Three Strikes at Sunset

The palm tree outside the dugout cast long shadows across Leo's palms as he wiped sweat for the third time. Tryouts for the varsity baseball team. Sophomore year. The ultimate test of whether he'd spend high school as a benchwarmer or actually become someone.

"You're up, Leo," called Coach Martinez, whose voice sounded like he'd been chewing on gravel and disappointment for decades.

Leo stepped to the plate, gripping the bat until his knuckles turned white. The varsity players sat in the dugout, scrolling through their phones, barely looking up. He was just another freshman trying to prove he wasn't total garbage.

The first pitch came fastball. Strike.

"C'mon, Leo!" someone yelled from the bleachers. Great. His crush, Maya, was watching. This couldn't get more embarrassing.

Second pitch: curveball that broke outside. Strike two.

His palms were slippery now. He could hear the whispers in the dugout, feel the judgment pressing down like a physical weight. Why did he think he could do this? Why did anything matter?

Then he saw it—a flash of orange near the left field fence. A fox. Just sitting there, watching him with this totally unbothered expression, like it knew something Leo didn't.

The fox tilted its head, almost daring him to swing.

Third pitch: perfect, right down the middle. Leo didn't think. He just swung, connecting with that satisfying *crack* that echoed across the field. The ball sailed toward the palm trees beyond the fence. Home run.

The fox was gone. But Leo wasn't sweating anymore.

"Nice," Maya called from the bleachers, actually looking up from her phone. "Not bad, kid."

Leo walked back to the dugout, palms finally steady. Maybe high school wasn't gonna be so terrible after all. Maybe he was gonna be just fine.