Extra Innings in the Mirror

Marcus stared at the reflection, his fingers tangling in curls that had somehow tripled in volume overnight. The stupid hair vitamins his abuela swore by—"they make you strong, mijo"—were definitely working. Just not how he'd expected.

"You look like a poodle on steroids," his younger sister laughed, leaning against the bathroom door frame.

"Shut up, Sofia." Marcus tried flattening his hair with water, but it sprang back up like it was possessed. Today was baseball tryouts, and Coach Reynolds always said the game was ninety percent mental. Marcus's mental state was currently hovering around ten percent.

The vitamins had been his abuela's gift after he complained about feeling tired all the time. Now he had energy but at the cost of looking like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. He considered wearing his baseball cap, but Coach hated that during tryouts. "Show me your eyes, not your brim," he'd say.

Outside, the March wind bit at his cheeks as Marcus walked to the field. His stomach did that familiar flip-flop combo that happened whenever he thought about batting. Last season, he'd choked at regionals—two strikeouts, one ground ball to second. His teammates still joked about it, but not in the mean way. In the "we've all been there" way. Which somehow felt worse.

"Yo, Marcus!" Carlos waved from the dugout. "Your hair looks... extra today."

"Vitamins," Marcus muttered, dropping his bag. "My grandma's trying to turn me into the Hulk."

Carlos laughed. "Whatever, man. If you hit like you look, you'll crush it."

Marcus stepped into the batting cage, his heart hammering against his ribs. The first pitch came—fast, outside. Ball. Second pitch, he connected, but it fouled off hard. The sting in his hands felt familiar, grounding.

Third pitch. Something clicked. Not with his swing, but in his head. His curls bounced with every movement, wild and unapologetic. His abuela would say they had character. Maybe she was right.

The ball sailed over the centerfield fence.

"Damn!" Carlos whooped. "What'd I tell you?"

Marcus adjusted his helmet, feeling the ridiculous mass of hair underneath. Whatever. He'd make it work. Some players had their rituals, their superstitions. His thing happened to be vitamins that made him look like a mad scientist.

After tryouts, Coach pulled him aside. "You've got something special, son. Don't let anyone mess with your head—your hair, your swing, whatever. Own it."

Marcus walked home feeling lighter, actually considering the gel Sofia had offered. Maybe not. The curls could stay. His abuela would say they made him look healthy, like he'd been drinking sunshine.

And really, wasn't that what baseball was about anyway? Figuring out who you were when nobody was watching, then stepping up to the plate anyway?