The sun beats down on my tanned skin, glistening with sweat. I hear a sound, a clank or a thud, and suddenly a bright yellow ball is whizzing at me, at my face. I manage to get my left hand up to catch it just in time. Faint noises of the crowd cheering and complimenting me make their way into my thoughts, but my head is somewhere else. Somehow the ball has made it from my glove to the pitcher’s without my noticing. I subconsciously bend my knees to get on the balls of my feet, and hold my glove, ready for a grounder or a line drive.

A metal bar is in my hand, painted in attempt to look attractive. I stand in a box, outlined in white chalk, as the bright yellow ball once again comes speeding towards me. I swing the bat as if I’ve done it everyday I’ve been alive. The ball ends up somewhere in centerfield, and all I see is my destination, a square bag. A voice makes itself known in my head, “Round it, turn and look,” it yells. I do as I’m told and magically end up near another square bag. Multiple voices are yelling, “Down, down, go down.” Without hesitation I tuck one foot under me and slide. The bag stops me. Some girl I don’t know has her leather glove on my leg, and a man in a blue shirt yells a single word, “Safe.”

The game ends 13-9, our team won. I faintly remember two of those 13 runs being mine. Nothing about that game is clear, I’m not even 100% sure I played second base the whole night.

Heading to the car it’s dark. I hadn’t noticed it before; the field lights had been on. A fair amount of my teammates are telling me I did a good job. I just nod, not in the mood to talk or smile. I make the safe assumption that I didn’t totally suck and listen as my dad lectures me about how to improve and how I should speak up to the coaches and to my teammates. I shake his words off, knowing my social skills, or lack there of, can’t take any more pressure than being among people. Talking to them would tear what little is left of me apart.