The Bull Pen

Jordan's cleats clicked against the concrete as he walked toward tryouts, stomach doing backflips. Freshman year. Baseball team. The social pyramid at Creekwood High was basically a caste system, and varsity athletes sat at the top—gods among mortals.

"Yo, you think you got a shot?" Marcus, a junior, smirked from his perch on the bench. "Freshmen usually ride the pine. Hard."

Jordan shrugged, trying to look unbothered. "We'll see."

Inside, he grip tightened around his bat. Everything changed when he stepped into the batter's box—that sweet spot where the world narrowed down to pitcher, ball, and the perfect crack of connection. He'd spent every summer since age seven at his grandpa's farm, hitting baseballs into a field where an ornery bull named Old Bessie grazed. The bull had chased him more than once when he shanked balls too close to her territory.

Grandpa always said, "You learn to stand your ground, or you learn to run fast. Either way, you're getting faster."

Coach Ramirez watched from behind the cage, clipboard in hand. "Show me what you got, kid."

First pitch—Jordan's eyes locked on. The ball spun toward him, and time stretched like warm taffy. *THWACK.* It soared over the center fielder's head, bouncing to the fence.

"Alright then," Coach said, something like respect in his voice. "Not bad."

Second pitch: foul. Third: swinging strike. Jordan stepped out, breathing through the pressure. His phone buzzed in his back pocket—his friends probably texting about Friday's party, wondering where he was.

He thought about Grandpa's last words before he passed: "Life's gonna throw you curves. Keep your eye on the ball, but don't be afraid to take a cut."

Jordan stepped back in. Fourth pitch: line drive straight up the middle. Fifth: crushed into the gap.

"Name's Jordan, right?" Coach approached after tryouts. "You've got pop. Come back tomorrow for callbacks."

Walking to his bike, Jordan pulled out his phone. Three texts from his group chat:

*party's lame w/o u*

*dude where r u*

*this is BS*

He typed back: *Made callbacks. See y'all tomorrow.*

The pyramid wasn't going anywhere, but Jordan had just taken his first swing at climbing it on his own terms. And Grandpa's bull would've been proud—he didn't run once.