The Outfield Philosophy

The goldfish floated at the top of its bowl again, and I sighed. Three days. Three goldfish. My little sister Lily had killed every single one, and she was begging me to help her hide the evidence before our parents got back from their anniversary weekend.

"Just flush it," I said, grabbing my baseball glove from the floor. "Or say it jumped. Fish do that, right?"

"You're the worst, Jamie." Lily's eyes were already watery. "You're supposed to be the responsible one."

I laughed bitterly. Responsible. That's what the baseball coach called me when he benched me for missing practice to help with the school play. That's what my guidance counselor said when she told me my college applications needed more "leadership activities." Whatever that meant.

Our cable TV chose that moment to cut out, leaving the screen showing that annoying fuzzy static pattern. Perfect. The baseball game I'd promised to watch with my crush Sarah tomorrow was now going to be a disaster. I'd already invited her over. Already hyped it up. Now the cable was dead, and I was stuck helping my sister dispose of a dead fish.

"You know what?" I grabbed the fishbowl. "We're giving this one a proper burial."

We went out back to the old baseball diamond behind our subdivision. The one where I'd spent every summer since age seven, swinging until my hands bled, running until my lungs burned, trying to be the kind of son my dad wanted—a starter, a leader, someone who didn't secretly want to quit the team to join the debate club instead.

The outfield grass was overgrown, wild and untamed. Kind of like how I felt.

"What was its name?" I asked.

"Swimmy Shrimp III," Lily whispered.

I dug a hole with my baseball cleats. "Swimmy Shrimp III, you were a good fish. Short life, but you lived on your own terms."

Lily looked at me like I was insane, but then she started giggling. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm working on it."

My phone buzzed. Sarah: Cable is out everywhere lol we can just hang out instead??

I stared at the message. The cable being out was actually... good? I wouldn't have to fake caring about baseball stats I'd googled five minutes before she came over. We could just talk.

"Hey Lily?" I said, kicking dirt over the fish grave. "Wanna help me pick out an outfit for tomorrow?"

"Finally," she groaned. "You need it."

The fish was dead, the cable was broken, and baseball was making me miserable. But somehow, standing in the outfield in my ripped jeans with my little sister, things didn't seem so bad. Maybe next time I'd actually tell the coach I was quitting. Maybe I'd stop pretending to be someone I wasn't.

Maybe goldfish had the right idea all along. Just keep swimming, even when the bowl feels too small.