Strikeout Season

The bull in the outfield wasn't actually a bull—that was just the nickname for the massive chain-link fence that separated the high school baseball diamond from the old Miller farm. But to Marcus, standing at home plate with sweaty palms, it felt just as imposing.

"You got this, Marcus!" Chloe yelled from the bleachers, her bright orange streaked hair catching the sunlight like she was some kind of anime protagonist come to life. Marcus felt his face heat up. Not because of the game—because of her.

His teammates called him "princess" after they'd caught him combing his hair in the bathroom mirror for ten minutes before first period. Whatever. They didn't understand that when your hair refused to cooperate with anything except gravity and bad luck, you had to put in work.

The pitcher wound up. Marcus's iphone buzzed in his back pocket—probably his mom asking about dinner again, or worse, his older brother trolling him with fake emergency texts. Focus, he told himself. Just swing.

Strike three.

"Dude, you were totally overthinking it," said Javier, slapping his shoulder as they trudged to the dugout. "You swing like you're trying to solve a math problem. Just hit the stupid ball."

Marcus sank onto the bench, grabbed his water bottle, and watched the game unfold through the chain-link fence. Beyond it, the real bull from Miller's farm stared at him with what looked suspiciously like judgment.

After the game—a 7-2 massacre, thank you very much—Chloe caught up with him near the snack stand.

"Nice swing," she said, and Marcus couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. "My little sister hits better than that, but y'know, no pressure."

"Thanks," Marcus deadpanned. "Your hair looks cool today."

"What, this?" She flipped her orange-streaked bangs. "DIY disaster. My mom's gonna kill me when she sees it."

"It suits you."

Chloe actually smiled. A genuine one, not the fake polite ones she gave everyone else. "Want to split an orange? I've got two in my bag, and I'm not trying to carry them home."

So there they were, sitting on the curb outside the baseball field, peeling an orange with dirty hands, while somewhere in the distance, a bull continued its existential bovine contemplation. And Marcus thought maybe striking out wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a guy.

Sometimes you have to swing and miss a few times before you get what you're actually aiming for.