Bases Loaded, Soaking Wet

Marcus stood on the mound, sweat dripping down his forehead like he was standing under a faucet instead of on the baseball field. His heart was doing that thing again—fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest.

"You got this, Marcus!" yelled Tyler from the dugout, but Marcus's knuckles were white around the ball.

He'd been the pitcher since seventh grade. It was supposed to be his thing. But lately, every time he wound up for a pitch, his brain went somewhere else. To the AP Chemistry homework he hadn't started. To the way his stomach tied itself in knots when Maya laughed at someone else's jokes. To the existential crisis of being seventeen and having zero clue who he actually was.

The batter stepped in. Marcus shook off the first sign. Second sign. Third sign.

"Marcus!" Coach Reynolds's voice cut through everything. "Throw the damn ball!"

He threw.

It sailed nowhere near the plate. Instead, it nailed the chain-link fence backstop with a CLANG that echoed across the empty lot beyond the field.

And then he heard it—a tiny, pathetic meow from behind the fence.

Marcus jogged over, expecting to find some neighborhood cat that had gotten stuck. Instead, he found a kitten, maybe eight weeks old, curled up in the shade of the fence, looking at him with eyes that said, "What up, I'm living my best life out here."

"Hey little dude," Marcus whispered, forgetting about the game, about Tyler probably laughing, about Coach probably losing his mind. "You hungry?"

The kitten purred like a tiny motorboat.

"MARCUS," Tyler's voice carried over. "There's literally a water fountain right there if you're that thirsty."

But Marcus wasn't thinking about water. He was thinking about how this random cat was just vibing in the shade while he was out here having a full-blown identity crisis in front of half his junior class.

The kitten head-butted his finger through the chain-link.

And that's when Marcus knew—somehow, weirdly—that he was going to be okay. Not great, not perfect, but okay. Even if he couldn't throw a strike to save his life. Even if he had no idea what he was doing with his life. Even if Maya never laughed at his jokes.

He jogged back to the mound, sweat still pouring down his face. "I'm good," he called out. "Just had to check on something."

Behind him, the kitten meowed.

Marcus wound up and threw. Ball four.

But for the first time all season, he didn't care. Because somewhere along the way, between the baseball field and the fence line and the water station, he'd figured out that striking out wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

The worst thing would be never taking the mound at all.