Thunder and the Bear Mascot

The lightning crackled across the sky like something alive, illuminating my humiliation in blinding flashes. I stood behind home plate in the suffocating polyester bear costume, the team's mascot head squeezed over my actual head, sweat already dripping down my back. This wasn't how I'd imagined my summer before sophomore year.

"Form up, pyramid formation!" Coach Miller's voice boomed over the PA system, even though the game was officially delayed due to the weather. "Parents are still in the stands! Let's give them something to remember!"

My best friend Maya caught my eye from her position at shortstop and grimaced. We both knew this was ridiculous. The baseball team—minus the actual players who'd already bolted for the dugout—was supposed to create a human pyramid for the yearbook photo. In the middle of a thunderstorm. Because Coach Miller refused to accept that sometimes, you just have to cancel.

I shuffled toward the designated spot, my giant bear feet clumsy on the grass. This was supposed to be my cool summer job—mascot for the local minor league baseball team, making kids laugh, being part of something. Instead, I felt like a fraud in more ways than one. The real me was nothing like this confident, fun-loving bear. The real me was still trying to figure out who she even was.

The lightning flashed closer now, followed immediately by thunder that rattled the concession stand.

"Alright, pyramid! NOW!" Coach Miller shouted, and suddenly I was being pushed toward the bottom center of the formation. Strong hands grabbed my bear arms, positioning me as the base.

But as the second tier climbed onto my shoulders—grown men who should've known better—I felt something shift. Not just the weight, but everything. I looked at the storm clouds swirling overhead, saw another flash of lightning turning the world silver-white, and realized: I was done being everyone else's foundation.

I shrugged. The pyramid collapsed.

Players tumbled everywhere, shouting in surprise. Coach Miller started yelling, but I didn't care. I pulled off the bear head and let the rain hit my face, real and cold and perfect.

Maya jogged over, grinning. "You okay?"

"Better than okay," I said, and for the first time in months, it was the truth.

Another lightning strike lit up the whole valley, and we both just stood there watching it, not needing to say anything at all.