Green Smoothie Summer

The orange blender sat on our counter like a warning siren.

"Drink up, champ," my mom said, sliding me a glass filled with something that looked like radioactive swamp water. "Doctor said your iron's low. This spinach smoothie will fix you right up."

I stared at it. "Mom, I have baseball practice in twenty minutes. If I barf green slime all over the infield, Coach Miller is literally going to murder me."

"Just drink it, Marcus. You'll be fine."

I gulped it down in three painful swallows, grabbed my gear, and bolted for the park. The whole way there, my stomach did backflips. I could feel the smoothie plotting against me.

Practice was brutal. Coach Miller had us running bases until my legs felt like jelly. But the real test came when he called, "Marcus, you're up! Let's see what you've got in the outfield!"

I jogged to my position, heart pounding. This was it—my chance to prove I belonged on varsity this year. I'd been working on my catching all summer, throwing with my dad in the backyard every evening until sunset.

"Eyes up!" someone yelled.

I looked up just as the ball came soaring toward me—a perfect, high arc against the blue sky. I positioned myself, knees bent, glove ready. The ball descended, closer and closer, and I jumped—

—and caught it.

"YES!" I shouted, landing in the grass. "Did you see that?"

My teammates rushed over, slapping my helmet, cheering. Someone even yelled, "That's what I'm talking about, Marcus!"

I walked home on cloud nine, my glove tucked under my arm, still buzzing from the catch. I'd done it. I was actually going to make the team.

When I walked through the door, my mom looked up from her book. "How was practice?"

"Awesome," I said, unable to stop grinning. "I made this insane catch in the outfield. Coach Miller said my form was perfect."

She smiled. "See? Maybe that spinach smoothie wasn't so bad after all."

I rolled my eyes, but then something caught my attention—my old stuffed bear sitting on the shelf above the TV. I hadn't thought about it in years. It was this beat-up brown thing with one eye that had fallen off when I was seven, back when I was scared of everything.

I'd had to bear a lot growing up—my parents' divorce, moving schools, learning to make new friends. But somewhere along the way, I'd stopped needing the bear for comfort. I'd learned to stand on my own feet.

"Maybe," I said, "but don't push your luck with the blender tomorrow."

My mom laughed. "Deal."

That night, I fell asleep with my glove beside my bed, dreaming of orange sunsets over the baseball diamond, feeling like maybe—just maybe—I was ready for whatever came next.