Riddles in the Dugout

Marcus slouched against the **baseball** dugout fence, cleats scuffing the dirt. Second week of tryouts and he still hadn't told anyone he'd rather be at auditions for the school play.

"You coming, Marcus? Coach wants batters now," called Jamal, tapping his bat against home plate.

"Yeah. Just... gotta tie my shoe."

Marcus ducked behind the bleachers and pulled the crumpled flyer from his back pocket. The spring musical: *Oedipus Who?* They needed a **sphinx** for the chorus — mysterious, riddle-spouting, obscured by fog and cheap stage makeup. No pressure, no parents watching from the stands, no stats printed in the local paper. Just becoming someone else entirely.

His phone buzzed. Dad: *Game at 7. Don't be late.*

The text hit like a physical weight. Dad lived for Marcus's innings — the legacy thing, carrying on the family name, maybe earning a scholarship someday. What Marcus actually wanted felt selfish, small, unworthy.

"Hey, nerd."

Tyler. The absolute definition of a **bull** in every social situation, charging through conversations, scattering whatever confidence Marcus had managed to glue together.

"Heard you're not starting lineup material this year," Tyler smirked. "Again."

Marcus's phone lit up again. Mom: *Don't forget your lunch. Added extra **spinach** — brain food!*

Brain food. God. He was fifteen and his mom still packed his lunch with a note about leafy greens.

Something in Marcus snapped.

"Yeah, well," Marcus said, voice shaking but audible, "maybe I'm done with baseball."

The dugout went quiet. Jamal stopped tapping his bat. Tyler's smirk faltered.

"What?"

"I said I'm done. I'm trying out for the play instead."

The silence stretched. Then Jamal started laughing — not mean laughing, but genuine. "Dude, finally? We've all seen your Instagram posts. You know every lyric to *Hamilton*.*

Marcus blinked.

"Wait, everyone knows?"

"Bro," Jamal said, "you literally hum showtunes in the shower after games. We was just waiting for you to figure it out."

Behind the bleachers, Marcus's chest loosened. The weight dissolved. He pulled out the flyer again — *Oedipus Who?*, sphinx needed, auditions today at 4 — and smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I'm done guessing my own riddles."