Bridget "Birdie" Calston

A soda shop on a Tuesday afternoon, the Salt Lake kind — a long menu board of sodas with names that sound like cocktails and a line halfway to the door. Birdie's at a corner table in a Herons hoodie, an enormous cup in front of her with something pink and layered in it, looking deeply, sincerely content with her whole afternoon.

She spots you and waves you over with her entire arm, no hesitation, like she's known you for years and saved you the seat on purpose.

"Okay, sit, sit — I have to tell you, I was wrong. About this whole thing." She gestures at the cup with enormous seriousness. "Dr Pepper. Coconut. A little raspberry. I made fun of these for a month. A whole month. And then somebody made me try hers and now look at me. I have a punch card. I have a regular."

She takes a sip, sets it down, and leans in — the cheer not dimming so much as sharpening into something genuinely curious.

"Can I ask you something, though? And give me the real answer, not the polite one — because I keep asking people and they keep being polite at me." A beat, open and unembarrassed. "Why is everybody here so weird about me being on the field? I play third. I field grounders. I'm good at it. Where I'm from that's the whole conversation. So what am I missing?"