The Bull in the Bleachers

I sat in the empty bleachers, my dad's old **baseball** cap pulled low over my eyes. It smelled like him—leather and Old Spice—and wearing it felt like cheating somehow, like I was borrowing courage I hadn't earned.

"You're not trying out for the team?" My mom had asked that morning, her voice doing that careful thing it does when she thinks I'm fragile.

"Not my thing," I'd mumbled, grabbing the **hat** on my way out.

Now, watching the team practice from my hidden spot behind the backstop, I felt like a total fraud. Like I was playing at being the kind of kid who sat in bleachers and watched instead of participated. The kind of kid who was too scared to even try.

"Yo, mystery fan!" A voice called out. I jumped. Jayden Martinez, the sophomore shortstop, was jogging toward the fence, grinning. "You've been here every day this week. You legit scouting us or what?"

My face burned. I started to stand, ready to bail, but something made me freeze. Maybe it was the way his grin didn't look mocking. Maybe it was that I was tired of running.

"Just... watching," I managed. "My dad used to play."

"No way." He leaned against the fence. "You play?"

I almost lied. Almost said nah, I'm just here for the vibes. Instead, I heard myself say, "I used to. Before."

"Before what?"

Before my dad died. Before everything felt pointless. "Just before."

He nodded like that made sense, which was annoying and also kind of a relief. "Wanna shag some flies? We're down two bodies today."

I hesitated. But then I thought about how **bull** my life had become lately—how I'd been letting fear call the shots. "I, um, don't have my glove."

Jayden smirked. "Tragic. Guess you'll have to use mine." He tossed it over the fence.

As I walked onto the field, glove in hand, I spotted a **cat**—a scrappy tabby—sitting on the dugout roof like it owned the place. It watched me with yellow eyes, head tilted, almost like it was daring me.

"Nice," Jayden said. "Lucky's our mascot. He only shows up for good players."

The first fly ball came my way, and I missed it completely. The second one, I caught. The third, I caught without thinking. And by the fourth, something clicked—muscle memory waking up, my body remembering what my brain had tried to forget.

"Yo," Jayden called from the outfield, "you're not bad for a bleacher creeper."

I laughed, and it sounded real. For the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was wearing someone else's hat. I felt like me.

The cat on the dugout roof dipped its head, approving.