Strikeouts and Spark

My mom's vitamin collection took up half the pantry. Each morning, she'd hand me my daily dose — a multivitamin shaped like a cartoon bear. "For strong bones, Mason," she'd say, like vitamins were magical tickets to a better life. I swallowed them without complaint because fighting her took more energy than I had at 7 AM.

The real battle was baseball practice. I'd joined the team because Kyle did, and because sitting at home playing video games wasn't exactly impressing anyone. But I sucked. Like, genuinely terrible. My batting average was hovering somewhere between zero and embarrassment.

"You're thinking too much," Kyle said during batting practice, tossing me a ball. "Just swing."

Easy for him to say. Kyle was the kind of guy who made everything look effortless — varsity jacket, perfect hair, the way everyone naturally migrated toward him in the cafeteria. Meanwhile, I was still figuring out which lunch table I belonged at.

That afternoon, the sky turned that sickly gray color that means trouble. Coach yelled, "Last round, then we're heading inside!" I stepped up to the plate, already resigned to another strikeout, another round of good-natured teasing that didn't quite feel good-natured.

Then lightning cracked across the sky — close enough that the hair on my arms stood up. Everyone scattered. Everyone except me. Something about that moment, that flash of white splitting the darkness, it hit me different.

I didn't swing for the fence. I didn't try to be Kyle. I just swung. The ball connected with my bat in a way that sent a vibration through my whole body, like something finally clicking into place. It wasn't a home run. It wasn't even particularly impressive. But it was solid. It was mine.

"Dude," Kyle said, actually impressed. "Where'd that come from?"

I just grinned. Maybe some things — like hitting a baseball, like figuring out who you're supposed to be — don't come from vitamins or practice drills. Maybe they come in flashes, sudden and undeniable, like lightning illuminating everything you've been too scared to look at directly.

My mom still made me take those cartoon bear vitamins every morning. But at practice, I stopped trying to hit like Kyle. I started hitting like me. Turns out, that was enough.