*Author's note: Because I have a cold and feel like crap today, you're getting a short piece from my fiction writing class in college. If you were counting on more of my witty, insouciant nonfiction, deal with it.*I heard once that if you saw a spring robin and it sang, you’d be really lucky that year. That year I was a high school freshman—a young man fresh from the disappointments and constant embarrassment of middle school. A young man newly acquainted with the wonders of the female flesh displayed on high tone, glossy paper. A young man eager to see how reality would fare in comparison to my most vivid imagination. To be blunt, I was hoping to get lucky, preferably with Meredith.
Like most of the school, Meredith went to every Varsity baseball game that year. Our Carlisle Cardinals had been doing pretty well that season, but personally, I suspected the consistently high attendance had more to do with the blonde goddess in the stands than the jocks on the field.
It was a blazing Saturday afternoon, and Meredith sat a little to the left and two rows ahead of me in the stands behind our team’s bench. The game that day was against our biggest rivals; the whole school sweated side by side on the bleachers. With the Cardinals down 7–6 in the ninth and two outs, our third batter strode to the plate. When I stared at home plate through the fence, I could still catch a glimpse of her golden ponytail swinging as she laughed and gestured, flinging tan arms in arcs around her very attractive body. I took a deep breath, watching the batter swing and miss on a fast ball just as a spring robin cheerfully chirped overhead.
Suddenly, the crown of my head felt a little warmer and a little wetter. I froze, then stretched casually, reaching over my head and using my fingertips to affirm what I already suspected: the robin had ruined the chance of a Meredith rendezvous in the foulest way possible.
With my hand clasped to the top of my head, I looked around, horrified. Shit! I muttered, as nearby spectators began to giggle. No one even heard the umpire bark, “Strike Two!,” as they were all too preoccupied with the viscous slime I was trying to wipe on the splintery wooden bench. With increasing speed, the laughter and whispers spread outwards in ripples until I saw the blonde ponytail begin to turn. I yanked my hand off my hair, stuffing it underneath my khaki Gap shorts. Tilting my head back so the top was out of her sight, I smiled and feebly waved to Meredith as her thin, tan shoulders began to shake with laughter. The other team cheered as our last batter struck out, and I made my way down the bleachers towards my bike.
