Cableties and Backspins

Marcus's dad lived for **baseball**. Like, actually lived for it. The man had Cubs jerseys older than Marcus, and every summer weekend meant sacrifice flies to a father who'd never actually made the varsity team himself. Marcus played along, mostly because disappointing his dad felt heavier than a catcher's mitt. But his heart wasn't in it. Not really.

Then came the **cable** incident.

Marcus was supposed to be reorganizing the entertainment center while his dad was at work. Instead, he found himself deep in a YouTube rabbit hole about this sport called **padel**—something like tennis meets squash, played on this tiny enclosed court with these angled walls that made the ball bounce wild. It looked chaotic and fast and nothing like the slow, ritualized suffering of baseball practice.

The next week, he mentioned it at lunch.

"Padel?" Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that what those rich kids play at the country club?"

"Nah, it's actually fire," Marcus said, then immediately cringed at himself. Since when did he say "fire" unironically?

But Sarah laughed. "Show me."

Which is how Marcus ended up at the community center's new padel courts with Sarah and two of her friends, holding a borrowed racquet while his phone buzzed with texts from his dad asking about batting practice. The walls were plexiglass. The ball came at him fast, then banked off the back wall at this impossible angle.

He swung. Missed. Humiliated himself completely.

Sarah wasn't laughing, though. She was watching him like she was seeing something new.

"Try the backspin," she said. "Like this." And she demonstrated, her racquet brushing under the ball, sending it skidding low and vicious.

Marcus tried again. This time, he connected. The ball ricocheted off the back wall, then the side, then landed exactly where he'd aimed.

For a second, nobody said anything. Then Sarah's eyes lit up.

"Okay, that wasn't beginner luck."

His phone buzzed again. Baseball practice in forty-five minutes. And suddenly Marcus realized—his dad would be disappointed. But that disappointment wasn't actually heavier than a mitt. It was just disappointment. And sometimes disappointment was the price of finally figuring out who you actually were when nobody was watching.

"Got time for another set?" Marcus asked.

Sarah grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."

The texts went unanswered. For the first time in forever, Marcus didn't feel guilty about it.