While many believe that the game of baseball originated in the mid-19th century, its roots can actually be traced back to ancient religious practices. The ancient Egyptian game of Seker Hemat, or “Batting the Ball,” involved a priest pitching to the pharaoh in a ritual where the ball likely symbolized the sun-god Ra's journey through the sky. Similarly, baseball's diamond configuration mirrors the diamond of the Kongo Cosmogram, representing essential points in the life cycle—conception, birth, maturity, and death—each to be traversed base by base. Even the pitcher's mound echoes of ancient altars, which were often just mounds of earth where people petitioned the gods… Is baseball merely an American pastime, or is it a game intertwined with humanity’s oldest rituals and beliefs?

  —“The All-Present God: A Witty Chronicle of how the Sacred Suffuses the Secular”

  “Everyone spread out! Clark’s up!”

  Jack punched his catcher’s mitt as he called out the warning, then settled into a wary crouch behind home plate. The other boys quickly did as they were told, even the basemen moving back toward the outer fence line.

  Clark stalked up to the plate, bat in hand, mumbling angrily to himself. “We’ll look cute together…cute...aren’t you just so cute...” His mother’s words pounded in his head like a hammer hitting a nail.

  “What’s that, Clark?” Max called from the pitcher’s mound, trying to sound more bravado than he was. “Were you saying something?”

  “He’s speaking in tongues!” shouted Pip with his joker’s grin, from twenty feet behind second base.

  Clark ritually tapped his initials, the letters C and T, on the rusted license plate that stood for home plate. “Just pitch!” he shouted.

  Max’s eyes narrowed into a malevolent stare. He broke it only to spit—then, rearing back, he fired the ball.

  CRACK!

  At the sound of the ball hitting the bat—a sound a lot like the angry slamming of a door—the memory of last night’s humiliation smashed through Clark’s head all over again...

  ...the memory of him walking up the creaking stairs to Sadie’s rickety, red-painted porch, of rapping lightly on the door, mouthing a silent prayer that nobody would answer.

  Please don’t be home, please don’t be home—but then the door swung open, and there was Sadie. In baggy sweatpants, a t-shirt four sizes too big, bare feet, scruffy brown ponytailed hair, and a scowl.

  At least, he thought, she looks kind of normal today. And with that, he felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe, maybe, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Hey, Sadie. Um, I just wanted to see if—I mean, I don’t know if you’re even going, but—I just wanted to see if you would want to go to the dance with me.”

  She didn’t even blink when she said, No.

  Clark blinked. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

  At first, he was confused. And then, suddenly, he was singing inside. It was spring again: the birds were chirping, the bees were humming, and all the flowers were in bloom. He could ask the girl he’d wanted to ask along: Penny. He grinned at Sadie, wanting to share his happiness. “Well, maybe we can go get some ice cream sometime, or something.” Of course he didn’t mean it, he was just being nice to the person who had just now made his day.

  But Sadie only stood there, drilling into him with her ice-cold, deep brown eyes. Then she said:

  “Why would I want to be seen anywhere with you, Clark? You’re an arrogant stupid jerk, and everyone thinks you’re a weirdo.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The grin vanished. His body turned to stone.

  “What?” he blurted, “I’m the weirdo—?”

  But she had already disappeared back inside with an unapologetic

  SLAM.

  And then, suddenly, he was standing on her porch staring at her front door like a moron.

  He stood there for a few seconds with his whole body and soul on fire. But there was nothing he could do. Absolutely nothing. Nothing he could do, but just turn and walk away...

  Pip’s angry shout jerked him all at once back to the present.

  “Not again. NOT AGAIN!” Pip cried as the ball reached its dreaded peak, marking its momentary blemish on the sun.

  “No! No no no no nooooooo...” he cried again, as the ball, like a falling star, arrowed towards the outer fence line. Henry, far in the outfield, jumped and stretched with superhuman effort, but it was no use. The ball vanished over the fence.

  “Come on, Clark!” Pip threw his glove into the dirt, “That was our only ball!”

  Clark didn’t care. It felt so satisfying to smack something hard, to send out into total oblivion, even if it was their only ball.

  He tossed away the bat and headed for first. The boys groaned.

  Max slumped. “You hit a homer, we get it! Let’s just—”

  But it was no use complaining. They all knew from long experience that their only choice was to wait until he had completed running the full round of bases. It was like the way he tapped home plate: it just had to be done. Max spit into the dirt. Pip wore a look of irritation bordering on anger. Jack idly smacked his glove against his thigh. Henry scratched his groin. Eli stared with his mouth hanging open. The twins, Wes and Perry, clapped and whistled as Clark ran—earning a dirty look from Pip.

  Who’s the weirdo now? Clark thought with a self-satisfied grin as he did the final hop, skip and jump to land on home base. He was the only one of the boys who could hit the ball over the fence—let stupid Sadie Samuels stick that in her pipe and smoke it. Call me a weirdo…

  Pip wasn’t nearly so happy about the ball being smacked over the fence.

  “Anybody have another ball?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nah. And it’s too hot anyways,” Max said with his pink, pudgy face, dripping sweat, “I’ll bring another ball tomorrow.”

  “Come on guys!” said Pip, “Don’t let a lost ball mess up the whole day. We could do something. Bowling? The pool?”

  All he got was a slap on the shoulder from Wesley, “Sorry, Pip, I spent all my money on bowling the other day.”

  “Same,” said Perry.

  “We’ll play tomorrow,” said Max. The other boys nodded in agreement.

  Pip hated having nothing to do. He wasn’t going to give up easy. He turned to his best friend.

  “Clark,” he said, “We could play a board game at your place. Come on.”

  Clark shook his head, “I’ve got too many chores. If I want to have money for the dance...you know.”

  “Chores? That shouldn’t take too long. I’ll help,” said Pip.

  Clark broke into a smile. “You’ll do my chores, huh?”

  “I’ll help you with your chores. When I get home, my mom’s probably just going to make me clean the house anyway. Might as well be cleaning at your place.”

  Reluctantly, Clark shook his head again. “Sorry, I can’t. Mom’s not there. You know.”

  Pip kicked at the dirt. “It’s kind of a dumb rule.”

  “I know,” Clark shrugged, “But that’s the way it is.” He clapped Pip on the shoulder and turned to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

  “No, wait! Hold up, Clark!” Pip thought desperately. “Hey, maybe before you do your chores, we can stop by Jerry’s and try some ice cream. I heard they’ve got a new flavor—cherry-mint. I can get it. You paid last time. Or if you want, we can hit the arcade, or…”

  “Sorry, man.” Clark shook his head. “See you tomorrow.”

  Pip watched him go. He stared at the empty neighborhood streets, at the waves of heat rising from the asphalt.

  His face darkened, overshadowed with outrage. It’s the same thing every time. Ball over fence. Game over. Day over. He hated that fence. Or really, he hated what was just beyond it. He dug out a little rock from the pitcher’s mound and chucked it as hard as he could over the same fence the ball had gone over.

  “I!” he yelled, clawing out another rock and throwing it, “HATE!” then picked up another rock, “YOU!” and threw it over.

  “Stupid labyrinth,” he said, stooping to pick up his glove. He turned his back on the fence, starting on his long walk back home. The anger on his face masked the hammering in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to do that, and he knew it. You weren’t supposed to talk to it. Weren’t even supposed to look at it, to say its name. Definitely not supposed to yell at it.

  Because the wooden fence behind him was more than the back of the empty lot. Its thin, fragile line was the only barrier between the town of Bend and the ocean of walled maze that coiled around and around it, stretching for miles and miles further than the eye could see.

  The words he’d heard since he was little echoed through his head—never go into the labyrinth, never talk to the labyrinth. He could hate the labyrinth all he wanted. And he did hate it. But he could never say that he hated it. It always felt like little kid boogey-man stories to him. Rules made to keep kids from having any fun. Still, yelling at it like that...it made him feel weird, a little bit sick inside.

  But then he turned a corner and the fence and the monster behind it disappeared. All he had left to think about was how to survive the boredom of nothing to do on a summer day by himself.