Strikeout Secrets

Marcus's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Tryouts for the varsity baseball team were tomorrow, and everyone expected him to crush it like his older brother had done three years ago. But Marcus had a secret: he couldn't hit a fastball to save his life.

His chocolate Lab, Buster, nudged his hand with a wet nose. Marcus was hiding in his backyard, supposedly practicing his swing, but really just dreading the inevitable humiliation.

"You gonna stand there looking like a lost puppy, or you gonna actually swing?"

Marcus jumped. Leo, his best friend since kindergarten, leaned against the fence, spinning a baseball on his finger. Leo had already made varsity as a sophomore — a freshman phenom who could probably play in college right now.

"I'm thinking about it," Marcus muttered, though he wasn't. He was thinking about how his dad had been going on about "the family legacy" all week, how the whole school would be watching, how he'd probably choke and then have to hear about it at lunch every single day.

"Bull," Leo said, tossing him the ball. "You're overthinking. Your brother's not at tryouts tomorrow. You are."

Marcus caught it. The leather felt familiar in his hands, comforting. He'd been a pitcher since Little League, but everyone kept pushing him to be a hitter too. Because that's what his brother was. Because that's what "real players" did.

"My mom made me promise to eat more spinach," Marcus said suddenly. "Says it'll help with my energy levels."

Leo cracked up. "What are you, five?"

"I know, I know." Marcus smiled despite himself. "But she bought me this gross smoothie powder stuff. Tastes like lawn clippings."

"So don't be a hitter then," Leo said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Be the best damn pitcher in the district. Own your lane, bro."

Marcus stared at him. It hadn't occurred to him — not really — that he could just... not care what everyone expected. That he could define his own version of success.

The next day, Marcus walked onto the field with something he hadn't felt in weeks: actual confidence. When the coach asked what position he wanted to try out for, Marcus didn't say what his brother would have said. He didn't say what his dad wanted to hear.

"Pitching," he said. "And nothing else."

He threw four strikeouts in a row. By the time he walked off the field, Leo was waiting by the dugout, grinning like an idiot.

"Told you," Leo said, bumping his shoulder. "Stop running from who you actually are."

That night, Marcus actually drank the spinach smoothie. It still tasted terrible, but for the first time, he didn't mind doing something his way.