I never used to believe one play could change everything. Not just a game—but how people saw you. Even how you saw yourself. But then came that Saturday in May.

We were playing the Excelsiors. Our team, Lakeport, had come close before, but they always seemed one step ahead. Today had started the same way: they scored early, and we scrambled to catch up. I wasn’t even up to bat until the third inning. I barely made contact and got tagged out before I reached first base. I tried not to show it, but it stung.

“Don’t worry,” Coach said. “We’ll need you later.”

At the time, I didn’t believe him.

The rest of the game felt like a rollercoaster. We’d pull ahead, then fall behind. Each inning built up pressure like a bottle of soda getting shaken up. By the eighth inning, we were down by three runs. But then Harry hit a solid grounder, Joe followed with a lucky bounce past second, and we kept the momentum going. Somehow, we managed to claw back and take the lead.

When the scoreboard read 13 to 10, I finally let myself hope.

The Excelsiors were up for their last chance in the ninth. If we could stop them now, it’d be over. I was in centerfield, the sun low and hot on my neck. My glove felt too big, my hands too sweaty.

Their first batter got to first base. Then another hit. Then a walk. Now the bases were loaded.

No one said it, but we all knew what that meant.

If the next guy hit a home run, they’d score four runs and win the game.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My mouth was dry. The batter stepping up was Wheeling. He’d already crushed two long hits earlier in the game. I had this tight, sinking feeling in my stomach.

Joe, our pitcher, looked tired. He wound up and threw.

“Strike one,” the umpire called.

The next pitch—another strike. The crowd leaned forward, holding its breath.

And then came the third pitch.

Wheeling swung.

I heard the crack before I saw the ball. It shot high and deep—straight toward the outfield. Toward me.

I turned and ran.

At first, all I could think was: It’s over. That ball’s too far.

But I kept going. The voices of the crowd faded. All I could hear was my own breathing and the pounding of my shoes on the grass.

The ball arced in the sky, dropping fast. I ran deeper, legs burning, arms pumping.

Please let me reach it.

I didn’t even know if I was close enough. I just ran. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I leapt.

For a second, time slowed.

My glove stretched out, fingers wide.

Then—impact.

The ball hit the pocket of my glove like it belonged there.

I fell. Hard.

My elbow scraped the dirt. My knee slammed into something sharp. I rolled onto my back, the air knocked from my lungs.

But I didn’t care.

Because when I looked up, the glove was still in my hand—and so was the ball.

People were shouting. Our coach was waving both arms. Teammates sprinted toward me.

I had caught it.

We had won.

Wheeling, who’d almost been the hero, stood frozen at home plate.

As my teammates reached me, shouting and laughing, I finally sat up. My chest still hurt, and my head spun. But all I could think was, I did it.

Me.

Later, someone called it “the greatest catch of the season.” Others said it was luck. Maybe it was. But that one play—that one leap—changed everything.

For the first time all year, I believed I belonged out there.

And maybe next game, I’d hit better too.

_{“Caught in the Moment” by Bright Bunny Books © 2025. Retelling of “Paul’s Great Catch” from The Baseball Boys of Lakeport by Edward Stratemeyer, originally published in 1908.}

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“Caught in the Moment” is best suited for middle school students in grades 6–8, as it combines relatable sports drama with themes of self-doubt, perseverance, and personal growth.