Strikeouts and Spinach Teeth

My mom said joining the team would be good for me. That's how I found myself standing in right field during the seventh inning stretch, praying nobody would hit the ball anywhere near me. The Spinach Incident at lunch had already sealed my fate as the new kid with green stuff stuck in their braces. Freshman year was off to a stellar start.

Then I saw him coming toward the bleachers. Hunter freaking Morrison. The senior everyone called The Bear because he'd apparently hit a home run that landed in the parking lot last year. Also, he was built like a vending machine and had this glare that made people forget their own names.

He sat two rows down.

I froze. This was it. The universe was going to complete my humiliation trilogy. Baseball had never been my thing—I was more of an art kid, the kind who brought spinach wraps to lunch because they'd read somewhere they were brain food. (Not helpful during The Incident, obviously.)

"Nice arm," someone yelled from the dugout.

I looked around. They were talking to me. Because I'd thrown the ball all of three feet that inning.

Hunter turned around.

"You play travel?" he asked.

I almost laughed. "I literally learned what a shortstop is yesterday."

"Oh." He paused. "You throw kinda weird. Like you're scared of the ball."

"That's because I am."

Hunter actually cracked a smile. "Wanna fix that?"

An hour later, I was learning how to properly grip a baseball from the most intimidating guy in school while my mom watched from the minivan, probably crying happy tears. The Bear wasn't so scary after all—he just really loved baseball and didn't have anyone to teach.

"Next time," he said, heading to his car, "maybe skip the spinach wrap. I could see it from the outfield."

I died inside. But as I walked home, I realized I'd made my first friend, sort of. And tomorrow? I was bringing a ham sandwich.