Swallowing Fear

The goldfish pond behind the school bleachers was my sanctuary. I'd skip baseball practice to sit there, watching Orange Soda—that's what I named the biggest one—circle endlessly in murky water. Coach thought I was dealing with 'personal stuff.' Truth was, I was terrified.

Tryouts were next week. Everyone expected me to make varsity because my older brother was a legend. But I couldn't hit anything. My batting average was tragic. When I swung, I looked like I was fighting invisible bees.

'You coming today?' Marcus asked, finding me behind the bleachers. He was the shortstop, constantly vaping something that smelled like chemicals.

'Nah.' I tossed a pebble into the pond. Orange Soda scattered.

'My mom's making papaya salad,' he said. 'Come over. It's weird as hell but you need to eat something that's not cafeteria trash.'

I followed him to his house, where his Vietnamese mom handed me a bowl of what looked like orange sludge. 'Papaya with shrimp and chili,' she said. 'Good for energy.'

I took a bite and my mouth exploded. Spicy, sour, somehow sweet. I couldn't stop eating it.

'First time?' Marcus laughed. 'You look like you're dying and loving it.'

'Maybe I just need new things,' I said. 'Baseball isn't working. I keep striking out.'

Marcus shrugged. 'So what? Everyone strikes out. Even Riley.' He meant my brother. 'Last year, in that playoff game? He whiffed three times. Nobody talks about it though, because he hit the walk-off in the tenth.'

I stared at him. 'Really?'

'Bro, your whole family talks about it constantly. You just never listen.'

That night, I went back to the goldfish pond with papaya from Marcus's mom. I fed some to Orange Soda (I Googled it first—goldfish can eat fruit). The fish went absolutely feral for it.

'You like weird new things too, huh?' I whispered.

At tryouts the next day, I didn't think about mechanics or my brother or expectations. I just thought about how weird life is—how goldfish love papaya, how perfection is a myth, how Marcus had seen me at my lowest and somehow made it cooler.

First pitch: I crushed it. Straight to center field.

Second at-bat: strikeout swinging so hard I spun in a circle.

Third: line drive single.

I didn't make varsity. But I made JV as a starter, and when I told Orange Soda, he did a little victory lap around his pond. Some wins are quiet. Some are goldfish-sized. That's the stuff that matters anyway.