The Bull in the Batter's Box

Marcus's thumb hovered over his iPhone screen, another notification lighting up the darkness of his room. Snapchat from Jake: 'U coming 2 practice?' He sighed. Baseball season had morphed into something else entirely since Coach Henderson took over – the man was a total bull, charging through practices like he owned the field, everyone else just scrambling to get out of his way.

Marcus slipped out the window, his sneakers hitting the dew-dampened grass. Barnaby, his golden retriever, lifted his head from where he'd been sleeping and let out a soft whuff.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Marcus whispered, scratching behind the dog's ears. "Dad's working late again. You're the only one who notices I'm gone."

The vitamin supplements sat on his desk – the ones his mom had bought after some article claimed they'd make teenagers focus better. He'd been taking them for weeks, but he still felt the same: scattered, anxious, like he was waiting for something to happen that never quite did.

Practice was brutal. Coach Henderson made them run until Marcus's lungs burned, then barked at them about "mental toughness." Whatever that meant.

"Walker!" the coach yelled. "You're swinging like you're afraid of the ball!"

Marcus gripped the bat tighter, his palms sweaty. He could feel everyone watching – Jake, Sarah, the whole team. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, probably more notifications he couldn't check. This was it, the moment he'd either prove himself or crash spectacularly.

The pitch came – high, outside. He swung anyway, connecting with nothing but air. Laughter erupted from the sidelines.

"That's it!" Coach yelled. "Everyone runs laps. NOW."

Marcus's face burned as he joined the line of jogging players. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Baseball had been fun once, back before the pressure, before the notifications, before everything mattered so much.

That night, he sat at his desk with Barnaby at his feet, finally looking up the vitamin supplements his mom had bought. The article seemed sketchy – some blog post with zero actual research. He dumped the rest of the bottle in the trash.

"You know what, buddy?" he said to the dog. "I think I'm done trying to be what everyone else wants."

He opened his phone and drafted a text to Coach Henderson: 'Quitting the team. Thanks for everything.' Then he sent one to Jake: 'Want to hang out tomorrow? No baseball, just us.'

For the first time in months, Marcus breathed easier. Sometimes you had to walk away from the bull in the batter's box to find your own rhythm again.