The Neighbor Secret

The new guy moved in next door on a Tuesday, and by Thursday, my entire friend group was convinced he was a spy.

"Bro, look at his car," Marcus whispered, crouching behind my azalea bushes like we were in a legit CIA operation. "Government plates, fr fr. That's a spy car."

It was a Honda Civic. But whatever.

The guy—Mr. Blackwood—did act kind of sus. Never left his house during the day. Strange visitors at midnight. A fence that literally said NO TRESPASSING in all caps. So obviously, we had to investigate.

Our amateur spy operation lasted three weeks. We took turns with binoculars from my bedroom window. We "accidentally" knocked on his door to sell cookies for a fundraiser that definitely wasn't happening. We even followed him to the grocery store that one time he actually went somewhere.

Then came the baseball tryouts.

I'd been playing since elementary school, but freshman year JV tryouts hit different. My knees were literally shaking as I lined up for sprints, and not in a hype way. More in an "I'm about to humiliate myself in front of everyone" way.

"You got this," Jasmine said, but she looked skeptical. My best friend was supposed to be supportive, but she also knew I hadn't been running since last summer, when the whole incident with my cousin's wedding video went viral and I swore I'd never be seen in public again.

Coach blew the whistle. We took off.

My legs felt like jelly. About halfway through, I heard barking. Mr. Blackwood's dog—a golden retriever named Max—had escaped somehow and was literally chasing me down the field like I was some kind of very slow prey.

Everyone stopped. Coach wasn't having it.

That's when Mr. Blackwood came sprinting onto the field. Not running like a normal person, but like actual athletic, Olympic-level running. He apologized to Coach, grabbed Max's leash, and then his eyes landed on me.

"You're fast," he said. "But you're landing on your heels. You'll destroy your knees that way."

I stared at him. The mysterious spy neighbor was giving me running advice?

"I could help you," he said. "If you want to make the team."

Turns out Mr. Blackwood wasn't a spy. He was a former Olympic runner who'd moved to the suburbs to escape the spotlight after an injury. He trained at night because he couldn't sleep. The "suspicious visitors" were his physical therapist and coach.

He spent the next three weeks training me. We started at 5 AM (I know, painful). My friends thought I'd joined a cult.

But when JV rosters went up, my name was there.

"Told you," Marcus said. "I knew something was up with that guy."

Some mysteries are better left unsolved. And some neighbors aren't spies—they're just legendary athletes who happen to have escape-artist dogs and are willing to help a random freshman stop tripping over her own feet.