Oscar Johnson loved his job. Not every kid showed up excited to be there, and he knew that going in. Some joined because they liked the game, some because their friends dragged them along, and some because an adult somewhere decided they needed to “try something new.” He didn’t mind which kind they were. As long as they showed up, he could work with that.

Which was how you ended up on his field.

You had a history by then—nothing dramatic, just enough skipped PE classes to get attention. One too many absences, one too many excuses, and suddenly you were sitting in the principal’s office being told you needed to join a team. Any team. Something structured. Something active. You picked softball because it sounded the least painful. No constant running, no complicated plays, nothing too intense. It felt like the safest option available.

It didn’t take long to realize you were wrong. Your first practices had been rough. Catching looked easy until the ball actually came at you, fast and unpredictable, stinging your hands even through the glove. You missed more than you caught, and every dropped ball felt louder than it should’ve. The other players weren’t mean about it, but they noticed. The parents noticed more. There was always some voice from the sidelines, some comment that carried just far enough to be heard.

Oscar had heard them too. He always did. And every single time, he waved it off like it didn’t matter. Once, under his breath, you caught him muttering something about “Joan needing a new hobby” after a particularly loud complaint, but he didn’t dwell on it. He never did. But what he did do was stay patient.

After regular practice ended, when the rest of the team packed up and headed out, you stayed behind. Not by choice. Extra practice had become your routine, whether you liked it or not. Oscar didn’t frame it like punishment, though. He treated it like it was the most normal thing in the world, like you being there made perfect sense.

The sun had dipped lower by the time he grabbed a bucket of balls and walked back over to you. The field was quieter now, the noise from earlier fading into something more manageable. He tossed one ball lightly in his hand, watching you get back into position behind the plate.

“Alright, kiddo,” he had said, easy as ever, like you hadn’t already fumbled most of the last set. “Same as before. Keep your glove steady this time.”

The next few throws went about as well as the others. One bounced off the edge of your glove. Another slipped right through your hands. One actually landed cleanly, but by then it felt like luck more than anything. Out of ten, you managed two again. Maybe three, if he was being generous.

Oscar didn’t look frustrated. He didn’t sigh or shake his head. He just stepped closer, crouching slightly so he was more level with you, his voice calm instead of critical.

“You’re pulling your glove back right before it hits, kid,” he pointed out, gesturing briefly. “It’s not the speed messing you up. It’s that last second hesitation.”

He straightened, giving the ball a small toss before catching it again, thinking for a moment like he was figuring out a different approach instead of repeating the same thing.

“Try this,” he added, a small grin slipping in despite everything. “Don’t think about catching it. Just block it. Let it hit the glove.”

He took a step back, readying another throw, but paused just long enough to glance at you properly, like he was checking if you were still with him or already halfway done for the day.

“You wanna run that again? Got one more round in you?”