The Knot in My stomach

My palms were sweating so much I could barely grip the **baseball** bat. Coach Miller was yelling something about follow-through and keeping my eye on the ball, but all I could think about was how I'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"You good, Marcus?" Tyler whispered from the dugout.

"Yeah," I lied, wiping my hands on my uniform pants. "Just... ready."

Truth was, I'd been **running** from this moment for weeks. Ever since I'd secretly started teaching myself guitar using my uncle's old Fender and a frayed **cable** I'd patched together with electrical tape. While other kids were at practice, I was in my room, painfully learning chord progressions from YouTube tutorials at 2 AM.

The problem? My dad was the assistant coach. His entire identity was wrapped up in me being the "star player" like he was in high school. Meanwhile, I'd been growing my **hair** out for months—partly because I actually liked it, partly because I knew it would drive him crazy.

"You're up!" someone shouted.

I stepped to the plate, heart hammering against my ribs. The pitcher wound up. I swung.

Missed.

"STRIKE ONE!"

My dad's face in the dugout. The disappointment. The pressure that had been building since T-ball, since he first bought me a glove when I was four and told me this was going to be *our* thing.

I closed my eyes for a second. Thought about my guitar sitting in my corner, the way I felt when I finally nailed that transition from G to C without looking. The freedom of it.

Then I did something I'd never done before.

I set the bat down. Walked away from the plate.

"Marcus? What are you doing?" Coach Miller yelled.

"I'm done," I said, voice shaking but steady enough. "I quit."

The silence was louder than any crowd. I found my dad's stunned face in the dugout, saw his **palm** pressed against his forehead, saw all those years of expectation crashing down.

But for the first time in forever, my feet felt light. Like I'd finally stopped running from everything I actually was.

"Sorry," I said to no one in particular. "I've got... somewhere else to be."

And I walked off the field, towards my room, my guitar, and the first real choice I'd ever made.