Thirteen Year Olds, by Eric Smith

When I came to bat against Battaglia, I stared up at him on the mound and froze. His fastball smacked me in the thigh. I pretended it didn’t hurt, ran to first base, took a 10-foot lead. Battaglia looked over, looked away, then whipped it to the first baseman, who jammed his mitt into my ribs. The opposing team’s bench hooted “sleeping beauty” as I jogged by. My teammates cursed me under their breath. One day, only ten guys showed up. The coach sat me on the bench alone. I wasn’t cut and didn’t quit. I just never went back.