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Devon Park comes into view, stadium lights still on even though it’s daylight. The bus pulls up, brakes squeal, and suddenly it’s real. The painted arch, NCAA banners flapping, the crowd already trickling in—parents with folding chairs, kids in oversized jerseys, some poor intern in a foam mascot head.
As we file off, Coach Drew gives us his “no-nonsense, let’s-go” look. “Keep your heads, ladies. Play our game. The rest takes care of itself.”
My cleats click on the sidewalk as we head to the field. The air smells like sunscreen, fresh-cut grass, and too many breakfast burritos. I spot teammates practicing their “tough faces” in the snack bar window. Brynn does her pregame ritual—three hops, one deep breath, a muttered curse for luck.
I follow the team down the tunnel and out onto the field. The stands loom above, the scoreboard blinking like a dare. My glove’s warm in my hand, and for a second, I grin. This is my field now. I belong here.
I stretch my arm and think about my first pitch. Please don’t hit anyone. Please don’t trip. Please remember how to throw a softball and not, like, a loaf of bread.
But under the nerves, there’s a steady hum—muscle memory, all those early mornings and late nights, every failure, every comeback. I know exactly what I came here to do.
The bullpen is alive with that weird, electric pregame energy—half sacred ritual, half chaos. Brynn and I toss underhand to start, trading easy spins, letting our arms loosen, our minds settle. My glove pops with each catch, and the world shrinks to the space between us: ball, breath, repeat.
Coach Drew floats by, sunglasses on, scribbling in her notebook. “You two dialed in?” she asks—not really a question.
Brynn grins, tossing me a dirty look. “Cam’s gonna throw so many strikeouts, they’ll name a street after her. Or at least a Taco Bell menu item.”
I roll my eyes but smile. “Only if you actually catch them this time.”
She sticks her tongue out and fires a perfect bullet back, the ball snapping into my glove. I run through my pitches—fastball, drop, rise—tuning out everything but my own rhythm.
Then, as I wind up for a screwball, something catches my eye in the stands. At first I think I’m seeing things. Nope. There they are.
Jaxon, King, and Fork Guy, second row, making a spectacle of themselves. Jaxon’s in a team hoodie, sunglasses on his head, hat backward, hands cupped as he shouts something I can’t hear. King is waving a gigantic foam finger he must’ve mugged a kid for, and Fork Guy—oh God—dual-wields plastic clappers, wearing a homemade sign: “CAMDYN’S CREW” in neon marker, with glittery fork stickers.
Brynn notices and smirks. “Who let your circus in here?”
I snort. “Security’s slacking.”
As I wind up, Fork Guy stands on his seat and starts a cheer with Brody—the vending machine kid, now waving a team pennant and double-fisting blue raspberry slushies like he’s been training for this. King tries to start the wave, but it’s just him, Fork Guy, Brody, and some dad in a poncho, so it looks more like a confused flash mob than school spirit.
Jaxon catches my eye, gives a thumbs-up, mouths, “Good luck!”
He’s trying to act chill, but his knee’s bouncing so hard I can see it from the bullpen. I shake my head, grinning—my people are chaos, but they’re mine.
Brynn bumps my shoulder, eyes fierce. “We got this. This year’s ours.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. For the first time all week, I actually believe it. The nerves aren’t heavy anymore—they’re spark plugs. For once, I’m not scared of the pressure. I’m hungry for it.
We settle into routine, crowd noise fading into a low hum, like the stadium’s holding its breath. The game’s minutes away. I look up at my crew—my team in the dugout, my circus in the stands—and I know, win or lose, this is where I’m supposed to be.
I’m human. I make mistakes. I fail. I succeed. I fail again, and then—when I least expect it—I succeed. That’s how it works for athletes. The way forward is seeing every failure for what it is: a chance to learn and keep pushing. You don’t get better pretending you’re perfect. You get better by surviving the mess.
Focus on the process, not the outcome.
Dominate your attitude.
The game doesn’t care about your feelings. The moment I made peace with that, it was… weirdly freeing. The game doesn’t care. But I do. That’s enough.
Focus on what you can control.
I remember what my dad told me in high school before state, when my hands shook so bad I could barely tie my shoes. He pulled me aside, looked me dead in the eye, and said: “You have everything you need to succeed. Believe in your ability, your coaches, and stay committed to what you want.”
That’s what I’m carrying out here. Not the fear. Not the pressure. Just the belief that I get to do this, that I belong here, win or not.
“You good?” Coach Drew asks after warmups, clipboard in hand. He looks like he’s about to give a speech or ask if I remembered my allergy meds.
“No,” I say, taking a long drink of water. “It’s hotter than demon dick out here. And I feel sick. I might puke.”