Sweaty Palms & Switching Sides

Jordan's palms were sweating through his grip on the **padel** racket. This wasn't **baseball**—the sport he'd played since he could walk, the one his dad had basically sacrificed his weekends to coach. This was something new. Something different.

"You good, bro?" Marcus asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Jordan lied, wiping his right **palm** on his shorts. "Just warming up."

The truth was, Jordan had quit baseball last week. No warning, no explanation—just walked away from the team mid-season. His dad was disappointed. His old teammates thought he'd lost it. And honestly? Jordan wasn't sure they were wrong.

He'd been struggling with something he couldn't explain to anyone—not even himself. Baseball felt like someone else's life. Like he was going through motions that didn't fit anymore.

"Okay, show me what you got," Marcus said, tossing a ball toward the court wall.

Jordan's **friend** since kindergarten had taken the news surprisingly well. Most people would've been like, "What about regionals? What about college recruiting?" Marcus just said, "Cool. Want to try padel?"

They played for twenty minutes straight. Jordan missed easy shots. He tripped over his own feet. But for the first time in months, he wasn't thinking about what his dad would say or what his teammates would think.

"You're overthinking it," Marcus called out, effortlessly returning a shot that should've been impossible. "Just hit the thing."

Jordan laughed. "Easier said than done when you're used to overthinking everything."

"No one's watching, dude. It's literally just us."

That hit different. Jordan realized Marcus was right—he'd spent so long worrying about who was watching, who was judging, who was expecting something specific. That was the thing about baseball. It came with this whole identity Jordan wasn't sure he wanted anymore.

He hit the ball. Not perfectly. Not even close. But it felt real.

"That was terrible," Marcus said, "but also kinda sick."

"I'll take it," Jordan said, and meant it.

By the time they collapsed onto the bench outside the court, Jordan's palms weren't sweating anymore. Or maybe they were, and he just didn't care.

"Same time next week?" Marcus asked, cracking open a Gatorade.

"Yeah," Jordan said. "Same time next week."

For the first time in forever, Jordan felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.