Running From The Mound

Marcus's cleats dug into the dirt, his heart hammering like it was trying to break out of his chest. He'd been the star pitcher since seventh grade, the kid who threw heat and struck out everyone who stepped up to the plate. But nobody knew the truth: he hated baseball. He hated the pressure, the way his dad's eyes lit up only when discussing his stats, the way everyone expected him to carry the team.

"You're up, Marcus!" Coach yelled, and Marcus's stomach twisted into knots. He'd been running from this moment for weeks—literally running, actually. Every morning before school, he'd lace up and take off down Maple Street, past the old elementary school, through the park where he'd played T-ball. Those morning runs were the only time he felt like himself, not some baseball prodigy everyone projected their dreams onto.

He adjusted his cap, stepped onto the mound. The batter smirked, probably thinking he'd crush another Marcus fastball. But Marcus wasn't throwing heat today. His hands shook as he wound up, and suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore. It was about not bearing this weight alone.

"Hey," yelled Jensen, their loudmouth first baseman who never shut up about how he was totally gonna ask Sarah to homecoming. "You good, bro?"

Marcus dropped his arm. The ball slipped from his fingers, rolling harmlessly across the dirt.

"Actually?" His voice cracked. "No. I'm done."

The silence that followed was heavier than any expectation he'd ever carried. His dad's face in the stands—confusion, then something like disappointment, but maybe also understanding. Marcus kept running, past the infield, past the dugout, toward the parking lot where his brother waited with the car windows down and that stupid bear headband from the school game last fall.

"Saved you a seat," his brother said, tossing Marcus the bear ears. "Dad'll get over it. You're more than a game, dude."

Marcus slid into the passenger seat, bear ears askew, finally breathing easy for the first time in three years.