The Bull in the Outfield

Marcus's hands shook as he gripped the baseball bat. Varsity tryouts, freshman year. The ultimate social suicide mission if he choked.

"Hey, rookie!" hollered Tyler, the senior pitcher whose reputation preceded him like a storm cloud. "Try not to embarrass yourself out there."

Tyler was a straight-up **bull**—massive, intimidating, and prone to charging when provoked. He'd been making Marcus's life miserable since gym class started.

The first pitch came fast. Marcus swung. Missed.

"Strike!" the ump yelled. Snickers rippled through the dugout.

Second pitch. Marcus's bat connected—*CRACK*—and the ball sailed toward right field. He sprinted toward first, then second, rounding third as his teammates screamed. But then his cleat caught a patch of **water** from the morning's rain.

Marcus wiped out spectacularly, face-planting into the mud.

Silence. Then laughter. Not the friendly kind.

"At least he's passionate about the dirt!" someone called. Another voice: "Someone call the janitor!"

Marcus pushed himself up, mud dripping from his chin. He started toward the dugout, humiliation burning hotter than the sun.

That's when the **dog** appeared.

Some golden retriever from the neighborhood had wandered onto the field. It trotted over to Marcus, sniffed his muddy face, and proceeded to enthusiastically lick his cheek. Marcus couldn't help it—he laughed. The dog barked happily, tail wagging like crazy, and Marcus knelt down to pet it despite the mud covering both of them.

The laughter in the dugout died down. Something shifted.

"Yo, that's awesome," Tyler said, actually sounding impressed. "You just made friends with a random dog while eating dirt. That's honestly kind of iconic."

Marcus stood up, mud everywhere, dog hair all over his jersey, and something inside him settled. Whatever happened, he'd survive it.

"Try me again," Marcus said to Tyler, surprising himself.

Tyler grinned. "Respect, kid. Respect."