Riddle of the Mound

The storm rolled in right as I stepped to the plate. Typical. My life's basically a comedy of errors at this point.

"You got this, Marcus!" Jenna yelled from the bleachers, and my stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ. She'd been watching me all week, which was either the best or worst thing to happen to me.

Thunder cracked overhead. Rain started falling—first a sprinkle, then straight-up buckets of water soaking through my jersey.

"Game's called!" the ump shouted, but Coach Ryman shook his head.

"One more out! We need this!"

I looked at the pitcher, some dude from Westside who'd been staring me down like I was a sphinx guarding ancient secrets. His expression was unreadable, this test of my baseball worthiness that I had zero chance of passing.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Mom. Probably warning me about lightning or whatever—she'd been texting me weather updates all day like I couldn't see the sky turning the color of a bruised peach.

Then I saw it: Flash's leash had come loose. Mrs. Gable's golden retriever was bolting across the field, straight toward home plate, ears flopping like he was living his best life.

"Flash! NO!" Mrs. Gable screamed.

The pitcher froze. The dog scrambled through the mud, slid into home plate, and shook himself off like a wet towel.

Everyone lost it.

Jenna was laughing so hard she fell off the bleacher. The pitcher cracked a smile. Even Coach Ryman was chuckling.

And in that moment—standing on a baseball field in the middle of a thunderstorm, watching a very wet very good boy ruin everything—I realized something important.

I didn't have to be perfect. I didn't have to solve the riddle or be the hero or impress anyone.

I just had to show up.

"So," Jenna said later, standing under the overhang while we waited for rides. "Your dog's pretty cool."

"Not my dog," I said, but I was smiling.

"Whatever." She bumped my shoulder. "You're not terrible at baseball either."

I'll take it.