Green Smoothies and Curveballs

The smoothie sat on the kitchen counter like radioactive sludge, thick and grossly green. My mom's latest health phase meant I was now drinking what she called "nutrient-dense liquid gold" and what I called "spinach punishment" before school.

"It's good for you, Marcus!" she called from her home office. "You need the vitamins for baseball season!"

Baseball. Right. Because my entire identity apparently revolved around being a pitcher, even though I hadn't thrown a strike since seventh grade. My dad was the varsity coach. My older brother was now playing D1. And me? I was the sophomore who somehow made JV through last name alone.

I chugged the sludge, grabbed my gear, and headed to school, where my best friend Jake was already waiting by his locker.

"Dude, you smell like a compost pile," he said, scrunching his nose. "Your mom still doing that wellness influencer thing?"

"Shut up, Jake. At least my parents care about my health."

"Yeah, well, at least MY parents aren't forcing me to play a sport I literally suck at just to keep up the family legacy."

He had me there. Jake played video games competitively and had somehow made it cool.

Practice that afternoon was predictably miserable. Coach—Dad—kept me in the bullpen for two hours while the actual good pitchers took the mound. I threw maybe ten pitches, five of which hit the backstop.

"Marcus, snap out of it," my dad sighed, massaging his temples. "You're overthinking it. Just throw the baseball like you mean it."

Like it was that simple.

That night, I lay in bed scrolling through TikTok, watching kids my age become famous for literally nothing, when my phone buzzed. An Instagram notification from the girl I'd been lowkey crushing on since September: Sarah.

"saw you at practice today. you looked cute in your uniform lol"

My stomach did that stupid flip thing. But then another thought hit me—she'd SEEN me. Seen me failing. Seen me barely able to throw without looking like I'd never held a ball in my life.

Maybe it was time to just... lean into it. Being terrible. Being the guy who drank green sludge and threw like he'd never heard of sports. Maybe that was actually more interesting than pretending to be something I wasn't.

I texted back: "lol i promise i'm actually worse than i looked"

Her response was instantaneous. "good. i hate baseball anyway. want to get boba tomorrow?"

Maybe the smoothies were good for something after all.