Running in Circles

I've been running on this same baseball field since seventh grade, my cleats digging into the dirt while Coach Miller screams about 'giving 110 percent.' Funny how he never mentions that my batting average has been dropping faster than my followers count after my locker room rant video went viral.

'Your grandfather didn't have these fancy distractions,' Dad says, gesturing at my iPhone like it's radioactive. 'He played on real fields with real passion.' What he doesn't get is that the phone is my only connection to Maya, who moved to Seattle and left me here in our suffocating small town where everyone knows everyone's business because the cable company's customer service is basically the town gossip network.

My escape? Fred. A goldfish with more personality than most of my teammates, living in a bowl on my nightstand. Fred's seen it all — my tears when I didn't make varsity, my frustration with parents who don't listen, and my late-night existential spirals about whether I'm even good at baseball or just good at following expectations.

'You're overthinking it again,' Fred seems to say, blowing bubbles that catch the light from my phone's notifications. Maya's text lights up the screen: 'remember why u started playing'

And that's when it hits me — I'm not running from baseball. I'm not running toward perfection. I'm just running. The feel of dirt, the crack of the bat, the sun on my face. Not for Dad, not for Coach, not for some college scout's iPhone camera.

I pick up Fred's bowl and carry it outside. 'Watch this, buddy.' I grab a baseball from the porch, give it a toss. Perfect form. Perfect arc. No overthinking. Just the feeling.

Fred doesn't cheer, but the bubbles feel like applause. For the first time in months, I'm not running in circles. I'm just running.