Panting, I lift my head and a crown of sunlight crashes over me. I am a king. I sit upon my throne as sweat sneaks down my face. Yet, below a clamor rises — this was no fair contest. From a rock atop the hill, I view my assailants: they are not coming quickly, but an underworld-like fury charms their movements. A few of them wield baseball bats. However, their anger is not their own, it belongs to a wiry boy in the front, smiling like a poorly taxidermied weasel. He sports a black eye and the favor of our school population. Turning back, I scope out my options. It is 4:53 on a Friday afternoon, and our small-town park is barely populated. Land is our community’s only luxury, and I could go another mile before exiting our public dust garden. I cannot keep running. Almost all of the boys in Kirkwood Middle School march in this sad militia, maybe eleven total. Their tired clothes wear tired faces, but as I catch my breath I hear the rousing cries of their leader. “There he is — we almost have him! Faster!” His voice shares a frequency with dog whistles, and I imagine that actual jackals would understand him just as well as his morose mob. His hate tremors with every word. I suppose one needs to hold on to something in life, and there are not too many alternatives to resentment in this town. — - — Our school does not have enough players or funds to support a little league team anymore; although, there is an unkempt field in the north corner of our park. Most of the boys in this area have brothers, and almost everything they own is comprised of hand-me-downs, from briefs to beliefs. I am the exception. I found the field on the second day of fourth grade. There were five people tossing a ball around, and one boy had a bat. I asked to play and got chased past the broken chain-link fence, but I slowly came back. The same thing happened time and time again, day after day. That year, I spent every school afternoon outside the run-down yard, just watching a few kids trying to play America’s Pastime with less than six players. Over the next summer, I spent hours in my public library. It had an incredibly disproportionate collection of baseball books for such a small establishment, but I was grateful. I became officially hooked on the sport. I learned the names of all of the greats and studied their styles. Every night, I would crank up my mom’s old radio and scan the channels for any games on the airwaves. When school started again, I was resigned to scout my clumsy classmates from afar again, as before, until our school got a transfer. William Downing moved into his grandparents’ house, four blocks down from mine. Like me, his dad got tired of having a kid and wife and left them kissing destitution, (though Will had known a life of luxury and affluence before coming to this ghost town and I had eaten the dust of dead dreams as far back as I can remember). Poverty and old family are the only fallen angels that lead people to this place. Will was a year older, a head taller, and two shakes skinnier than me when we first met — which says more than an unbridled extravert at a party, as ribs yelled through my skin louder than my bloated nose. He wore tortoiseshell brow-line glasses, a crisp Yankee ball cap, and a bright white, tucked-in dress shirt. Will was an immediate hit at our school. Though his voice was always squeaky and speech a little coarse, his manner and meter shimmered with twice the confidence of anyone in our town. His style was subtle though seductively self-assured. He came off more cultured than any teacher or administrator at school while retaining an amicable familiarity with his peers — I was the only one who saw this as a front. There were six tables in our school cafeteria. Most kids fit on the first four, leaving two open for the outcasts. Some cliches get real-life revivals. Every lunch, I sat at one of these corner options. It had a vent directly above it, which kept most people away. Generally, if my regular schoolwork was not too cumbersome, I would spread out my most frequently loaned book, the Baseball Encyclopedia, as my only lunchtime companion. It was sprawled out beside me when the new apple of Kirkwood Middle’s eye sat down to my right. “I don’t think we’ve met, officially,” he said, before nibbling into a peach. “I know who you are.” My eyes sat on the open book and did not budge. “Yet, I don’t know you; how unfair.” The table rocked as he slid on top of it. Students are not allowed to get on tables, but I had seen him do it multiple times without incident. “I’m Will — William Downing, legally.” “My name is Barry.” “Nice to meet you, Barry. What have you got here?” He leaned over my book. Juice dripped down and off his chin. A splotch appeared on the page. “This is a library book!” “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Will took my napkin and tried to wipe the droplet off. It only smeared. “What book is this, anyway?” “It’s an encyclopedia, but for baseball.” “Ah, we’re both ball fans!” He shot me a faux-inquisitive look, “I’ve been to the park every day this week. Why haven’t I seen you there?” “They don’t want me there. I used to ask to play, but they don’t let me on the field.” “Well, they will today, for Will wills it!” He hopped down and began to walk away, but before he got too far, he turned and slowly said, “I’ll make sure they let you play.” — - — It felt surreal when Will introduced me to the boys who had always run me off of the field, but before long I had almost forgotten I was ever an outsider. Days crept into weeks and weeks to months. I quickly surpassed all of them in skill, but that was mostly due to my dogged obsession with the sport. While Will was our undeniable leader, I quickly became an ample right-hand man. We started cleaning up the field, sticking to a set practice schedule, and I taught everyone the official MLB rules. By the end of the school year, we had shaped into some decent players. One day, Will announced that we had become a “real team,” and as such, we needed a name, which he supplied: the Kings. He had us all bring a plain t-shirt to practice the next day, and I proudly branded them in vintage baseball lettering. We were elated as we put them on. Though the shirts were each a different color, our smiles were the same; however, there was only room for one king in our group. We played just a single game in uniform before everything fell apart. Will and I alternated between pitching and playing third base/shortstop (as we only had eight players total, there were not enough people to fill every position). That day, I was the leadoff batter, so Will started as the pitcher. After a couple of warm-up swings, I dug into the batter’s box. Will was the best player on the team (self-proclaimed) — he had a wicked fastball and a semi-cryptic windup, but we had played together so much that I could predict what pitch was coming. He fired a delivery just outside the plate, and I hammered it hard. I did not stop and watch how far it went, I just barreled around the bases. In fact, I had not even noticed the incongruent silence that met my hit; it was only after I rounded second base that I realized almost everyone was staring at me. Only then did I turn and look for Andy, our left fielder. “It’s gone! Barry’s cleared the fence!” I was immediately mauled by affection from almost everybody on the team. Will left quickly, “to help Andy find the ball.” That was the first time anyone (from our group) had sent a ball over the outfield line, and we celebrated it like we had won the World Series. It took a few minutes to play again, and when we started, I immediately sensed something was wrong. There was a foreign focus that flew through Will. He became quiet, which was very unlike him, yet I did not sense the silent danger until he struck out on his turn. I caught his eye as I left the pitcher’s mound; his glare chilled to the bone. The same wicked cold rolled out of his eyes when I came back up to bat. This time was worse though — Will smiled, yet his face was void of joy. The moment I stepped foot in the batter’s box, he screamed a pitch towards my head. I barely ducked in time. “Sorry,” he said, “it just got away from me.” “It’s fine. I know what you mean.” I dusted myself off and cautiously stood up. Again, I edged into the box, yet I was not fast enough to escape the second assault. I got hit solidly in the side and sagged into the dirt. “What was that!” As I groaned, Will casually strolled over. “I guess that one must’ve slipped away from me as well.” I tried to shake it off, but anger toed my pulse. It took full control when the same thing happened on my third at-bat. This time, he nailed my shoulder. Nobody said a word as I jogged to first again, but I raged on the inside. Will turned and waved from the mound. The next time I took the pitcher’s position, I heard him mumble “oops.” That made three strikes. When he came up to bat, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I hurled the baseball with every fiber of my form and tried to sear it directly toward his thigh, but my hand slipped at the last moment. My pitch broke Will’s glasses into his left eye. — - — I now watch as Will’s cavalcade trudges up my hill; his new glasses gleam under his dusty hat. I recline on my rock, anxiously awaiting his crew as cramps salute my side. With how slow the brigade is moving, I would not even have to run to escape them, but I stay resolute. I know William’s temper and determination. If he does not catch me today, it will be tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, it will be sometime next week — I have to face this music, even though it is fatigued and out of tune. “Surround him! Don’t let him get away again!” The mass of boys hardly fit around my rock. I put my hands behind my head and shut my eyes. I hear someone climb up beside me. “So, now that there’s nowhere to run, you’re just gonna play dead? That figures.” A boot tangos into my ribs, and a crack dances back in response. I instinctively roll up like a potato bug. The boys cheer. “How does it feel to get hit by surprise?” His joke speckles laughter over the callous crowd. “Who has a bat?” I amble to my feet just as Will grabs hold of a thick steel baseball bat. I stand at the tip of our stone. I jump over the wall of boys as he swings, but I land badly. “Get him!” Feet plow into every angle of my body. I cannot see. I cannot sense anything but suffering’s sashay as it weeps across my beaten form. “Stand back, but don’t let ‘im go.” The jeers subside as I quiver on the grass. I hear two bats clank together: one wood, the other metal. “It’s over, Barry.”