He understands why kids target him. At fourteen years old, he’s among the shortest in his freshman class. Not just short. Thin like a sapling. Classmates have wrists thicker than his stick legs. And there’s no grass on the field. Puberty is late to practice. His sister, three years younger, now stands over an inch taller. She has bigger feet too. And his dad’s over six-foot tall. This isn’t genetic. Or if it is, it’s a cruel genetics joke. He isn’t laughing.

But he’s not overly upset about it either. Only when his dad, or maybe a relative, says, “Your time will come.” Or when a peer, usually a friend, calls him “short stuff,” or “bones.” These aren’t said as insults. They’re just playful nicknames for the diminutive. But they chop away at him worse than the physical blows of bullies.

There are plenty of those around his working-class neighborhood. Whether it’s the schoolyard or the deli, or the sidewalks or the arcades, they seem to find him the moment he lets his guard down. Lunch money, his bike, and one time even his brand-new sneakers – they aren’t just student essentials, but commodities with value that are not safe in his hands. They make him a more glaring target. And the consciousness of it, the constant idea that nowhere’s safe, there’s no rules, and threats lurk around corners and parked cars, make for chaos and unrest. He blames himself for not seeing the threats before it’s too late.

He stays in his house most afternoons after school now. Video games, a solace. He’s stopped riding his bike to the deli. That’s how he lost the last one, a brand new stunt bike, tricked out with front and rear pegs. The robbery occurred before he was even halfway there. He stopped to tie his sneaker. A group of three large kids, his own age of course, just bigger, saw the opening. He should have known better and waited until he was in the parking lot with adults around.

His new used bike is old and worn, no pegs, no decals. Not worth stealing. Not worth the constant worry.

Today is different though. His favorite of the year. Baseball tryouts, this time for the high school team. Their diamond is pristine. Lots of grass on that field. All the dads either volunteer or pay up bigtime. The fresh air, the sun, the exact dimensions, the rules of the game – full of order. He doesn’t have to brace for the sucker punch.

He watches from the on-deck circle. Practice swings with the ash-wood bat his dad bought new for his summer league. A weighted donut on the bat makes it hard to swing, but still he gets it around. Old leather batting gloves, broken in perfectly, grip on the bat’s sanded handle like the two are in love.

Ten swings per kid. That’s what you get to show the coaches you belong. Sure, you get some time in the field too, but this is what they’re really paying attention to.

The kid at bat now is taller. Duh. Actual muscles. They bulge from his tank top. Odd garment choice for this sport, but no judgment here. He hits the first pitch solid. Good bat speed. Lands in the gap between center and left field. A double if this were a game.

The next pitch comes in faster, the first one is supposed to be a meatball. Tank Top guy is late on it. He fouls it into the chain-link fence next to the first-base dugout. The next one is popped up on the right side of the infield, still late on the swing. The hits get progressively worse from there, once the pitcher, a sophomore already on the varsity squad, is allowed to unleash a few curveballs. The last one sends Tank Top on his knee after swinging like his bike depended on it. He hits only air. No one laughs. Tank Top is a big fella and respected amongst them.

Tank Top doesn’t hand over his helmet on the walk back to the dugout. It’s thrown somewhat in his direction and he has to wait until it comes to a stop and wipe off dirt before putting it on. Over his soft ballcap, otherwise it would be way too big for his child-sized skull.

It’s the moment he waits for all year. When bullies, strangers, and friends are all bound by the same agenda, the same rules. He can focus on one thing, the ball in the pitcher’s hand. There’s no surprises.

None outside the scope of baseball. But still, the first pitch surprises him. He doesn’t get the meatball. The pitcher hurls a real-game-speed heater. He swings hard, but is far behind. A whiff, laughs from the other kids waiting in the dugout and the catcher behind him. The first-baseman, tall and stocky like first-basemen everywhere, adds, “Watch out for the homerun.” It gets a chuckle out of the pitcher, a bully who didn’t rob his bike, but does punch him hard in the arm when he least expects it.

He blames himself for not anticipating Pitcher’s fastball. He’s easy prey and there’s an audience, of course Pitcher would want to humiliate. He’d also want to blow another fastball right by him, smelling blood, figuring it would double the humiliation.

So now he’s ready. Pitcher won’t bother trying to locate it on the corner. He’ll focus on velocity.

So, sure enough, the pitch moves fast, but it’s perfectly straight, hip high. He uses his level swing, starts a little earlier than usual, and the ash meets square the scuffed practice ball. His hands don’t even vibrate with how perfectly it centered on the barrel. But the sound from the bat, prodigious. And the speed of the traveling ball, equally startling. Not to him, but everyone else.

The shortstop, over whose head the line drive whistled, barely had time to make a half-hearted jump and gives a shrug of the shoulders.

The coach, a few feet behind the pitcher, acting both as umpire and talent evaluator, raises his eyebrows and refers to something on his clipboard.

First-Baseman laughs again, this time his target seems to be Pitcher, whose eyes narrow upon the insolent gnat that’s gotten too close. As if sensing his displeasure, Catcher shouts encouragement: “Just got lucky, dog.”

He knows this is a tell. Concluding the gnat just got lucky would mean Pitcher need not alter his approach. He’ll rear back with everything he has, assuming he was holding back a little velocity for a weaker opponent.

This time he’s really ready, has the timing down perfectly. Not only does the barrel meet the more-scuffed ball directly in the sweet spot, but the contact occurs in the middle of the swing, sending a line drive directly back from its origination. Pitcher’s head.

Because Pitcher threw the pitch so hard, it renders him slightly off-balance. Which means his glove is in no position to field the ball. Which means he either stops it with his head or hits the deck to avoid it. Survival dictates the latter. The ball sails directly over second base and into the outfield. Luckily, Coach was slightly to the right of Pitcher.

This series of events engages all. The dugout bursts out with whoops of all manner. Chuckles ring out around the grass like cricket chirps. Coach adds a grunt to the cacophony. Catcher says, “Dang.”

Pitcher is in no laughing mood. Bullies have little tolerance for their own humiliation. They don’t have good memories either. Pitcher has known him since they were toddlers. Despite a nine-month age difference, they were teammates in early little league. His father, who has been teaching him this fine sport since birth, was even the coach. Pitcher should have seen this coming.

There’s no memory recognition in the stare Pitcher gives him when he gets up from lying prone on the mound. He’s so angry he doesn’t even wipe the dirt from his All-Star uniform.

He knows what’s coming next. Everyone on the field, the dugout, and even Coach knows too. So they watch eagerly.

The only question is where Pitcher will aim on his body. He has to decide now if he should avoid the baseball entirely or take the hit-by-pitch. It’s not the physical pain that bothers him when bullies bully. He’s taken plenty of jabs to the nose, kicks to stomach, abrasions to knees as he’s tackled to concrete. They don’t bring him down nearly as much as demeaning words.

He’s not afraid.

But he’s not stupid either. As long as it’s not at his head, he reasons, he’ll take what’s coming.

Pitcher is so enraged that his control is compromised. So he can’t say for sure, but he thinks it was the head Pitcher was aiming for. But it sails lower and inside. He turns slightly to brace for impact. The ball glances off the back of his shoulder. Pain, yes, but the glancing nature mitigates the duration of the discomfort.

“Knock that shit off, Steve! Or get off the field with that bullshit!”

Coach’s outburst, immediate because he knew the future, stifles any merriment in the gallery.

Pitcher smiles though, and offers a token, “The ball slipped, coach.” First-baseman is amused: “Huh-huh.”

With some aggression out, and his audience back on track, Pitcher readies for the next pitch. And the mischievous smile as he sees the sign from Catcher can mean only one thing: Pitcher thinks small little boy is afraid now. Pitcher thinks he’ll be too concerned with the inside fastball that he won’t see this tricky pitch coming.

It’s the same curveball that buckled Tank Top to his knee. And it’s a good curveball to be fair. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this pitch will hit him too, deceitful as it is out of Pitcher’s hand. He might not have inherited his dad’s height, his muscles, or a loud deep voice yet, but like his dad said recently at the batting cages after school, “The men in our family have the eyes of Gwynn, Mattingly, Griffey.”

Which means he sees the spin of the seams as the ball travels at him at 65 miles per hour, knows roughly the moment it will move from the direction of his head, to the bottom of the strike zone. The key is to wait as long as you can. Otherwise, the shoulder “flies open” and the swing will be more of a lunge. Bat will either miss the ball, or the contact will occur too soon and send it foul of third base. “Balance, son. If you keep your hands back and your balance, it’s solid contact every time.” His dad should write a book about this stuff.

Training pays off again. Bat meets ball like his older sister meets Rock Star Jacket Guy behind the portable classrooms during lunch time. With a big smile. Hand in hand.

Ash Wood claps its thunder. Ball goes the other way this time. Ten feet above the second-baseman’s head and into right field. Even playing shallow, Right-Fielder had no chance to catch it.

Serious face back on All-Star Pitcher, who probably hadn’t given up three hits in a row all last season. But the look he gave the annoying gnat earlier now seems more like the look one would give to an annoying honeybee. Ash Bat his stinger. He can’t just smash with hand. Needs to find a rolled up newspaper.

Which means he won’t throw his pitches down the middle anymore. He’ll throw his fastball again, because he can control that better. Inside this time. To avoid the thick part of Stinger. If Pitcher’s plan is executed, Ash Bat will splinter as from lightning strike.

“Get your hands out in front first, in the direction you want the ball to travel.” That’s his dad’s lesson on inside fastballs. Under the chapter Avoid Getting Jammed, subsection Take Advantage of Your Bat Speed.

Catcher, giving signals, has other ideas. Pitcher has to shake his head three times before Catcher falls in line. The field is silent. Only sounds of a distant lawnmower. Birds in trees on the other side of the right-field line. Catcher’s chewing gum. This is no longer a laughing matter.

Pitcher should have listened to Catcher. Prediction of inside fastball means he can see the future too. Hands out in front through the zone, pointing down left-field line – they haven’t had to move much lately. Booming sound again, lightning misses hands. Thunder loud and clear though.

In fairness, it would have been an out. But Third-Baseman, one of the three bullies who did steal his bike, is playing too shallow. Bullies don’t learn quickly. If playing back at full depth, the ball travels into his glove at chest height. Ten feet closer to home plate, ball sails past his glove overhead, bounces inside foul line and into left-field corner. With his speed, probably a triple if this were a real game.

Somehow, the playing field is more silent. Mower out of range. Catcher not chewing. Left-Fielder getting back into position after lots of running to ball.

“OK, seen enough. Last one now. Run it out.”

Coach makes notes in clipboard. Pitcher huffs in disgust. Coach has a stinger too. Pitcher takes deep breath on mound. Thinking face. Bullies hate to think.

Coach’s decision stings him too. He’s having fun. In this grass field life is simpler. “Rule one,” his dad said on the first day of training, “Keep your eye on the ball.” An easy thing. No robber waiting around the corner. No unseen leg trying to trip him in busy hallways. No girls giggling when chemistry and world history books spill among linoleum. No Nikes ripped off feet while being held down in mud. Just one spinning white ball with red stitches that dances through the air in rhythms he understands. Ball meets bat. Ball meets glove. Ball hops along the fresh-mowed grass. Ball has friends and many lovers.

Only one more swing left. He has to run the bases after this hit. Tank Top struck out so he didn’t get to do that.

Bully Pitcher sweats now, out of ideas. He’ll revert to his best pitch, the curveball, and try to throw it out of the strike zone. So Stinger can’t reach. Six inches off the outside corner. A wasted pitch. No swing offered.

Pitcher snaps his glove at Catcher’s throw back to him. His tree trunk legs dig at the rubber, to kill some time for thinking. Bullies hate thinking. Pitcher looks at him like a wolf might eye a lamb that’s protected behind glass. More than hunger. Hatred for what he deserves and can’t have.

Frustration has kicked in. He can’t break the glass, but he’ll rear back with everything he has left, if only to hear an object bounce off it. He’ll be off-balance again. And Third-Baseman, the robber, looks like he’s finally learned. He’s playing back. High school coach hasn’t seen his speed yet. Time for him to see it.

“Square to bunt only after the pitcher has started his windup. Bottom hand stabilizes bat, top hand guides. Keep bat parallel to the ground. Slightly bend knees to meet ball where it’s pitched. Don’t lunge after the ball, let it come to you – like catching the ball with the bat. Angle bat in direction intended.” Dad’s lesson for bunting for a base hit. Under the chapter Taking Advantage of Defensive Alignment, subsection Using Your Speed to Get On Base. See also: Making Two Bullies Look Stupid Multiple Times in Five Minutes. See also: Celebrating the One Thing in Your Life That Doesn’t End in Frustration. Further reading: When the Rest of Your Life Sucks Shit, Find Something, Anything, That Smells Sweet.

Frustrated-Predator-Pitcher has an “oh-shit” moment when he squares his bat into bunting position. But it’s too late for Pitcher to change his pitch selection and his momentum. After releasing the ball, he still stumbles slightly to the first-base-side of the mound. The speed of the ball works to his advantage. He pushes the ball into the ground, in between Pitcher and the third-base foul line. Pitcher is tall like mature hickory and covers ground fast, but he has to dive at the ball to have a chance. But Pitcher doesn’t have a chance because he bunted it harder than usual. It passes Toppled-Tree-Pitcher and comes to a near-stop on the lush, manicured infield grass. Third-Baseman, the felon, thinks he has a chance to barehand the ball and throw to first before he gets there.

Which is wishful thinking because bullies always seem to think they have a chance to win every encounter.

His stick legs move like gravity is a suggestion. His feet shun the ground like hot embers. He creates his own breeze, cleaves through it like a cheetah’s prow. He’d be safe no matter what Bike Stealer did. But the ball, late to his base-hit party, is thrown in a wild manner. First-Baseman is tall, but even he can’t come close to catching it. It travels over his out-stretched glove and into the foul territory of right field. Right-Fielder, a decent enough guy actually, is miles away from the rolling ball.

His cleats bear soft tracks in the fine dirt as he speeds to second base and beyond. He has no intention of stopping. Wind whips through his oversized helmet, the sleeves of his middle-school size-small t-shirt, and through his open mouth, his smile as he rounds third base. He sees that he’s got it. The throw to home is late and sends Catcher up the first-base line. He doesn’t need to slide. Not a home run exactly, but close enough.

Back in the dugout, he’s well received. High-fives, “atta-boys,” one “nice wheels, dude.” Other freshmen, largely unaware of his middle-school dork status. They’ll be calling him Short Stuff before Opening Day. They’ll be calling him Chicken Little, The Flea, The Cricket. He’ll be the team mascot. He won’t get angry. They won’t mean it as an insult. He’ll use the frustration as fuel. Train harder than all of them.

But for now he takes it all in. He looks forward to telling his dad he made the team. He enjoys watching Pitcher struggle against the next hitter, perhaps shaken from a battle lost. The birds continue to squawk. Bubble gum pops. Teammates spit and burp. They talk about girls they’ve kissed. Wet dirt smell. Sunflower seeds all over concrete dugout. Lawnmower sound returns. His baseball glove, freshly oiled, smells like his dad’s work bench. He’ll snag a few short hops when they take the field. They’ll do sprints at the end of tryouts. He’ll finish ahead of all but one kid, the JV center fielder. Fast like offshore breeze.

But then it’s over and he has to leave the manicured grass. The exactly-90-feet-apart bases. The straight foul lines. He has to put Stinger inside the equipment bag his dad bought new for his American Legion games last fall. His batting gloves must say farewell for now. Ash Wood full of sorrow.

Names posted outside Coach’s door confirm he made the team. Right-Fielder gives him a hand pound. Two other freshmen from dugout do high-fives again. They make the team too. They all walk out of the school together, talking about what bands they like, which pro baseball teams, best video games on the market.

His street branches off from new friends. They walk home and he needs a bus stop. He walks with bounce for two blocks. The smile on his face is earned. The clarity of success quells chaos of mind.

Attack comes unexpected, from behind a parked van. Guard not up anymore. Punch lands hard on his arm, makes him off-balance, trips over his own bag, falls to ground.

“Sup, Needle Dick. Nice pussy hitting with those bullshit singles. Coach said to go easy because you’re a little bitch. Singles the best you can do?”

He extricates himself from bag and tries to get up. Bully Pitcher just Bully now. Doesn’t need to follow rules anymore. He gives firm foot into his ribs, sending him to concrete again. Bully reaches for Stinger, no longer dangerous out of hands.

Bully says, “Get the fuck outta here with this wood bat bullshit.”

And beefy First-Baseman, really just Beefy Jerk Friend of Bully says, “huh-huh!”

Bully takes Ash Bat from bag. Smashes it into concrete curb and fire hydrant numerous times. Dents in mighty ash, some chips. Ash Bat ruined. Then Bully throws it high into the air, on top of three-story building nearby.

“Next time hit like a man. You suck! Welcome to the high school team, loser. Oh, and tell that slut sister of yours to stop wearing rainbow lipstick, it’s leaving rings around my dick.”

“Huh-huh-ha!”

Pain to shoulder starts to subside when Bully and Beefy Jerk round the corner, out of sight. Bully shaking his hands because he missed sweet spot on curb and his palms probably throb. One last bee sting.

Side of abdomen sends spark to chest when he’s upright. And again when he breathes deep. Takes a minute before he starts walking again. He knows why bullies target him. Maybe bigger kids fight back. Maybe smarter kids use sharp words to combat thick skulls. Maybe better-prepared kids notice threat in time and run like gazelles.

He doesn’t blame himself this time. He decides he’s not really hurt. Bully’s stinger ineffective. He beat Bully where it counted. He’ll get to do it again. Small smile.

But he’ll have to tell his dad what happened to Ash Bat. And like his dad, he really loved it. Felt perfect in hands. Batting Gloves will weep. Thunder no more.

And Dad will ask to see the bruise on his ribs. Dad’s voice will change. Not deep like roar of lion. Lighter and tense like songbird. It makes him sad. Both of them.

Then he’ll say those words that sting every time. Worse than a thousand jabs and scraped knees. Worse than the nicknames he endures. Worse than losing all the bikes. Worse than his younger sister who can now look down at him.

“Your time will come, kid. Don’t worry, your time will come.”

***

Originally from New York and retired from the NYPD, Nick Dmytrow resides in Kinsale, Ireland, with his wife and twin daughters. Though he regularly contributes fantasy baseball articles to various online publications, he recently published his first work of fiction with Variant Literature. He can be found on Bluesky: @nickdmytrow.bsky.social.