The Curveball We Didn't See Coming

Marcus stood at home plate, baseball bat limp at his side, while I leaned against the backstop fence trying to look anywhere but at him. We'd been best friend since kindergarten, but lately? Lately he'd been all varsity jackets and weekend parties with people whose names I couldn't remember.

"You coming to Tyler's tonight?" he asked, not looking at me either.

"Can't. Track regionals tomorrow."

He snorted. "Still running in circles?"

The words hit like a cleat to the shin. But before I could clap back with something about how at least I didn't sit on a bench for six innings, something unexpected happened.

Marcus's dad's voice carried from the bleachers: "That's my boy! Strike 'em out!"

Marcus flinched. Hard.

Then I noticed what I'd missed before – the way his hands shook slightly when he gripped the bat. The fake confidence he carried like an ill-fitting helmet. This was the kid who'd thrown up before his Bar Mitzvah because he hated being the center of attention.

"You nervous?" I asked, tone softening.

"Don't tell anyone." His voice cracked. "Dad's been talking about this game since I made the team. If I mess up..."

"Bro." I pushed off the fence. "Remember when you tried teaching me to pitch and I almost took out Mrs. Henderson's windshield?"

A tiny smile. "Your mechanics were tragic."

"Your batting stance is worse."

He laughed – actually laughed – and some of the tension leaked out of his shoulders.

"What if I choke?" he asked quietly.

"Then we get pizza after and you complain about how the umpire had it out for you," I said. "Like always."

Marcus stepped up to the plate, glanced back at me, and I gave him a chin nod. He crushed the next pitch into left field.

Later, as we sat on the hood of his car eating lukewarm pizza, he said, "You know, I used to think running was stupid. Just endless circles going nowhere."

"And?"

"And now? Maybe it's not about where you're going. Maybe it's about who's running beside you."

I bumped his shoulder. "That's so cheesy I'm gonna tell everyone at school."

"Take me to regionals with you Saturday?" he asked. "I'll bring signs. I can be very embarrassing."

"Deal. But you're wearing that hideous neon shirt."

"You hate it 'cause you can't pull it off."

Some friendships don't need fixing – they just need remembering.