You remember last season how you peed your pants in the outfield to avoid going to the outhouse and missing playing time. Stealthy in the carpool home, you prevented your secret from being exposed. Now sitting on the bench, you wonder if maybe your friends mom knew it but didn’t say anything. Your neck grows hot as you ponder. Snap back to the present bat crack. That was last season. You were eight. Your focus shifts to the task at hand, bludgeoning the Pittsburgh Pirates. Secretly, your goal isn’t to win; you are driven solely by your performance. You figure your teammates are mostly the same way.
Your third-grade teacher, Ms. Everdeen, said she would come to this game, seeing as it happened to be in the schoolyard. She is blonde, pale, and you daydream about her a lot. It makes you mad when she favors other boys in class. She is pretty, and you want to impress her so much that she praises you in class tomorrow.
Your cleats wedge their way into the dirt, firm and unshakeable. Shortstop is scary, you know it’s where the action is. You can be big here; it’s a place to impress the balconies full of eyes. But today is extra special because of Ms. Everdeen. You know better than to scan the bleachers during the action. You are warming up with your teammates before the inning begins. You are excited at the chance to show your stuff, but you feel a little bit antsy, and your left arm feels restless; the arm you need to make a catch. You know you have to calm down before the inning begins because Ms. Everdeen will dismiss you if you make a mistake. You remember that catch you made last season, the screaming liner that you caught backhanded. That proved something to you. You know you are at shortstop for a reason. You can repeat it.
Your pitcher is considered an ace by little league standards, and he strikes out the first batter on three pitches. You exhale and imagine Ms. Everdeen is in the bleachers, but you do not dare scan them with your eyes. You bend your knees and maintain a laser focus on the next batter. She must see how astute you are in the field. The next batter is gawky and lean. He exudes a certain energy that makes you weary of him. You inhale as if you are at the pool afraid of getting wet.  Your left eye peers at the bleachers as your pitcher winds up. It is a sitting duck, and a ball your pitcher surely wants back. The bat makes uneven contact and the ball arcs like a slug. You know it is your play to make. The batter has taken off; his face a mixture of foregone opportunity and begrudging acceptance. He runs carelessly, and you want desperately to send him back to the bench, to show Ms. Everdene you are a star. The ball is spiraling downwards, and you try your best to keep your eyes fixed on its frenzied descent. You bend your right knee down and aim your glove half a foot above your head. The ball hits your glove, and you squeeze your hand slightly too early. The ball is in the dirt, and your sealed mind, instincts mustering your residual energy to pick the ball up barehanded and throw the lanky twerp out at first base. The salvaged damage offers nothing to your now broken spirit.
The rest of the game continues uneventfully. You single twice and walk once, and your team wins 12-0. After the game, your team congregated around the mound, coach offering words of praise and gifting the starting pitcher with the game ball. You turn towards the school and are astounded as you see Ms. Everdeen standing near the rusty green monkey bars. You and your best friend from class run to her; your head is down and red, knowing you failed her. You are out of breath by the time you reach her. She apologizes, in her sweet and delicate way, for missing the game but looks down at your sun-beaten face and exclaims how she’s sure you played outstanding. You look into her eyes and say thank you, and become extremely nervous,  feeling as if you let her down in decisive fashion, and at any moment, she will scold you for almost committing an error.  She slides her hands onto her waist and says she must be going because Kyle will be waiting for her. She becomes flustered after mentioning the name Kyle. You say thank you again and turn with your friend and walk towards his mother's car. You will play baseball a few more times after today, and you will catch many more pop flies. You will commit a few errors, but for the most part, you will be a good ball player. However, the Kyle Ms. Everdene mentions sounds no good to you, and you are sure you can hit a lot better than he.