The Baseball in My Gut

Marcus stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running gel through his curls for the third time. The hair wasn't cooperating—never did. His mom said it was his crown, but at Westwood High, a crown without the right pedigree was just a hat that didn't fit.

"You going to the game?" His little sister, Mia, leaned against the doorframe, holding the cat. Mr. Whiskers purred like he understood everything and nothing all at once.

"Nah." Marcus adjusted his jersey anyway. "Connor's pitching. Whole school's gonna be there."

"You scared?" She knew. Of course she knew.

The truth twisted in his gut like a baseball taking a wrong turn. Marcus was supposed to be the team's shortstop—had been since freshman year. But lately, every time he stepped onto the field, he felt like an imposter. The dirt under his cleats felt foreign. The crack of the bat sounded like a question he didn't know how to answer.

His room was his sanctuary—until his dad discovered what he'd been doing instead of practice.

The cable from Marcus's guitar amp snaked across the floor, a black serpent connecting him to something real. For hours, he'd been teaching himself chords, pouring every feeling he couldn't say into melodies that lived in his fingertips.

"Music?" His dad had stood in the doorway that morning, holding Marcus's forgotten baseball glove. "Since when?"

Marcus's throat had closed up. The cat had wound around his legs, purring harder, like he could feel the tension radiating off Marcus's skin.

Now, the game was starting. The school was two miles away. Marcus's fingers twitched, remembering the G chord he'd finally nailed yesterday.

He grabbed his backpack.

"Where are you going?" Mia called. "The game's that way!"

"Not for me," Marcus said.

The cable company van was parked down the street, and old man Henderson was struggling with a spool of thick black wire that had unraveled across his perfectly manicured lawn.

"Need help?" Marcus asked.

The old man looked up, surprised. "You're that baseball kid."

"Was." Marcus took the cable, its weight familiar in his hands. "I'm figuring out who I actually am."

By the time he got home, guitar calluses were forming on his fingertips. The cat waited on the porch, and his dad's truck was in the driveway—early.

Marcus walked inside, guitar case in hand. His dad looked at the cable still coiled on the floor, then at Marcus.

"I heard you playing," his dad said. "Through the vents. You're good."

The baseball in Marcus's gut finally uncurled.

"Yeah?" Marcus smiled. "I'm just getting started."