Bottom of the Pyramid

Freshman year hit me like a fastball to the face. One minute I'm king of middle school, the next I'm at the bottom of the pyramid—socially speaking. Creekwood High's caste system made ancient Egypt look egalitarian.

"You're trying out?" Marcus raised an eyebrow, his varsity jacket practically gleaming with privilege. "Baseball's brutal, rookie."

I clutched my worn glove. "Yeah. So?"

So Marcus was the starting pitcher. So his dad owned half the town. So I hadn't played since Little League and that was three years and twelve inches of growth ago. Whatever.

That night, I dug through my closet and found it—our old team mascot from fifth grade championship. A raggedy brown bear with a missing eye and "CHAMPIONS 2021" Sharpied on its paw. My mom had kept it like some sacred artifact.

Stupid thing was, I'd squeezed that bear through every anxiety attack since sixth grade. First crush rejection. Dad walking out. The whole mess.

Tryouts happened on the coldest March morning in history. Coach Miller watched like a hawk while I shivered through batting practice. First pitch? Strike one swinging. Second? Foul tip that almost took out the assistant coach's knee.

"Not terrible," Miller grunted. "But you're gripping too tight. Like you're scared of the bat."

Third pitch, I closed my eyes. Remembered the bear hidden under my bed. Remembered that championship game where I'd hit the walk-off.

Crack.

The ball sailed over the center fielder's head. I made it to second base before anyone reacted.

"Not bad, rookie," Marcus called from the dugout. He actually nodded. Respect?

That night, I texted my best friend: *made the team. JV but whatever.*

She sent back: *OMG POOKIE WE EATING TONIGHT*

Maybe the pyramid wasn't so rigid after all. Maybe baseball wasn't just about the game. And maybe, just maybe, that stupid one-eyed bear was my good luck charm after all.