Papaya Stains and Baseball Dreams

Marcus had been running from his reflection for three weeks. Ever since that disastrous Tuesday when his mom showed up to baseball practice with her famous papaya smoothies.

"It's packed with vitamins!" she'd yelled across the field like the entire spectator area needed to know her dietary philosophy. Coach Miller had paused mid-lecture. The varsity players had snickered. Marcus had wanted to dissolve into the dugout floor.

Now here he was at Tyrell's end-of-summer party, nursing a warm soda and watching Jordan—the cute junior who'd actually noticed him at the game last week—laugh with some senior guy near the **palm** tree.

Jordan caught his eye and waved him over.

Marcus's heart did that annoying fluttery thing. He smoothed his shirt, then froze. There it was: a faint pinkish stain on his sleeve from his mom's **papaya** experiment that morning. His life was a walking tropical fruit disaster.

"Hey!" Jordan smiled as he approached. "Tyrell says you're trying out for varsity."

"Uh, yeah." Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably gonna choke though."

"You were crushing it at practice," Jordan said. "That line drive you hit? Sick."

The senior guy—Sam, Marcus remembered—eyed him. "Baseball? Cool. You play travel ball?"

"Nah, just... school stuff." Marcus felt the familiar weight of expectations. Of trying to be something he wasn't. Of his mom's voice in his head: "Be yourself, mijo! Everyone loves a person who's authentic!" Easy for her to say—she wasn't fifteen.

Jordan leaned closer. "My abuela makes this mango smoothie thing. I hate it when she brings it to my games. Everyone stares like I've got three heads."

Marcus blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Every Saturday." Jordan rolled their eyes. "Parents are the worst, right?"

"Literally the worst."

For the first time all night, Marcus felt his shoulders drop. He wasn't the only one with embarrassing parent moments. Jordan thought his papaya story was normal, or at least relatable.

"You should come to tryouts tomorrow," Jordan said. "I'll be there. My brother's the pitching coach."

Marcus looked at his stained sleeve and didn't even care. "Yeah. I'll be there."

Jordan grinned. "Perfect. Bring the smoothies next time. I bet they're actually good."

Maybe his mom was right after all. Maybe being himself wasn't so terrible. Maybe he'd been running from the wrong thing.