being super ain't easy | the losers club

don't fly, run

"Team captain, Stan Uris, steps up to the plate," the announcer, Mister Muldoon, says, observing the game in detail, "A senior who has played for us every year."

Stan has learned to tune his surroundings out whenever he plays ball. It just works better for him. He taps his cleats against each other and dips the wooden bat he holds down to touch home-plate. He brings it back up over his shoulder and lowers into a ready position.

If there is one thing Stanley "Fleet Feet" Uris is famous for, other than his impeccable speed, is his swing. He got it down to a science in his sophomore year.

The step, the weight transfer, the swing, the turn of the hips, the follow-through.

"Steeee-rike one!" The umpire hollers.

A round of claps and cheers sounds off from the stands and Stan re-takes his stance. He hears Richie yell, "HEY BATTER, BATTER, BATTER, SAAA-WING, BATTER!"

Stan also hears the "You moron, that's for when the other team is batting!" from Eddie.

Stanley rolls his eyes and re-focuses on the pitcher. He winds up, kicks his leg up, and hurls the ball over his shoulder. A curveball!

My favorite! Give it to me, give it to me-

CRRRACK!

The crisp sound of the ball hitting the bat ripples through the gloomy air and the stand explodes into screams and cheers. Stan tosses his bat to the side and runs, runs, runs!

The opposing team members playing in the outfield gather in left field, mits up to the sky and their heads tilted up as well.

Stan's jet-black cleat stomps on the bag of first base and he begins rounding to second.

"RUN! RUN!" Multiple voices scream from the stands.

Red dirt kicks up from his feet.

"And they dropped the ball! Run, Stan, Run! Fleet feet!"

Stan's cleat comes in contact with second base and a stripe of pain shoots down his shoulder blades.

NO! NOT NOW NOT NOW!

"He's rounding third!"

Stan's helmet falls into the dirt, but he never stops running. Oh, but the PAIN! The HEAT.

RUN, YOU FUCK, RUN!

Stanley Uris' heels leave the dirt below him and his eyes widen to the size of golf balls.

RUN GET TO HOME PLATE AND DIVE RUN! DON'T FLY, RUN!

Stanley screws his eyes shut, his mind screaming and his wings pushing against the thin skin of his back. LET US OUT LET US OUT LET- the seemed to scream at him.

His light toes touch third base.

The audience is deafening. The pain is insufferable. But keep running! Don't fly!

Keep running, don't fly!

"The ball has made it to the infield- He's still running folks! The throw!"

The ball flies from second baseman's arm.

Everything feels like it's slowed. Stanley's ears begin to ring, tuning out the announcer, the crowd, his teammates from the dugout, his coaches.

The tips of his wings break through his skin. He dives for home plate.

Silence.

"SAFE!"

The entire field bursts.

"WOO-OOO!"

"GO NUMBER FIVE!"