Three Strikes and You're Growing

The summer everything fell apart, I spent way too much time **running**. Not running track or anything productive—just running away from situations that made me uncomfortable. Which, given the whole divorce situation, was basically everything.

My dad had moved out two weeks before my fifteenth birthday, leaving me with my mom and her increasingly elaborate collection of houseplants. The only good thing about the new arrangement was Mr. Pickles, this ancient **goldfish** my sister won at a carnival three years ago and immediately abandoned in my room. That fish had serious attitude—I respected it.

"You're gonna miss **baseball** practice again," Marcus said, finding me behind the bleachers during lunch. He was wearing that ridiculous varsity jacket like it was part of his DNA or something.

"Chill, I'm just taking a mental health day," I lied, though mental health days were kind of my whole personality now.

Marcus's **dog**, Buster—a golden retriever with absolutely no chill—was doing laps around the empty baseball field, chasing nothing like his life depended on it. I watched him and felt weirdly jealous.

"Coach is gonna **bear** down on you, man. He was talking about starting lineup changes."

I flinched. Baseball was the one thing that still made sense, you know? The crack of the bat, the dirt in your cleats, the way the world narrowed down to pitch, swing, miss or hit. Simple. Unlike my parents, who couldn't even agree on who got the blender.

That afternoon, I found Mr. Pickles floating sideways in his bowl.

"No, no, no," I whispered, tapping the glass. "Don't do this, buddy. I can't lose anything else."

I buried him in the backyard next to the old oak tree, using a spoon from the kitchen because I couldn't find a shovel. My mom found me there, dirt-streaked and crying over a goldfish funeral.

"Change is garbage," I muttered, not looking at her.

She sat beside me in the grass. "Yeah. But sometimes it's necessary garbage."

The next day, I showed up to baseball practice early. Coach **bear**-hugged me when I walked in—okay, not literally, but his energy was definitely big bear energy—and put me in as starting pitcher for Friday's game.

"I'm not ready," I told Marcus afterward.

"Buster chases his tail for three hours straight every day," Marcus said, watching his dog spiral yet again. "Dogs don't worry about looking stupid. They just commit. Maybe that's the vibe."

Friday's game was a disaster. I walked three batters in a row. The crowd was loud, my teammates were frustrated, and I could feel that old running instinct kicking in—just bail, just leave, just disappear.

Then I saw Mr. Pickles's grave in my mind. That fish had lived in a tiny bowl his whole life, swimming in circles, but he'd never complained. He'd just kept swimming.

I struck out the next batter.

We lost the game, but I didn't run. I stayed for pizza with the team, let them roast my terrible pitching, and laughed so hard my sides hurt.

Some things end. Some things change. And sometimes, you just have to keep swimming, even if you're just going in circles.