The Worries of Winding Willie

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, stands on a dusty red clay pitcher's mound gripping a scuffed white baseball tightly in his right hand, his brow furrowed with concentration and worry. In the background, a wide grassy park bordered by tall old oak trees with thick, gnarled branches stretches out under a golden summer sky.

Something was wrong with Lee's arm—at least, that's what he kept telling himself. Every summer for as long as he could remember, the pitcher's mound at Clover Hill Park had been his favorite place in the whole world. The dusty red clay beneath his sneakers, the satisfying pop of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt, the way everything else disappeared when he wound up for a pitch. But today, with the last game of summer only four days away, his throws kept sailing wide. His arm felt fine. It was something else—something he couldn't quite name—that made his fingers grip the ball too tight and his release come half a second too late.

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, winds up for a pitch on the dusty red clay mound, his body tense and his throwing motion stiff, a scuffed white baseball leaving his fingertips awkwardly. In the background, worn wooden bleachers line the edge of the baseball diamond under a bright blue summer sky.

"You're thinking too much out there," called his coach from behind the chain-link backstop. The old man tugged at the brim of his faded green cap and squinted through the afternoon sun. "Your arm knows what to do, Lee. Trust it." Lee nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead, but trusting anything felt impossible right now. In exactly six days, he would walk through the doors of Ridgemont Elementary for the very first time—a school across town where he wouldn't know a single face in the hallway. His family had moved to the other side of Clover Hill at the start of summer, and he'd been trying not to think about it. But the calendar didn't care. September was coming whether he was ready or not.

A bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream, pale green with dark chocolate flecks, sitting on the worn wooden armrest of a porch chair, slowly melting in the warm evening air. In the background, a quiet back porch with a wooden railing overlooks a dusky yard where tiny golden-green fireflies drift through the warm twilight.

That night, Lee sat on the back porch of his house with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his hands. Normally, this was his favorite time of day—when the sky turned the color of peaches and the fireflies blinked their tiny lanterns across the yard. But the knot in his chest had followed him home from the field. It sat there like a fist, tight and heavy, pressing against his ribs. He tried to list the things he was worried about, the way his mom sometimes suggested when he felt upset. New school. New kids. New teachers. Would anyone want to sit with him at lunch? Would they think he was weird? What if he got lost in the hallways? The list kept growing, and the knot kept tightening, until the ice cream was soup and the fireflies were the only light left.

A scuffed white baseball and a worn brown leather baseball glove sitting on a wooden nightstand next to a small alarm clock, bathed in warm morning sunlight streaming through curtains. In the background, a cozy bedroom with blue-striped bedsheets and a shelf lined with baseball trophies.

The next morning wasn't any better. Lee lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his stomach churning like he'd eaten something bad. He hadn't. He'd barely eaten at all. The churning was the same knot, just showing up in a different place—his gut instead of his chest. He thought about calling his best friend, Marco, but Marco still lived near the old house and would be going back to their old school. Talking to Marco would only remind Lee of everything he was leaving behind. So instead, he pulled the covers over his head and tried to fall back asleep, even though sunlight was streaming through the curtains and he could hear birds singing outside like they didn't have a single worry in the world.

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, sits on worn wooden bleachers with his cleats dangling above the ground, his shoulders slumped and his gaze cast downward. In the background, the dusty red clay baseball diamond stretches out under a late afternoon sky streaked with thin clouds.

By Wednesday—two days before the big game—Lee dragged himself to practice feeling like he was carrying a bag of rocks on his shoulders. His throws were wild again. Grounders rolled past his glove. When the team huddled up at the end, his coach clapped everyone on the back and said, "Good work, team. We're ready for Saturday." But his eyes lingered on Lee a moment longer than the others. After the rest of the players jogged off toward the parking lot, his coach sat down on the worn wooden bleachers and patted the spot beside him. "Sit with me a minute, would you?" Lee's throat tightened. He was sure he was about to hear that he'd be pulled from the starting lineup. He sat down anyway, his cleats dangling above the dusty ground.

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, looks up from the worn wooden bleachers, his lips slightly parted as if he has just spoken something difficult, his dark eyes glassy with emotion. In the background, tall old oak trees with thick, gnarled branches cast long shadows across the grassy park as the sun dips lower.

"I'm not pulling you from the game," his coach said, as if reading Lee's mind. The old man leaned back and crossed his arms. "But I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer honestly. Deal?" Lee nodded slowly. "What's eating at you, son? And don't say 'nothing,' because I've watched you pitch for three summers now, and this isn't an arm problem. This is an up-here problem." He tapped his temple gently. Lee opened his mouth, then closed it. The words felt stuck, like they were trapped behind that same tight knot. He swallowed hard. "I start at a new school on Monday," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop worrying. It's like... it's like my brain won't turn off."

A faded green baseball cap with a slightly bent brim resting on the worn wooden bleachers beside a clipboard with a lineup sheet, the afternoon light casting warm shadows across the seat. In the background, the dusty red clay baseball diamond and chain-link backstop glow in soft golden light.

His coach was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a slow breath and said something Lee didn't expect. "I know exactly what that feels like." Lee blinked. "You do?" "When I was about your age, my family moved from Texas to Ohio in the middle of winter. I didn't know a soul. I was so anxious that I used to get stomachaches every single morning before school. My hands would shake. I'd make up reasons to stay home." He paused. "It was the hardest year of my life." "But you got through it," Lee said quietly. "I did. But not by pretending I was fine. I got through it because I finally told my dad how scared I was. And you know what he said? He said, 'Being scared doesn't mean something is wrong with you. It means something matters to you.' That stuck with me, Lee. It still does."

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, sits on the back porch in a wooden chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his expression open and earnest as he speaks. In the background, golden-green fireflies float through the warm dusky air above a quiet yard bordered by shadowy trees.

That evening, Lee's older cousin came by for dinner. She was sixteen and always seemed to have everything figured out—she played guitar, got good grades, and laughed louder than anyone Lee knew. After the meal, they ended up on the back porch together, watching the fireflies drift through the warm air like tiny floating stars. "Coach told me something today," Lee said, surprising himself. "He said being scared means something matters to you." His cousin turned to look at him. "That's real," she said. "What are you scared about?" So Lee told her. All of it—the new school, the knot in his chest, the way his brain kept spinning with questions he couldn't answer. He told her about his wild pitches and the melting ice cream and the covers pulled over his head. And once he started, he found he couldn't stop, like a dam had cracked open.

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, looks toward someone off the page with wide, surprised eyes and the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. In the background, the quiet back porch with its wooden railing is bathed in soft blue evening light as fireflies glow in the distant yard.

His cousin listened to every word without interrupting. When he finished, she didn't laugh or tell him he was being silly. Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest and said, "Can I tell you a secret? I felt the exact same way when I started high school last year. I was so anxious I almost threw up in the parking lot on the first day." "Seriously?" Lee stared at her. "Seriously. And here's the thing nobody tells you—the anxiety didn't just go away. It's not like a switch you flip off. Some mornings I still feel it, even now. But it got smaller once I stopped trying to fight it and started just... letting it be there. Like, okay, you're here, anxiety. I see you. But you're not the boss of me." Lee almost smiled. "You talk to your anxiety?" "Sometimes. It sounds weird, but naming what you feel takes away some of its power. Try it."

Two wooden porch chairs sitting side by side on a worn back porch, one with a mint chocolate chip ice cream bowl on the armrest, the other with a guitar leaning against it, bathed in soft twilight. In the background, golden-green fireflies scatter across a dark yard under a sky fading from deep blue to violet.

Lee took a deep breath. The knot was still there, pressing against his ribs. But this time, instead of trying to shove it away, he looked right at it in his mind. "I'm anxious," he said out loud. The word hung in the warm air between them. "I'm anxious about starting a new school, and I'm anxious about the game, and I don't know what's going to happen." His cousin nodded. "And that's okay. You don't have to have it all figured out tonight. You just have to keep walking forward, one step at a time. And when the bag gets too heavy to carry alone—" She nudged his shoulder. "You ask someone to help you hold it." The knot didn't vanish. Lee noticed that. But something had shifted. It loosened, just a little, like a fist slowly unclenching. The worry was still there, but it no longer filled every corner of his chest. There was room now—room to breathe, room to think, room to feel something besides afraid.

Lee, a ten-year-old boy with short brown hair, warm tan skin, and kind dark eyes, stands tall on the dusty red clay pitcher's mound in his white and blue baseball uniform, mid-follow-through after releasing a pitch, his expression calm and focused. In the background, worn wooden bleachers packed with cheering families and colorful banners stretch along the edge of the sun-drenched baseball diamond.

Saturday came with a blaze of sunshine and the smell of popcorn drifting from the concession stand. The worn wooden bleachers were packed with families cheering and clapping. Lee stood on the dusty red clay mound, rolling the scuffed white baseball between his fingers. The knot was there. He could feel it, a low hum of worry beneath his ribs. But today it felt different—not like an enemy, but like a companion. Something that reminded him this mattered. "I see you," he whispered to himself. Then he wound up, trusted his arm the way his coach had told him to, and let the ball fly. It sailed straight and true, popping into the catcher's mitt with that perfect, satisfying sound. Strike one. The crowd cheered. Lee exhaled. He didn't feel fearless—he still didn't know what Monday would bring—but he felt steady. And steady, he decided, was enough.

A single glowing golden-green firefly resting on a worn wooden porch railing, its tiny light illuminating the grain of the wood in the soft darkness of a late summer night. In the background, a quiet yard with shadowy old oak trees stretches under a star-dusted sky, dotted with the faint glow of distant fireflies.

That night, after the game and the high-fives and the celebratory pizza, Lee sat on the back porch one last time before the summer ended. The fireflies were out again, blinking their tiny lights across the yard like they were sending secret messages. Monday was still coming. The hallways would still be unfamiliar, and the faces would still be new. The knot might tighten again—probably would, if he was being honest. But Lee knew something now that he hadn't known at the start of the week: he didn't have to carry it alone, and he didn't have to wait until the worry disappeared before he could step forward. A firefly landed on the porch railing, glowing soft and gold. Lee watched it for a moment, then stood up, stretched, and walked inside. Tomorrow was Sunday. Monday was Monday. And he would get there when he got there—one step at a time.

The Worries of Winding Willie

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