Dead on the Field

Leo felt like a zombie as he dragged himself to the baseball diamond. The orange sunset painted the sky in flames, matching the electric Gatorade his teammates chugged like it was holy water.

"You good, man?" Marcus asked, slapping his back. "You look dead."

"Just tired," Leo mumbled. But that wasn't it. He'd been feeling like a zombie for months now—going through motions, showing up to practice because his dad expected it, because his friends did it, because it was what you did when you were fifteen and had a "gift" according to everyone else.

The cable from the batting cage net snapped in the distance. Coach Martinez shouted something about focus. Leo adjusted his cap, his hands sweating on the bat.

He watched as Sarah from English class walked by the field, her orange Converse bright against the green grass. She waved. Leo almost waved back, then remembered—he was Baseball Guy. That was his identity. That's who everyone thought he was.

Strike one.

The pitch came again. Leo's bat connected. The ball soared, clearing the fence, perfect form, perfect technique. Everyone cheered. Marcus whooped. Coach nodded approval.

Leo stood there, bat resting on his shoulder, and realized something terrifying: he'd rather be sitting on his couch watching cable TV reruns with Sarah than hitting home runs for people who only loved the Baseball Guy version of him.

He dropped the bat.

"Leo?" Coach Martinez called. "You okay?"

Leo walked toward the dugout, away from the plate, away from the perfect sunset and the orange Gatorade and the life everyone else had planned for him.

"Actually," he said, voice trembling but steady, "I think I'm done."

The field went silent. For the first time in months, Leo didn't feel like a zombie at all. He felt awake.