Gage Cilleti has just begun his junior year of high school, and is becoming more and more involved in his school's activities, considering he'd been playing baseball since he was just seven-years-old.
Elijah McCay has just dropped out of school, du...
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Summer was finally over. I'd been told multiple times that thinking that way, made me sound absolutely insane. But I couldn't help it—I loved school. Not the entire learning ordeal, but rather the playing baseball everyday again, was what I was looking forward to.
Baseball camp had been a let-down, once more. And I can't say that I was completely surprised, when I realized this. All we did, was practice, and practice, but never played any actual games.
And going back to school, for my junior year, meant finally playing games again, every Wednesday and Friday night.
But I'd heard from many, many sources, such as my best friend, Rick, and my father when he was washing the dishes and didn't know that I was listening in on he and my mother's conversation, that my coach had called in a helper.
A helper, as in, coach had become too old to teach us by himself anymore. Everyone on my team saw this coming, especially after he'd had to take a leave of absence, after his life-altering stroke.
My father had been a mess for days, when coach become sick. He and my father were extremely well friends, especially considering coach Witherspoon had been in our lives since my father moved from Israel, and here—to Chicago.
But a helper? I wasn't necessarily sure about how I felt about coach wanting a helper—or Jr. Coach, as Rick had explained it to me.
But now, as I rode the school bus, full of seniors who seemed to hate me, and freshman's who seemed to think they were better than me, I was beginning to doubt myself and my love for school. It had been a long while since I spoke with Rick face-to-face. So, that would be nice.
But my classes, oh, my classes. I hadn't even been allowed to pick my own elective, my father telling me fire-science was an essential, seeing how he somehow thought that I'd be following in his footsteps and would become a fireman.
I held tightly onto my backpack that held little next to nothing. Only capturing my favorite book, my cellphone, it's charger, and an sweatshirt just in case one of classes decided to be extra, extra cold.
The bus driver signaled for me to exit the bus, as I must have seemed to be either spaced or mentally incompetent. "Hey, kid," he'd shouted over at me, "you've got school now. Not entirely feeling it today?"
I shrugged, making my way over toward the front of the bus, ready to exit the door, "Not sure, yet. See you after school, Harold!"
