Baseball caps and sweaty palms

Leo pulled his **baseball** **hat** down low, trying to disappear into the dugout bench. First day of freshman tryouts, and already he felt like a total imposter. Everyone else looked like they'd been swinging bats since birth—cleats worn in just right, gloves broken in perfectly, confidence radiating off them like cheap cologne.

"Hey rookie, you gonna warm up or just play statue all day?" Marcus called out, laughing with his junior varsity buddies. Leo's **palm**s went slick with sweat. He'd barely touched a baseball since little league, and here he was trying out for the high school team because his dad said it'd "look good on college applications." Whatever that meant.

Coach blew the whistle. "Alright, listen up! We're doing the **pyramid** drill today— JV at the top, freshmen at the base. Got it?"

The pyramid drill. Great. More like a pyramid scheme where freshmen traded their dignity for five minutes of humiliation. Leo grabbed his glove and shuffled toward the field, feeling like a literal **zombie**. Dead inside. Just going through the motions. Maybe he could fake an injury? No, that was weak.

"You're up, kid!" Coach yelled.

Leo stepped to the plate. The first pitch came—fast. He swung anyway, missing by approximately three feet. Laughter rippled through the team. His face burned. But then something clicked. The second pitch: a perfect curve ball right down the middle. *CRACK.* It sailed over the outfielders' heads, bouncing all the way to the fence.

Silence. Then someone yelled, "DAYUM!" Marcus jogged over. "Okay, that was legit. What's your name again?" Leo grinned, finally pulling his hat up. Sometimes the zombie finds a brain. Sometimes the underdog doesn't strike out. And sometimes—just sometimes—baseball isn't the worst thing in the world.