The Papaya Pitch

I'm standing on the pitcher's mound, sweating through my jersey, trying to remember why I ever thought I loved baseball. The whole team is watching, expecting me to strike out the guy from Ridgeview who's been absolutely crushing it this season. My arm feels like it's made of lead, and suddenly I'm not thinking about the game anymore.

I'm thinking about how my dad's in the stands with his phone out, probably live-streaming to his work buddies because that's what dads do when they're trying too hard. My younger sister is sitting behind home plate with our neighbor's tabby cat on a leash like she's trying to make it an emotional support animal or something. The cat keeps trying to make a break for it every time someone cheers.

That's when a golden retriever from who-knows-where comes sprinting onto the field like it just discovered freedom. The dog is absolutely living its best life, tongue out, running in circles around home plate while everyone either screams or laughs. The umpire's trying to call timeout but he's basically yelling into the void.

I catch Charlie's eye in the stands. She's wearing that vintage hoodie I always borrow, the one with the weird papaya stain from last summer's beach disaster. She raises an eyebrow like, "You gonna throw the pitch or what?"

The umpire finally clears the field. The dog's owner, some freshman I don't recognize, comes running after it, looking like they want to disappear into the earth. My sister's still trying to wrangle the cat, which is now hissing at anyone who looks at it wrong.

I wind up and throw the worst pitch of my life. It hangs there like a mistake, and the Ridgeview guy absolutely annihilates it. Home run. Everyone goes nuts while I stand there, feeling like I've forgotten how to play my own sport.

After the game, which we definitely lost, Charlie finds me behind the dugout. She hands me a slice of actual papaya like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"First time for everything," she says, like that explains anything.

I take a bite. It's weirdly good, sweet and unfamiliar.

"Your pitch was ass," she says, grinning. "But you looked cool doing it."

I'm still not sure if I want to keep playing baseball, but for some reason, that's okay. Some things are worth figuring out as you go.