Sweaty Palms and Fourth Inning

My palms were literally sweating through my batting gloves. Again.

"You good, bro?" Marcus whispered from the dugout bench, tapping my cleat with his.

"Yeah. Just vitamins kicking in," I lied, popping another Vitamin C supplement like it was magic anti-anxiety candy. Mom's holistic phase had officially become my crutch.

The truth? I wasn't good. This was my fourth baseball practice since Marcus convinced me to try out for the team, and I hadn't made solid contact once. My batting average was hovering somewhere between tragic and embarrassing.

Coach Jenkins blew his whistle. "Bennett! You're up!"

My stomach did that nervous flip thing, the one that feels like you swallowed a butterfly farm. I grabbed my bat and walked toward home plate, trying to look like I belonged. Like I hadn't spent the last three years hiding in the library during lunch.

Behind the backstop, I saw her. Riley. The girl I'd been crushing on since seventh grade algebra, currently running laps around the track with her cross-country team. Her hair was pulled back in that effortless way, and she was laughing with her friends while I was about to humiliate myself.

Great. Just great.

First pitch: fastball, right down the middle. I swung so hard I nearly dislocated something. Strike one.

"Choke up," someone yelled. Probably Marcus. Probably trying to be helpful.

Second pitch: I checked my swing, tipping it foul. Strike two.

Riley was still running. Why was she still running? How long was one lap anyway?

Third pitch came in high and outside. I didn't swing. Ball one. Small victories.

Then I heard it—Marcus and the guys doing that thing where they chant your name like it's supposed to help. "BEN-nett! BEN-nett!"

My palms were slick. My heart was running a marathon against my ribs. I adjusted my grip, swallowed my pride, and thought: just hit the stupid ball.

The pitch came in, perfectly average. I connected.

It wasn't a home run. It wasn't even close. But it wasn't an embarrassing swing-and-miss either. The ball sailed into the gap between first and second, rolling past the infielder's glove. I sprinted toward first base, lungs burning, legs pumping.

Safe. By like half a step.

"YESSS!" Marcus screamed from the dugout, mobbing me when I got back. "That's what I'm talking about! See? You just needed to stop overthinking."

I looked over at the track. Riley had finished her laps. She caught my eye and gave me a small thumbs-up.

My palms were still sweating. But maybe that was okay. Some things are worth getting sweaty for.