Sphinx in the Dugout

Marcus adjusted his baseball cap for the hundredth time, sweat already gathering at the brim. Tryouts were in twenty minutes, and his stomach was doing that thing where it felt like he'd swallowed a entire spinach casserole. Not the good kind with cheese — the mushy cafeteria kind that sat wrong.

"You're overthinking it," said his best friend Darius, swinging his bat like he was facing off against the sphinx itself instead of a pitching machine. "Just hit the ball. It's not rocket science."

Easy for him to say. Darius had been playing since kindergarten, while Marcus was finally convincing his mom to let him try out freshman year. She kept worrying about his grades, his sleep schedule, whether he'd get hurt — typical mom stuff that he'd usually roll his eyes at, but today it was making everything worse.

His phone buzzed. A text from Riley: *good luck today not that u need it ur already amazing *

Marcus felt his face heat up. Riley had started sitting at their lunch table last month, all quiet confidence and mystery, like she knew something nobody else did. She'd call him out when he was being fake with the popular kids, but she'd also defend him when they made fun of his old cable-knit sweater.

The sweater. The one he'd accidentally left in his locker yesterday when the fire drill interrupted third period. The same sweater he needed RIGHT NOW because he'd promised to wear it for luck.

"I gotta run," Marcus told Darius. "Forgot something."

"You're gonna miss warm-ups!"

Marcus sprinted across the parking lot, dodging through groups of upperclassmen who stared like he'd grown a second head. His dog waited at home — Buster, who'd bark at literally everything except actual threats, who'd gotten him through his parents' divorce last year by sleeping on his feet every single night. Buster would understand. Sometimes you had to do embarrassing things for the people you cared about.

He made it back to the field with three minutes to spare, sweater stuffed under his arm, chest heaving. Coach blew the whistle.

"Alright, listen up!" Coach Miller's voice carried like he was speaking through a megaphone. "Today's not just about skill. It's about heart. Who's gonna step up when it counts? Who's gonna be the person their teammates can count on?"

Marcus pulled on his lucky sweater, right there in the dugout, while fifteen guys watched. He caught Darius's eye. His best friend was grinning.

"That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen," Darius called out.

Marcus laughed, and suddenly the spinach casserole feeling in his stomach was gone. Riley's text flashed in his mind — *ur already amazing* — and he realized she was right. Not because he was the best player, or the coolest kid, or any of that surface-level stuff. But because he was the guy who'd run across a parking lot in a cable-knit sweater because he made a promise to himself.

He picked up his bat and stepped to the plate.

The pitcher wound up. The ball came flying. Marcus swung.

It didn't matter whether he made the team or not. The real victory was that he was finally showing up as himself — sphinx-level mysteries and all.