The Bull in the Batter's Box

Marcus dragged his cleats through the dirt, feeling like a straight-up zombie. Four hours of sleep because AP Bio homework had decided to pull an all-nighter without him. The energy vitamin his mom swore would change his life sat in his pocket like an accusation against his actual existence.

"You good, M?" Ty slung an arm around his shoulders, half-hug, half-headlock. "Coach is eyeing you like you're about to cost us the championship."

"Yeah. Just living my best life." Marcus adjusted his cap, even though it was already perfect. That's what you did when the whole baseball team was watching and your dad was in the stands with his video camera, capturing footage for the college recruitment highlight reel that Marcus had never asked for.

Truth was, Marcus didn't even like baseball. He liked the way the field smelled after rain—like dirt and possibility—but everything else was performance. Swing like this. Stand like that. Be the team captain. Be the guy everyone counted on. Be anything except himself.

Then he saw it.

A actual, full-grown bull standing near the concession stand, like it had wandered out of some alternate dimension where farm animals just did whatever.

"Yo, am I hallucinating?" Marcus whispered.

The bull snorted, looked Marcus dead in the eye, and Marcus felt something unlock in his chest. The bull didn't care about recruiting. The bull didn't care about expectations. The bull was just there, existing with maximum intensity, completely unbothered by the social dynamics of teenage baseball culture.

Marcus stepped out of the batter's box.

"Where you going?" Coach yelled.

"Bathroom," Marcus lied, but he walked toward the bull instead.

Security was freaking out. Parents were recording. Someone's little sister was crying. But Marcus stood there, baseball on his hip, watching this magnificent creature that had literally wandered onto the field and decided THIS was where it needed to be.

The bull dipped its head and ate a pretentious artisanal taco off someone's plate.

Marcus laughed so hard his abs hurt. Something about how completely ridiculous everything was—high school and sports and expectations and this bull eating a twelve-dollar street taco like it was just another Tuesday.

"Hey," Marcus said, loud enough that the team could hear him. "Anyone else think this is way more interesting than the game?"

Ty cracked up. Then the third baseman. Then the umpire, trying to hide it behind a cough.

His dad kept recording, but Marcus didn't care. For the first time in forever, he didn't feel like a zombie going through the motions. He felt awake.

The bull finished its taco and wandered off toward the parking lot, leaving behind chaos and laughter and the undeniable truth that sometimes the most important thing you can do is show up unexpectedly and eat something that wasn't meant for you.

Marcus stepped back into the batter's box, swung at the first pitch, and missed by like, a mile. But he was grinning like he'd just won the World Series.

"My bad," he called out. "I was distracted by way more important things."

Sometimes you gotta let the bull into the batter's box. Sometimes you gotta miss the swing. Sometimes that's exactly how you find yourself.