Sweaty Palms & Strikeouts

The humidity in Florida hit different. Like, actually oppressive. My palms were already sweating through my denim shorts, and I hadn't even made it to first period yet.

"You good?" Marcus asked, bumping my shoulder with his. We'd been best friend since sixth grade, back when being awkward was just our brand.

"Nervous as hell," I admitted, wiping my hands on my legs. "Tryouts are at 4. What if I choke?"

Marcus snorted. "Bro, you've been playing baseball since you were five. This is JV, not the majors. Besides," he gestured at his own sweaty palms, "we're both gross. It's literally ninety degrees."

The baseball field behind school smelled like cut grass and teenage anxiety. I'd spent all summer practicing my swing in the backyard, visualizing myself crushing it, making the team, finally being someone people noticed instead of just "Marcus's friend who's kinda quiet."

Coach Miller blew his whistle. "Alright, show me what you got. Batting practice first."

My palms were practically sliding off the bat. First pitch? Strikeout swinging. Second? Ground ball to shortstop. I could feel everyone watching, could practically hear the thoughts: *that's the kid who thinks he can play?*

Then I saw Marcus in the dugout, mouthing "you got this" with his stupid encouraging grin. The same one he'd given me when I failed that math test in seventh grade. When I froze during our eighth grade presentation.

Third pitch. *CRACK.*

Line drive to left center. Would've been a double if Coach hadn't called "next!"

"Nice," Coach nodded, actually writing something down. "Show up tomorrow."

Afterward, Marcus found me behind the equipment shed, trying to get my heart rate under control.

"So?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I made tomorrow's cuts," I managed, my palms still damp but now from excitement, not panic.

"Knew it," Marcus said, grabbing my hand for a high-five that was mostly just our sweaty palms slapping together. "Now let's go. I'm starving, and you're buying."

"Since when do I owe you?"

"Since I sat through two hours of watching you overthink everything. That's friendship tax, bro."

Some things never changed. But somehow, walking toward the parking lot with my best friend, everything felt different. Like maybe I was actually becoming the person I'd been trying to be all along.