Strikeout Summer

Marcus stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling like a dead weight in his sweaty hands. Third inning, two strikes, and somehow the entire varsity team was watching from the dugout like he was about to perform a stunt. The pitcher—some sophomore with arms like pythons—wound back and fired. Marcus swung. Nothing but air. The *clink* of the ball in the catcher's mitt echoed like a judgment.

"That's pure bull, man!" Marcus's best friend Leo shouted from the bleachers. "He was way outside!"

Coach Miller didn't care. "You're done, Chavez. Bench."

Marcus trudged off the field, his face burning hotter than the July pavement. This was supposed to be his summer—his chance to finally make varsity, finally prove he wasn't just the kid whose dad left two years ago. Instead, he was striking out and getting roasted by fourteen-year-olds.

After the game, he found himself sitting on the curb outside the 7-Eleven, nursing an orange soda that was already going warm. Leo sat beside him, crunching on an ice popsicle that stained his tongue electric blue.

"You realize that pitcher was throwing heat, right?" Leo said. "Like, actual heat. Nobody could've hit that."

"I struck out on a change-up, Leo. A change-up."

"Details."

Marcus cracked a smile despite himself. The sun was setting behind the convenience store, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink that matched his fading embarrassment. A group of girls walked by, and Marcus instinctively looked away—old habit from before he'd started filling out last year. But then he caught one of them glancing back. Actually glancing back.

"Dude," Leo whispered. "Did you see that?"

Marcus nodded, something unfamiliar blooming in his chest—not confidence exactly, but maybe the start of it. "Yeah. I saw that."

His phone buzzed. His mom, asking if he wanted dinner. His dad would've been at the game. His dad would've told him to keep his elbow up, follow through, all the baseball wisdom he used to spout while they played catch in the backyard until the streetlights flickered on.

But his dad wasn't here. And Marcus was still sitting on this curb, holding a flat orange soda, having struck out three times, and somehow—some insane way—a girl had actually looked at him like he might be worth noticing.

"I'm trying out again next week," Marcus said, crushing the soda can.

Leo raised an eyebrow. "After today? You're actually going back for more abuse?"

"Yeah. Because next time," Marcus stood up, "I'm not striking out on the change-up."

The girls were gone, the sky was dark, and tomorrow he'd probably still be terrible at baseball. But right now, Marcus felt like he was finally in the game.