for weeks. Dad said no dogs. Said focus. Said baseball was everything.

"You ever feel like a zombie?" I asked Frosty. He tilted his head, ears flopping. "Like, just going through motions? Everyone expects big things, but what if I just want to... I don't know, draw comics? What if baseball isn't my whole soul?"

That's when I saw her. Chloe, from my AP English class, sitting on the pitcher's mound in a hoodie that said RIDDLE ME THIS across the back. She had this old notebook open, pen moving across pages like she was capturing secrets.

"You're talking to a dog," she said. Not mean. Just matter-of-fact.

"He's a better listener than most people."

"Fair." She patted the mound beside her. I sat. Frosty curled between us. "What's your deal, Baseball Boy? You looked like you were carrying something heavy."

So I told her. About the pressure. About not knowing if I loved the game or just everyone's expectations. About feeling like I was sleepwalking through my own life.

Chloe nodded. Then she smiled, and it was like someone turned on stadium lights. "Okay, sphinx mode. I've got a riddle for you. What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?"

"Man. Crawling baby, walking adult, cane when you're old."

"Boring answer. Try again."

I thought about it. Really thought. "Someone who's figuring out who they are. Four legs—you need support. Two legs—standing on your own. Three legs—you've learned to lean on the right people without falling."

Chloe's eyebrows went up. "Okay, that was actually... not terrible." She ripped a page from her notebook. It had a sphinx drawn in ballpoint pen, wings spread like it was about to take flight. Underneath, she'd written: *Questions are better than answers anyway.*

"Your turn," she said. "What's something you'd do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

"I'd show someone my comics. Maybe even at tryouts, I'd play for me, not them."

"Then do it. Life's too short to be someone else's character."

We sat there until the sky started turning purple. Frosty fell asleep on my cleats. When I got home, Dad was asleep. I looked at my glove in the corner. Looked at my sketchbook under my bed.

At tryouts, Coach asked what I'd been working on. I said, "Finding my swing." Then I hit three balls into the parking lot and told Chloe about it at lunch while she drew me as a sphinx with a baseball bat.

Sometimes the right answers come from asking better questions. And sometimes, you find your people in the darkest places, under the quietest stars, with a zombie who doesn't know he's waking up and a dog who's been waiting all along.