Swing and a Miss

My dad's baseball sat on my dresser like a judgment I couldn't escape. Third generation to play shortstop for Northwood High—that was the expectation, the legacy, whatever. But the thought of stepping onto that diamond made my stomach twist.

"You coming to practice?" Tyler texted. I stared at my iPhone screen, thumbs hovering. Tyler was cool. Tyler was on the team. Tyler would never understand why I'd been avoiding the locker room for weeks.

"Yeah," I typed back. "Just finishing something." Something was sneaking into the new padel court behind the community center.

Padel was my secret. The first time I'd picked up a racquet, something clicked—like finding a vitamin supplement for a deficiency I didn't know I had. No coaches yelling, no pressure to be perfect, just this enclosed court where the ball could bounce off walls and somehow that made everything more fun. More me.

"Hey!" someone called. I turned to see Sofia—Sofia from my English class, Sofia who sat three rows back and never spoke—jogging over. "You're that baseball guy, right?"

"Not anymore," I said, surprising myself.

She grinned. "Good. You're holding that racquet like a baseball bat. Here, let me show you."

We played until sunset, my phone buzzing in my bag—probably Tyler, probably my dad, probably everyone wondering where I was. But for the first time, I didn't care.

"You're actually not terrible," Sofia said as we walked out. "You should join the club. We need players who don't take themselves too seriously."

I thought about the baseball uniform hanging in my closet. About the way my dad's eyes lit up when he talked about his high school days. About how I'd spent sixteen years trying to be someone I wasn't.

"I'll think about it," I said.

My phone buzzed again. Tyler: "Coach is asking about you. Everything good?"

I pulled out my phone, opened the text, and stared at the letters. Then I opened my contacts and found Sofia's number.

"What time is practice tomorrow?" I typed.

Some hits are worth missing.