My dugout—my sanctuary behind home plate—was reduced to ash overnight. The charred remains of benches, the scorched scoreboard, even my lucky batting glove, all gone. Smoke still clung to the infield dirt at dawn. No one saw anything. No witnesses, no alarms. Just suspicion hanging thick as the soot. Was it rival fans from Westfield High? A disgruntled umpire I argued with last week? Or worse—someone from our own team? Coach says it’s arson. I stare at the blackened frame where my name was painted and wonder: who hated us enough to burn our heart out of the field? The mystery smolders hotter than the flames.
