Three Strikes, One Life

The goldfish lived in a bowl on my nightstand, watching me pack for Dad's new place. Its name was Colonel, because my little brother Sam was obsessed with military history before he moved to Mom's house last month. Now the Colonel was my problem, along with everything else I couldn't fit into my duffel bag.

"You taking that cat?" Dad yelled from downstairs. "Because I'm not dealing with another furball on my new couch."

Barnaby – the cat, not my dad – had been my best friend since third grade. He was currently sprawled across my Oakland A's poster like he owned the place, which he basically did.

"Barnaby stays with me," I yelled back, tossing my cleats into the bag. Baseball tryouts were next week, and I couldn't think about that without feeling like I might throw up. Freshman year, new school, new team, new life. Classic divorce kid playbook, right down to the alternating weekends and having to choose which parent to spend Christmas with.

At lunch on Monday, Jordan from my English class sat across from me in the cafeteria.

"You trying out for baseball?" she asked, poking at her mystery meat.

"Maybe."

"You should. My brother says the team's actually decent this year." She grinned. "Plus, you totally look like a pitcher."

I stared at her. "What does that mean?"

"You know, intense. Like you're calculating trajectories for everything." She pointed at my lunch tray. "Including that tater tot."

That night, I caught Barnaby batting at Colonel's bowl, sending water sloshing onto my nightstand. The fish swam in frantic circles while the cat purred like he'd just won the World Series.

"Dude, leave him alone," I said, pulling Barnaby away. "You're not helping your case for staying here."

But something about the two of them – the predator and the prey, coexisting in this tiny room – made me think about how maybe that's what life was. Just different things trying not to destroy each other while figuring out how to share space.

Tryouts happened on a Wednesday. I stood on the mound, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The coach nodded from the dugout, clipboard in hand. I threw a fastball, then a curve, then something that was supposed to be a slider but ended up somewhere in between.

"Not bad," Jordan's brother said from behind the plate. "But you're thinking too much. Just throw."

That night, Barnaby curled up next to Colonel's bowl, and the fish drifted close to the glass like he was actually curious about the furry monster outside his world. I posted a photo of them together with the caption "weirdly working it out."

Jordan liked it immediately. Then she DM'd me: "Team roster goes up tomorrow. Cross your fingers."

I looked at Barnaby, then at Colonel, then at my cleats by the door. Maybe some things did work out. Or maybe you just kept throwing until something stuck.

"Hey Colonel," I whispered. "Think I made it?"

The fish blew a tiny bubble. I'll take that as a maybe.