The Cat-astrophe Pitch

The problem started with Whiskers deciding my lucky baseball cap was her new bed. I'd been crushing on Lena since seventh period English, and today—finally—she'd actually agreed to come watch my pitching debut. The first game of freshman season, and I was starting.

"You're gonna kill it, bro," Marcus said, bumping my fist in the dugout. "Lena's totally watching."

That's when I noticed. My normally curly hair—already kind of a mess—was now completely covered in orange cat hair. Whiskers had been sleeping on my pillow again. I tried brushing it off, but static made it worse. I looked like I'd been rolled in a furball.

"Dude, your hair," Marcus winced.

"I know, I know."

Coach called my name. The moment I stepped onto the mound, Lena waved from the bleachers. My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to organ. I could feel every strand of hair, every piece of cat fur, like they were glowing neon.

First pitch: ball. Second: ball. The other team was cracking up. Someone yelled, "Nice hair, Furball!"

I glared at the batter, reared back, and threw everything I had. The ball connected with the bat—and somehow, miraculously—it popped straight up. I scrambled to catch it, stumbled, my hair flying everywhere, cat fur raining down like weird orange snow.

I caught it. Out. The crowd went wild.

Lena was laughing, but not mean-laughing. She was doubled over, totally cracking up, and when she saw me looking, she yelled, "That was the most epic thing I've ever seen!"

After the game, she found me by the snack stand. "So,"

she said, grinning, "you have a cat?"

"Whiskers," I admitted. "She's kind of a menace."

"I love cats," Lena said. "Want to walk to the ice cream place? My treat. For the entertainment."

So I struck out the side, got the girl, and learned that sometimes your worst, most hair-covered moments become your best stories. Whiskers is still sleeping on my stuff, but now I don't even care. Being a disaster is kind of my brand now.