Orange Soda Courage

The locker room smelled like sweat and cheap body spray, the kind that came in aerosol cans everyone shared even though we shouldn't. I stared at myself in the mirror, adjusting my snapback—backward, because that's how Tyrell wore his, and somehow everything looked cooler when Tyrell did it.

'You nervous, rookie?' Marcus clapped my shoulder, his palm warm through my jersey.

'Nah,' I lied. My stomach was doing that thing where it felt like I'd swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls.

Today was tryouts. Freshman actually making varsity. unheard of at our school, but Coach had been watching me play catch with my dad since seventh grade, said I had 'natural mechanics.' Whatever that meant. I just knew how to throw a baseball.

The dugout was already buzzing when we walked out. Upperclassmen in their pristine uniforms, cleats clicking against concrete like some secret rhythm only they knew. I found an empty spot on the bench, pulled my phone from my pocket—my mom's old iphone she'd passed down when she upgraded—and saw three texts from her.

Good luck honey!!! We're so proud!!! followed by about seven heart emojis.

I smiled despite myself. Then Tyrell walked past.

'Freshman,' he said, not unkindly. He tugged the brim of his hat—same brand as mine, obviously—and nodded at the cooler behind me. 'Grab me an orange?'

'Yeah. Sure.'

My hands were shaking as I reached in. Fanta. The orange cans were always Fanta. I passed it to him, and our fingers brushed for half a second. My brain helpfully supplied that this was the first time I'd ever touched Tyrell Washington, junior varsity shortstop, arguably the most popular guy in tenth grade, and I was currently holding it together about as well as a tissue paper umbrella in a hurricane.

'Thanks, rookie.' He cracked it open. 'Hey, you're Marcus's little brother, right? The one with the arm?'

I nodded, couldn't find words.

'Cool.' He took a sip. 'Don't screw this up.'

Coach blew his whistle, and we all jogged onto the field. The diamond looked different from here—bigger somehow. The grass perfectly manicured, the bases bright white against green. I took my position in right field, fingers gripping the ball, heart pounding somewhere in my throat.

First fly ball came straight at me. I tracked it, planted my feet, caught it clean. Someone whistled—Tyrell, maybe.

Next batter: massive sophomore who looked like he could bench press my entire extended family. He stepped in, dug his cleats into the dirt, and I saw it—the way his eyes locked in, the slight bend in his knees. This kid was about to crush something.

Crack.

The ball sailed toward me, a perfect arc against blue sky. I ran, tracking it, everything narrowing down to this one moment. My glove closed around leather. I'd never felt anything like it—solid and satisfying and completely, totally right.

'NICE!' someone yelled. 'YO, THAT KID CAN PLAY!'

I pulled the ball from my glove and looked up. Tyrell was watching from shortstop, nodding. Just a small thing, but it felt like getting handed the moon.

My phone buzzed in my pocket during water break. Mom again, obviously. But I didn't check it. I was too busy listening to Marcus and Tyrell argue about whether Chipotle or Qdoba was objectively superior Mexican food, and somehow, I wasn't the freshman anymore.

I was just part of the team.

The bull in our mascot costume—a junior named Jake who took way too much pride in being literally the horniest animal on campus—ran past doing some weird celebration dance after someone hit a homer. I laughed, actually laughed, and realized my hands had stopped shaking about three innings ago.

'You coming to the diner after?' Tyrell asked later, as we packed up. 'Team tradition.'

'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah, I'm coming.'

My mom picked me up two hours later, reeking of victory and french fries. She kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror like I'd grown three inches since she dropped me off.

'So?' she finally asked.

I thought about the orange Fanta, the perfect catch, being part of something bigger than myself.

'I made it,' I said.

Her smile in the rearview mirror was brighter than the sun.