Stolen Bases and Papaya Dreams

The fox had been showing up to baseball practice for three days straight.

"Dude, is that a fox?" Tyler whispered, his batting gloves frozen mid-swing. "Or am I hallucinating from Coach's pep talks?"

"That's definitely a fox," I said, trying to look cool instead of terrified. Freshman year, and I was already that weirdo who'd moved from California to Nowhere, Minnesota. My uncle said I'd stick out like a papaya in a potato patch. Turns out, papayas don't grow in Minnesota. Neither does cool.

The fox sat in the weeds beyond left field, watching us with I-am-choosing-not-to-run-away energy. Something gold glinted in its mouth.

Coach Harrison blew his whistle. "Same batting order! Let's go!"

I stepped up to the plate, trying to remember everything my travel ball coach had taught me. But mostly I was thinking about the fox. About the papaya smoothies I used to make with my abuela. About how my phone had buzzed exactly once since school started—my mom asking if I'd made any friends.

Strike one. The fox tilted its head.

Strike two. My teammates' groans burned.

Then I saw it—a baseball, half-buried near the backstop. My baseball. The one I'd lost yesterday when I'd tried to impress everyone with my "California hitting" and completely whiffed. I'd looked everywhere, desperate because my dad had given it to me before he deployed.

The fox trotted toward the fence, dropped something golden and shiny, and nudged it through the chain links.

My baseball.

"Focus, Maya!" Coach yelled.

The pitcher wound up. I didn't think about mechanics or about fitting in. I thought about a fox who returned things. About papaya fields and California sun. About how maybe I didn't have to be Minnesotan to belong here.

Crack.

The ball sailed over the fox's head, deep into left field.

"HOLY CROW," Tyler breathed. "Did you see that?"

The fox watched it land, dipped its head like a nod, and slipped into the woods.

"So," Tyler said as I rounded third, "want to come with us to DQ after practice? My treat."

I grinned. "Only if they have papaya smoothies."

"They don't."

"Then I'll teach you how to make real ones."

Some things, like foxes and friendship and first days, have a way of working out. Even in Minnesota.