By Michael J. Ciaraldi

     Things are quiet during the seventh inning, here in center field. Usually I would back up closer to the woods bordering the outfield. But the other team in this high school game did not have any big hitters, so I’m playing close in and taking it easy. The sun is at the horizon, and the field lights have just come on. Like I said, quiet.

     Suddenly I hear a cry. “Help!” Where is it coming from? I stand there in shock for a few seconds, looking around, wondering if anyone else has heard. It doesn’t look like it.

     “Help!” once again. Now I can tell it’s coming from the woods. A little off to the left, maybe? I can barely see into the woods, it’s so dark in there. How can I find whoever it is?

I look back and see that the other players are starting to notice. I turn back to the woods and start to run forward.

     “Help! He’s got a knife!” A knife? No way I can go up against someone with a knife, armed only with my glove. I skid to a halt.

     “Help me, please!” I look back over my shoulder and see the other players, both teams, heading toward me. The stands are starting to empty out, too. Maybe I won’t have to do this.

     “Help!” I stand there, undecided. Surely someone else would be better able to help — why does it have to be me? I look back again, and everyone else is behind me, waiting to see what I will do.

     “Help!” What the hell, you only live once. I take a step forward, then another. Then I start to run toward the woods.