The Summer I Learned to Run

My dad's old **baseball** glove sat in the corner of my room, gathering dust like a reminder of who I used to be before freshman year ruined everything. The leather was cracked, the laces frayed—kinda like my confidence after Jordan Martinez posted that video of me striking out in last year's championship game. It had been three months since I'd touched a bat, three months of staring at my **iphone** until my eyes burned, watching everyone else's highlight reels while mine became a permanent meme.

"You gonna wallow all summer or what?" Maya stood in my doorway, already in her running gear. She'd dragged me out of bed every morning since school ended, insisting we train for cross country even though I'd never run a day in my life. "Come on. Buster's waiting."

Buster was her golden retriever, basically a giant derp of a **dog** who treated every walk like the best thing that had ever happened to him. That morning, as usual, he pulled us halfway across town, his tongue lolling, totally unbothered by the humidity that had me sweating through my shirt.

We stopped at the old sandlot where the neighborhood kids played pickup games. Something about the cracked dirt, the overgrown weeds, the rusty backstop—it felt safer than the pristine fields at school. No cameras, no crowds, no expectations.

"Hit a few," Maya said, tossing me a ball she'd dug out of her backpack.

"I haven't—"

"Just hit it, loser."

So I did. My first swing was ugly. My second was worse. But by the tenth, something clicked. My muscle memory woke up. The ball started connecting with the sweet spot of the bat, that perfect *crack* echoing through the empty lot. Buster chased every fly ball like his life depended on it, sprinting with pure joy, not caring if he missed or looked ridiculous doing it.

I thought about how much time I'd spent worrying about how I looked to others—about that video, about comments from people who'd never even met me. Meanwhile, this stupid dog was just out here living his best life, **running** himself ragged because he loved it.

"You're smiling," Maya noticed.

"Am not."

"Are too. Take a picture, it'll last longer." She held up her phone mockingly.

I laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about who was watching or what they'd think. I was just a kid with a bat, a weirdly athletic dog, and a best friend who refused to let me disappear into my phone.

That night, I posted something for the first time since the incident: a grainy photo of Maya and Buster, both covered in dirt, mid-laugh. No filters. No caption trying to be clever.

**running**. **baseball**. **dog**. **iphone**.

Somehow, it all fit together now.