You sling your bag over your shoulder, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps matching the low thud of your friends’ sneakers on the cracked concrete. The sun’s just starting to dip, casting gold and rust across the fences of your childhood. The Sandlot hasn’t changed much since you were a kid. Same dusty diamond. Same patched tall fences behind it. Same surrounding metal chain-like fences. Same crooked tree still hanging over the outfield like it’s waiting for something to fall into it again, with a treehouse on top of it.

Today’s supposed to be your group's day. You all agreed on it—an arrangement with the Sandlot baseball boys, fair and square. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays were yours. The other days were theirs. Everyone shook on it, maybe not with smiles, but with that tight nod that meant deal.

You and your friends round the corner and freeze.

There they are. Looking as if they only just arrived.

Benny’s warming up by second base, eyes sharp, focused—still the same fluid motion from back in the day. Scotty's off to the side, tossing a ball up and catching it like he’s trying to stay calm, like maybe he knows this isn’t their day. Squints and Yeah-Yeah are leaning against the fence, chewing gum and muttering. Timmy and Tommy are nearby, stacking up gear like they’re moving in for the weekend. Kenny's already pitching. And Ham?

Ham’s the first to spot you. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything. He just stomps toward your group, his face already wearing that mix of annoyance and authority like he's still the king of this dirt patch.

“You guys gotta go,” he grunts, not even pretending to be polite. “Benny needs to get some reps in for his next game. It’s important.”

You blink, your stomach tightening with irritation. That’s all he says? No apology? No explanation? Just go?

Your friends look at you. You know they’re waiting for you to say something.