Strike Zone Supernova

Marcus's old **baseball** cap sat crushed at the bottom of his locker, neon-green brim snapped in half. Three days ago, it had been his lucky charm. Now it was just evidence of the worst Wednesday in history.

"Bro, you gonna wear that?" Tyrell leaned against the locker next to him, already suited up in varsity gear. "Tryouts start in twenty."

Marcus shrugged. "Maybe I'll go **hat**-less. New season, new me, right?"

"Whatever you say, man." Tyrell's expression said everything Marcus didn't want to hear: *you're gonna choke again.*

Outside, the sky had that bruised-purple look that meant **lightning** was coming. Coach Hernandez had already sent two texts saying practice might get cancelled, but Marcus needed this. He'd spent all winter in the batting cages, his swing transforming from sloppy to something almost dangerous. He wasn't the same kid who struck out looking last season with bases loaded.

His phone buzzed. Mom: *Don't forget your grandpa's recipe! Spinach smoothie before games! Remember what he always said – heavy greens, heavy hits!*

Marcus groaned. Sometimes he wondered if his whole family was cursed with weird traditions. But Grandpa had batting average .342 back in the day, and Marcus was desperate enough to blend frozen spinach into something drinkable.

The dugout smelled like old leather and nervous energy when he arrived, green slurry in a shaker bottle. Tyrell raised an eyebrow. "What is THAT?"

"Pre-game fuel," Marcus said, trying to sound confident. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

First pitch cracked against his bat – a clean line drive to left field. Second pitch, he didn't even swing, he just *knew*. Coach Hernandez whistled from the fence.

"Somebody's been eating their vegetables!"

By the fifth pitch, Marcus had stopped thinking about the hat, the weird smoothie, the way Tyrell's jaw had dropped. There was only the ball, spinning toward him, and his body moving before his brain could mess it up.

**Lightning** flashed across the sky as he crushed the last pitch over the centerfield fence. For real this time.

"Alright, alright," Coach called, clapping as thunder rumbled. "We're cutting it short, folks. Storm's coming in hot. But Holland?" He nodded toward Marcus. "Welcome to varsity."

Tyrell slapped Marcus's back. "Dude. What was in that smoothie?"

Marcus grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Trade secret, man. Trade secret."