There is a strategic moment when I slip to the back of the line, trying to creep against the fence side when the teacher’s head is turned. Sometimes – maybe often – I get away with it for the full period, looping backwards again and again. Other times someone outs me, or the teacher’s head swivels like an owl’s, and I am caught. Then I am pushed forward and stand awkwardly, legs frozen, clutching the tapered wooden stick, thirty pairs of eyes boring into me, some in sympathy, some in scorn. I swing randomly, wildly – once, twice, three times – at the small projectile, seething with rage and shame. On the best days, I nab a spot on the field instead, as far out as possible, where I can watch the sky and dream.
From 100 Words: The Beauty of Brevity. Word prompt: baseball.