Storm Over the Dugout

Marcus sat on the bench, gripping his iPhone until his knuckles turned white. Another notification from Sarah—why was she being so weird lately? The baseball tryouts were tomorrow, and his nerves were already shot.

Coach had been riding him hard all week. "Stop playing scared, Marcus! You've got the arm of a bull out there, but you're pitching like you're afraid to hit the strike zone!"

The nickname "Bull" had stuck since middle school, when he'd charged through a crowd to catch a foul ball. But lately, Marcus felt more like a scared calf than any bull.

His mom had left the bottle of vitamin D supplements on the counter that morning with a sticky note: "For strong bones, sweetheart! You're growing so fast." Marcus had rolled his eyes but pocketed them anyway.

Then came the storm—lightning cracking across the sky like someone had taken a photo of the heavens. The field emptied out, everyone rushing for cover. But Marcus stayed.

He watched his phone light up. Sarah: "Hey. About yesterday... I was just nervous. Tryouts aren't everything."

Marcus typed and deleted three responses. The rain started, cold and sudden, and he realized he was done being scared—of the pitcher's mound, of saying the wrong thing, of not being enough.

He stood in the downpour, water streaming down his face, and threw imaginary strikes into the storm.

The next day, Marcus struck out three batters. And after practice, he finally asked Sarah if she wanted to hang out.

She said yes.

The lightning hadn't just lit up the sky. It had lit something up in him too.