Strikeout Season

The baseball bat felt like a lead pipe in my hands. Sixth time up, sixth strikeout — I was basically a walking zombie at this point, running on two hours of sleep and three Red Bulls. The varsity team needed me, but honestly? I needed to quit everything and hibernate until college.

"You good, Marcus?" Jordan asked from the dugout bench. He was my best friend, the kind who noticed when I was spiraling before I even realized it myself.

"I'm fine," I lied, adjusting my helmet. "Just tired."

"You've been 'just tired' for like three weeks, man. That's not tired, that's —"

"Batter UP!" Coach yelled, cutting him off.

I stepped to the plate. The pitcher wound up, and I swung at pure air. Again.

Then everything changed.

Lightning fractured the sky beyond the outfield fence — brilliant, electric veins across purple twilight. The umpire shouted something about suspending the game, but I couldn't move. I was frozen in that moment, all the pressure and expectations and exhaustion hitting me at once like a physical weight.

Jordan's hand landed on my shoulder. "Hey. Zombie moment?"

"Yeah," I breathed. "Total zombie mode."

"Wanna bounce? I've got Fortnite and leftover pizza at my place. We can be zombies together."

I looked at the field, at my teammates scattering toward the dugout, at the storm brewing overhead. Then I looked at Jordan, who'd been trying to pull me out of my fog for weeks.

"Actually," I said, "can we just talk? Like, really talk? About everything?"

Jordan grinned. "Finally. Took you long enough."

We walked to his car in the first raindrops, leaving the baseball field behind. Some games you lose. But sometimes, that's how you find what actually matters.