Sweaty Palms on the Mound

Marco's palms were sweating so bad he could barely grip the locker combination. First day of freshman year, and already he'd managed to become the guy who dropped his tray in the cafeteria, sending nacho cheese cascading across three different tables.

"Nice entrance, Nacho King," someone whispered from the back of the room.

Great. That was gonna stick.

By lunch, Marco had figured out Franklin High's social pyramid. At the top: the varsity athletes, radiating confidence like it was cologne. Bottom: everyone else, including the guy currently scraping cheese off his sneakers.

Then he saw it—the flyer for baseball tryouts. And suddenly, Marco had a plan. His older brother had taught him to pitch in their backyard since he was ten. He wasn't varsity material, but he wasn't terrible either.

"You're trying out?" His best friend Priya raised an eyebrow. "Bro, you barely survived PE.

"Watch this."

Tryout day arrived with Marco's heart hammering somewhere in his throat. His palms were so sweaty he had to wipe them on his jeans before every pitch. The coach sat in the dugout, stopwatch in hand, while the varsity captain—a junior named Jordan who'd already been scouted by Division I schools—leaned against the fence, looking unimpressed.

First pitch: ball.

Second: ball.

Marco's face burned. He could feel Jordan's eyes on him, could practically hear the laughter already starting.

Then something clicked. He stopped thinking about the pyramid, about fitting in, about everything except the sensation he knew—the grip, the wind-up, the snap of his wrist. Fastball right down the middle. Strike. Then another. Then a curveball that had the batter swinging at nothing but air.

"Not bad, Nacho King," Jordan called out, and for the first time, Marco heard something that sounded almost like respect in his voice.

Marco didn't make varsity. But he made JV, and somehow that was almost better. He wasn't at the top of the pyramid anymore, wasn't even trying to climb it. He was just Marco—the kid with the slightly sweaty palms and a fastball that caught people off guard.

And sometimes, that was enough.