Routines and Curveballs

The alarm blares at 6:45 AM and I drag myself out of bed, feeling like a literal zombie. My eyes are crusty, my brain's foggy, and I'm pretty sure I'm operating on like three functioning brain cells. This is what sophomore year does to you, folks.

'Marcus, don't forget your vitamins!' Mom calls from the kitchen, rattling one of those massive pill organizer boxes like she's trying to summon some kind of health demon.

'Got it, Mom,' I mutter, shoving the orange tablets into my backpack. I don't even know what they're supposed to do. Make me taller? Smarter? Less likely to collapse during third period PE?

The real reason I'm exhausted isn't the early mornings. It's the late nights. Every night after homework, I sneak onto my phone and scroll through baseball highlights until 2 AM. I've watched that Mike Trout home run from last season maybe fifty times. The way the ball just *explodes* off his bat? Magic.

'You trying out for the team again this year?' Jake asks at lunch, sliding into the seat across from me. Jake's been on varsity since freshman year because his dad's the coach and he's got those genetics that should be illegal.

'Yeah,' I say, trying to sound casual even though my stomach does that nervous flip thing. 'Why not?'

'Just saying, last year you struck out three times in tryouts.' He takes a bite of his sandwich. 'Not exactly clutch performance.'

I want to throw my juice box at his face. Instead I just shrug. Different year, different Marcus. That's the mantra.

Tryouts are after school. The coach blows his whistle and we all line up, a sea of nervous energy and sweaty palms. I'm benchwarming for the first round, watching kids I barely know swing and miss or somehow manage to hit the ball straight into the outfield fence.

'Marcus Evans, you're up!'

I step into the batter's box, heart hammering. The pitcher winds up and releases – a fastball, high and outside. I let it pass. Ball one.

The next pitch comes in low. I swing and connect, feeling that perfect sweet spot vibration through the aluminum bat. The ball sails toward left field, past the diving outfielder, rolling all the way to the fence.

'Run!' someone yells.

I tear around the bases, lungs burning, legs pumping. I slide into home just as the ball arrives, safe by inches. The scattered applause sounds like the best thing I've ever heard.

'Not bad, zombie,' Jake says, actually smiling when I head back to the dugout. 'Not bad.'

That night, I skip the baseball highlights. Instead I lie in bed replaying that hit, that slide, that moment when everything clicked. Maybe the vitamins are working after all. Or maybe I'm just finally waking up.