Stray Pitches

The pressure in my chest felt heavier than the humid Texas air pressing against my skin. Bottom of the seventh, two outs, bases loaded, and Coach Miller's voice screaming "DON'T BLOW THIS" from the dugout like my entire future depended on it.

I stepped into the batter's box, gripping the bat until my knuckles turned white. Their pitcher glared at me like I'd personally insulted his entire ancestry. First pitch came flying at my head—I didn't even flinch. Second pitch, I swung. Missed by three feet of nothing.

"STRIKE TWO!"

My teammates went dead silent. That was worse than them yelling.

I backed out of the box, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape my chest and flee the state. That's when I saw it—a scrawny calico cat trotting across the infield like she owned the place. The umpire stared. The pitcher lowered his glove. Even their coach stopped screaming.

The cat sauntered to the pitcher's mound, sat down, and started licking her paw like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I nearly choked trying to hold back a laugh. Their pitcher kept glancing at the cat, then at me, then back at the cat like he was processing an existential crisis.

The next pitch floated in so slow I almost forgot to swing. Contact. The ball skied toward right field—I watched, transfixed, as it kept going, going, GONE.

Home run.

As I rounded third, grinning so hard my face hurt, I saw the cat finally stroll off toward the parking lot, like she'd done her job and didn't need to stick around for the applause.

"What even WAS that?" Jackson asked later, dousing me with a water bottle in celebration.

"Baseball's weird, man," I said, shaking water from my hair. "You just gotta roll with it."