Summer of Curveballs

The summer before freshman year, my life was a mess. I'd made the JV baseball team as a backup catcher—mostly because the coach was my neighbor and felt bad about my dad leaving. My batting average was somewhere south of terrible, and I spent most games warming the bench with Sam's ancient orange tabby cat, Buster, who apparently loved the smell of ballpark popcorn.

"You're thinking too much," Sam said at lunch, sliding me a container of lukewarm tater tots. "Just swing. You're gripping the bat like it's gonna bite you."

Easy for her to say. Sam was already varsity material, a swimmer with shoulders like a superhero and actual colleges scouting her. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive practice without Coach Miller—also known as The Bear—roaring at me about my stance.

"Wagner!" Miller would bellow. "You swing like you're drowning! Relax those arms!"

The irony wasn't lost on me. I didn't just swing like I was drowning—I actually was drowning in swim class three mornings a week. Mom insisted I learn before high school because "you never know when you'll need to swim." What I needed was to hit a baseball, not perfect my freestyle stroke while a gaggle of twelve-year-olds lapped me.

"This is miserable," I told Sam one evening, watching Buster chase moths under the streetlights. "I quit baseball today. And swimming. And basically everything."

She didn't look up from her phone. "You're not a quitter. You're just having a moment."

"I'm having an entire era, Sam. An era of mediocrity and public embarrassment."

Then came the game where our starting catcher got sick. Suddenly I was behind the plate, bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. The Bear himself was on first, glowering like he might actually tackle me if I messed up.

Their best hitter stepped up. He'd already homered twice.

I called for a fastball. The pitch came in high and outside—and I blocked it. My arm stung, but I threw to second. They were safe.

Next pitch: curveball. Low.

Strike two.

The crowd was screaming now. My heart hammering like I'd just finished a 50-meter sprint.

Last pitch: fastball right down the middle. I caught it, kept my grip, and threw to first.

Out. We won.

Sam tackled me with a hug that smelled like chlorine and victory. The Bear actually nodded at me. A nod!

That night, Buster curled up on my bed like he'd been waiting for this moment all summer.

"Not bad," I whispered to the cat. "Not bad at all."