The Bear Behind the Batter

Marcus stood at the plate, clutching the aluminum bat like it might save his social life. Which, honestly, it might. If he could just NOT humiliate himself at baseball tryouts, maybe his crush Sierra would finally notice him existed.

Problem was, his lucky hat—this ratty snapback with peeling brim that his grandpa swore held magic powers—kept sliding over his eyes every time he wound up to swing.

"Baker! You're up!" Coach Reynolds barked. "And don't choke like yesterday."

The team snickered. Marcus felt his face burn hotter than the asphalt.

He adjusted his hat, stepped into the box, and whispered to himself: *Be a bear. Be fierce. Like Grandpa said.*

But his grandpa had also told him that bears could smell fear. Marcus figured Coach Reynolds could smell fear too, and right now Marcus reeked of it.

First pitch: high and outside. Marcus swung anyway, missing by three embarrassing feet.

"Easy, kid," someone muttered behind him.

Then he saw it—the school's bear mascot head lying near the dugout like a rejected prop. The old mascot, senior Tyler, had graduated last week, and nobody had stepped up to wear the sweaty, fuzzy monstrosity since.

Marcus had an idea. Possibly the worst idea ever.

Between pitches, he sprinted over, jammed the bear head over his own, and shuffled back to home plate like a fuzzy nightmare.

"What in the actual—" Coach started.

Marcus, hidden inside the bear head, couldn't see squat. He just listened. The pitch came. He swung.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed over the fence. Perfect.

Dead silence fell over the field. Then someone started clapping. Then everyone.

Marcus pulled off the bear head, sweating like crazy, hair smashed flat, grinning like an idiot.

Sierra whistled from the bleachers. "Okay, THAT was iconic."

Coach Reynolds shook his head, almost smiling. "You make the team, Baker. But you're wearing that hat instead. And lose the bear."

"Deal." Marcus adjusted his lucky hat, finally facing his fears head-on—fuzzy bear head optional.