Goldfish in the Batter's Box

Marcus stood by the **baseball** dugout, his heart hammering like a **cat** trapped in a thunderstorm. The varsity team's jerseys blazed **orange** under the field lights, and somewhere in the distance, the school mascot—a plastic **bear** head—watched him judgmentally from the concession stand roof.

"You coming, bro?" Tyler called from the batter's box. "Or you just gonna hold up the wall?"

Marcus's throat went dry. This was it—the moment he'd been overthinking all week. The tryout that could finally get him out of the shadows, into the light where people actually noticed him existed. Where she might notice him existed.

He stepped forward, then stopped. His pocket buzzed. A text from his mom: *Don't forget your sister's goldfish needs feeding. We'll be late.*

**Goldfish**. Seriously? His social life was literally being held hostage by a fish with a three-second memory?

"Marcus!" Coach Miller's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You gonna swing that bat or marry it?"

The team snickered. Someone—Tyler, probably—muttered something about "wasting everyone's time."

Something in Marcus snapped. Maybe it was the **orange** sunset bleeding into the sky like a bruised peach. Maybe it was three years of being nobody. Or maybe he was just done caring about looking stupid.

He stepped into the batter's box and didn't overthink. Didn't second-guess. Just swung.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed over the fence. Dead center. Perfect.

The field went silent. Then Tyler's jaw dropped. Coach Miller whistled through his teeth.

"What," Marcus said, adjusting his glasses, "you thought I was just here for the aesthetic?"

Later, walking home with his sister's **goldfish** bag sloshing in his backpack and the neighbor's **cat** trailing him like it knew something had changed, Marcus's phone buzzed again.

*That was actually insane* — Chloe, the girl from third period.

He smiled at the **bear** mascot head still perched on the concession stand, now almost friendly in the dusk. Some days, you just had to swing for the fences.

Even if you smelled like fish food.