The Bull in Left Field

Marcus's fingers moved across his iPhone screen like he was conducting an orchestra—scrolling, double-tapping, swiping. The baseball diamond stretched out before him, but his attention was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere with better lighting and more followers.

"You gonna stare at that thing all day?" Tyrell called from the pitcher's mound. "Tryouts, bro. Remember?"

Marcus slipped his phone into his back pocket, his thumb still twitching from the muscle memory. Baseball wasn't his thing. His dad's thing. Definitely not his vibe. But here he was, sweating through his jersey while his phone buzzed with notifications he couldn't check.

Coach blew the whistle. "Last round of batting practice. Marcus, you're up."

He stepped to the plate, the bat feeling foreign in his hands. Behind him, someone's phone started blasting a ringtone that sounded suspiciously like a remix of a baby crying. Half the team laughed. Marcus didn't.

First pitch: swing and a miss. Embarrassing.

Second pitch: foul ball. Better.

Third pitch: CRACK. The ball soared toward left field, and Marcus sprinted toward first base, his heart actually doing that thing movies always talked about. This was it. This was the moment.

Then everyone stopped running.

Everyone started screaming.

"DUDE!" someone yelled. "IS THAT A BULL?"

Marcus turned. An actual bull—a massive, black bull that looked like it had escaped from a Western movie—stood in left field, casually chewing on what appeared to be a remarkably expensive-looking pair of sunglasses.

"That's Señor Horns," Tyrell said, backing away slowly. "He got out again."

"Again?" Marcus asked, his iPhone forgotten in his pocket. "This happens regularly?"

"His owner's farm borders the park. Nobody told you?"

The bull fixed them with a gaze that felt weirdly judgmental. Like it was about to text someone about how basic this whole scene was.

"So," Marcus said, adrenaline still humming through his veins from almost getting his first real hit. "What's the protocol here?"

Tyrell grinned. "We wait. He leaves eventually. Last time he stole three backpacks and a whole pizza."

Marcus laughed—really laughed, not the polite laugh he used when someone showed him a meme he'd already seen on his feed. The bull snorted, abandoned the sunglasses, and lumbered toward the woods like he had somewhere better to be.

"Your phone's buzzing," Tyrell said.

Marcus checked. A notification: Someone had commented on his post. But he found himself weirdly okay with not knowing what it said.

"You know what?" Marcus said, stepping back toward home plate. "Let's finish this inning."

The bull was gone. The notifications could wait. For once, Marcus was exactly where he needed to be.