When the Bull Found My Curveball

The dirt tasted like regret and definitely not like the organic spinach my mom kept pushing. I spat it out, adjusting my cap—that obnoxious orange monstrosity my grandma bought me because she thought it made me look sunny. It made me look like a traffic cone.

"You good, bro?" Marcus asked from the mound. He'd been my best friend since fourth grade, back when friendship meant sharing Pokémon cards and not analyzing each other's pitching mechanics like they held the secrets to the universe.

"Yeah," I muttered, though we both knew I wasn't. The varsity coaches were watching from behind the backstop, clipboards out, probably taking notes on how I'd already thrown two balls into the dirt.

Coach Miller called out, "Let's see something that actually reaches the plate this time, Benny!"

The snickers from the junior varsity guys burned more than the sun. I could feel it happening—that slow-motion disaster where everything goes wrong at once. I wound up, planted my foot, and released.

The ball didn't curve. It didn't even go straight. It soared upward like it was trying to escape gravity entirely, clearing the backstop and rolling toward Old Man Henderson's pasture beyond the field.

"RUN IT DOWN," someone yelled, but I was already moving, mortified.

That's when I saw the bull.

It wasn't a metaphorical bull. It was a very real, very confused Hereford staring at my baseball like it was an alien artifact. The animal stood there, massive and unmoving, while my attempt at varsity glory lay at its feet.

I froze. This was it. This was how I died—trying to retrieve a baseball from a literal bull in front of the entire baseball program.

"Hey," Marcus called from the fence, closer than I'd realized. "Hey, big guy. Nice horns. Very intimidating. You wouldn't happen to have seen a really embarrassingly pitched baseball, would you?"

The bull snorted. I stared at Marcus, who was now talking to a thousand-pound animal like it was a confused freshman in the hallway.

"That's my friend's ball," Marcus continued, gesturing at me. "He's having kind of a day, you know? First day of tryouts, coaches watching, the whole deal. If you could maybe... step aside?"

The bull looked at me. I swear it did that thing where it sized me up and found me wanting. Then, slowly, it stepped to the side.

Marcus hopped the fence, grabbed the ball, and tossed it back to me with a grin that was all crooked teeth and sunshine. "Hey, at least you didn't walk into a sliding glass door this time."

I laughed, actually laughed, the tension breaking like a storm cloud finally unleashing. The orange cap suddenly felt less ridiculous. The spinach stuck in my teeth from lunch suddenly didn't matter.

Some friends were the ones who watched you strike out. Others were the ones who talked down bulls so you could try again.

"Throw it again, Benny," Coach Miller yelled, sounding almost impressed. "And try not to arm the livestock this time."

I wound up, and for the first time all day, I didn't think about the coaches, or the varsity spot, or the fact that a bull had just critiqued my pitching. I just threw.

Strike.