It was a perfect Saturday afternoon, the kind that felt made for hanging out in the park. The sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows on the grass, and the air was filled with the laughter and shouts of kids playing. A great time for a casual game of baseball for the neighbourhood boy.

John, crouching at shortstop, punched his glove and waited for the next pitch. He loved the game — the thrill of the catch, the sense of being part of something bigger than himself. But today, John felt ... off, his confidence was a little shaky. Maybe it was because he’d been feeling down lately, or maybe it was just because he hadn’t been playing well recently. Either way, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was watching and waiting for him to mess up.

Then came the moment.

The batter — Mike — hit a soft pop-up high into the air. John tracked it, eyes locked on the ball as it spun in the sky. He positioned himself beneath it, ready to make the catch. For a moment, everything seemed perfect. But as he reached out with his glove, his concentration slipped and the ball hit the end of his finger and bounced away, tumbling to the grass with a light thud, followed by a disappointed groan from his teammates. A missed catch. John froze for a second, his heart sinking. He quickly scooped up the ball, embarrassed, his face burning.

“Hey, Butterfinger,” Mike called with a grin. “You gotta keep your eye on the ball. That one was an easy catch!”

The comment was small, almost too casual to even notice, but to John, it was like a slap in the face. His stomach churned as he felt the words gnaw at his fragile pride. The others laughed — not in a mean way, but in that easygoing, “we’re all friends” kind of way. But for John, it was too much. The laughter felt like a chorus of criticism, the joke felt like an attack. Every doubt he’d been harbouring about his abilities rushed forward like a flood, swamping any rational thought.