Papaya Power-Up Ritual

Marcus stood in the dugout, gripping his **baseball** bat like it might suddenly sprout wings and fly away. First varsity game. Senior year. The kind of moment that supposedly defined you forever, or at least until next semester.

"You got this, bro," Liam said, fist-bumping him. "Don't let the pressure eat you alive."

Easy for Liam to say. He'd already committed to playing Division III next year. Marcus? He was just hoping not to embarrass himself in front of his dad, who sat in the stands wearing that old **bull** of a pickup truck hat—the one he refused to retire even though the logo had started peeling freshman year.

Coach Rodriguez marched over, his face carved from permanent disapproval. "Martinez. You're up third inning. Don't choke like last practice."

Last practice. When Marcus had swung so hard he'd spun himself into the ground. The whole team had witnessed it. The memory still made his stomach twist.

He reached into his bag and pulled out his secret weapon: the **papaya** smoothie his abuela swore by. "Vitamin** C for the nerves," she'd said, pressing the plastic bottle into his hands that morning. "Your tío Pepe drank this before every boxing match. Never lost."

Maybe that was true. Maybe tío Pepe had just fought really terrible opponents. Marcus didn't care. He chugged the weird orange sludge, feeling slightly ridiculous.

"Gross," said Tyler from the varsity squad, making a face. "Dude, you got, like, weird pregame rituals."

Marcus shrugged. "Works for me."

First pitch came—a fastball, high and outside. Strike one. The crowd groaned. His dad probably put his face in his hands.

Second pitch: curveball, low. Marcus held back. Ball one.

Third pitch—he didn't even see it. "Strike two!" the umpire bellowed.

His heart hammered. This was it. The moment where dreams went to die or legends were born. He thought about tío Pepe boxing in some sweaty gym decades ago. About his abuela's kitchen, smelling of spices and certainty. About his dad, who'd driven him to every practice since age seven even when work ran late.

The fourth pitch came in slow. Marcus connected. The ball sailed over the left fielder's head, bouncing once, twice, three times against the fence.

"HE'S GOT A BEAR!" someone shouted—probably meant "bare," but whatever.

As he rounded second base, his dad's hat flying as he jumped from the stands, Marcus caught sight of Tyler's dumbfounded expression.

Guess papaya power wasn't so weird after all.