Running From the Mound

The baseball uniform felt like a costume I'd borrowed from someone else's life. Polyester blend, stiff as a board, reeking of fake confidence and expectations that weren't mine.

"You ready, buddy?" my dad yelled from the bleachers. His voice cracked through the stadium speakers like thunder. I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat was closed tight.

I stepped onto the pitcher's mound. Sixty feet, six inches from home plate. From everyone who thought I was supposed to be here. My teammates—the guys I'd known since kindergarten, the ones who called me "friend" but barely knew the real me—were busy slapping shoulders and shouting stats I didn't care about.

The batter stepped up. Someone I'd shared classes with since seventh grade. Someone who'd laugh if he knew.

Then I saw him—my dog, Buster, a chaos of golden fur and impossible enthusiasm, somehow squeezed under the stadium fence and now sprinting onto the field like he'd just won the lottery. No leash, no owner, just pure joy in four-legged form.

Everything stopped. The umpire's jaw dropped. My dad stood up, probably ready to apologize. But something in me snapped—or maybe, finally clicked into place.

I took off my cap. Slowly. Deliberately.

"I'm sorry," I said, but I wasn't. Not really. "I can't do this."

I jumped off the mound, my cleats digging into dirt that felt like freedom, and started running. Not toward the dugout. Not toward my dad. Just running.

Buster matched my pace immediately, his tongue lolling, his tail a metronome of pure yes. We ran past the confused players, past the whispering crowd, past the version of myself I'd been pretending to be for three years.

"Hey!" someone shouted. "Where's he going?"

"Away," I whispered, and laughed. Actually laughed.

We didn't stop until we reached the creek behind the abandoned rec center. I sat on the bank, chest heaving, and Buster flopped beside me like he'd just run the best race of his life.

My phone buzzed. Dad. Mom. Coach. Probably some teammates too, wondering what had happened. I turned it off.

For the first time in forever, I didn't feel like running away from something. I felt like running toward something. And Buster, my oldest and truest friend, just nudged my hand like he'd known all along.

"First time I've seen the real you," he seemed to say.

I scratched behind his ears. "Yeah," I whispered. "Me too."