Strike Out in the Storm

Marcus felt like a zombie — honestly, total walking dead energy — as he dragged himself toward the baseball diamond. Tryouts for varsity, and he'd spent all night doom-scrolling instead of sleeping. Classic Marcus move.

"You good, bro?" Tyler asked, bouncing on his heels like he'd mainlined five espressos. Tyler, who'd been playing travel ball since kindergarten and whose dad had already "casually" mentioned college scouts to everyone within earshot.

"Solid," Marcus lied. His palms were sweating through his gym shorts. The first lightning crack split the sky — distance thunder, maybe ten miles out. Coach Hernandez blew his whistle anyway.

"Batting practice! Let's go, let's go!"

Marcus stepped up to the plate, heart hammering. The pitcher wound up and threw something that looked suspiciously like a fastball. Marcus swung so hard he almost dislocated both shoulders. Strike one. He could feel everyone watching. The sophomore girls by the bleachers. His ex, currently laughing with someone new. The weight of seventeen years of expectations.

"You got this, M!" someone yelled. Probably fake encouragement. Definitely fake.

Second pitch. Strike two.

Then the sky opened up. Like, literally. Lightning flashed dangerously close now, purple-white veins stitching through the clouds, and suddenly everyone was scrambling for cover. Marcus ducked under the snack stand overhang, shoulder-to-shoulder with the same teammates who'd been silently judging his swing.

"Did you see that?" Tyler breathed, eyes wide. "That lightning almost hit the scoreboard."

"Yeah," Marcus said. Then, impulsively: "I think I'm gonna quit the team."

The words hung there. Tyler stared at him.

"For real? But you're... like, actually kinda good?"

"I'm terrified every single time I step up to the plate," Marcus admitted. "My parents think this is my whole future. I hate it."

Someone else spoke up — Chloe from left field. "I'm only here because my mom says I need more 'structured activities' or she's taking my phone."

"No way."

"Dead serious. I'd rather be literally anywhere else."

They all started talking over each other, this weird collective confession in the middle of a thunderstorm. Marcus realized something: everyone was faking it. The confident ones, the talented ones, the ones who seemed like they had it figured out — all just pretending, doing their best zombie impression of someone who knew what they were doing.

"You know," Marcus said, grinning, "we should form a team. The 'I Hate Baseball' team. We'd lose every game but our vibes would be immaculate."

Tyler laughed. A real one. "We'd be the worst. I'm in."

The rain let up. Coach blew the whistle again — resuming tryouts, like nothing had happened. But everything had. Marcus walked back to the plate, hands still shaking, but something else now too. He didn't have to be the player everyone expected. He could just be... himself. Even if himself sucked at baseball.

He watched the pitch come. Didn't swing. Ball one.

"Good eye, M!" Tyler yelled.

Maybe he'd strike out. Maybe he'd quit tomorrow. But right now, in this weird electric moment, Marcus finally felt awake.