The Last Inning of Everything

The baseball bat felt like a lead pipe in my hands. Again.

"You're zoning out, Marcus," Coach yelled, his voice cracking across the field like the annoying notification that interrupts a TikTok binge. "Focus!"

I wasn't zoning out. I was mentally redoing my entire life plan. Again.

In the bleachers, Jordan was doing homework. Their headphones glowed purple in the dusk because apparently, that's what cool people do now. I waved. They didn't see me. Probably for the best.

"Marcus! Baseball requires presence!" Coach's spit flew.

Baseball. The sport my dad played. The sport my brothers played. The sport everyone assumed I'd magically love because, you know, genetics. Except I didn't. I hated it. The cleats pinched. The dirt tasted like failure. And don't get me started on the uniform situation.

Practice ended. I dragged myself toward the bleachers, ready to fake enthusiasm about today's accomplishment (standing there while other people hit balls).

"You look like someone just told you One Direction broke up. Again," Jordan said, finally looking up.

"Worse. Coach wants me to start Saturday's game."

Jordan's eyes widened. "That's huge! Your mom is going to lose it."

"Yeah. Huge. Like, I want to throw up huge."

Silence. The kind where crickets judge you.

"So... quit?" Jordan said it like it was the most obvious thing ever. Like choosing between iced coffee and water.

"I can't just quit. My dad has this whole thing about—"

"Marcus." Jordan packed up their stuff. "You hate baseball. You've hated it since we were twelve and you accidentally hit that coach with a foul ball. Remember how he limped for a month?"

"Vividly."

"So quit. Join track with me. We're doing distance running this spring. Coach Miller actually lets us listen to podcasts during practice. It's iconic."

Something unlocked in my chest. A door I'd been trying to open for three years.

"Running? Like, actual running where I don't have to stand around waiting for something to happen?"

"Exactly. Plus," Jordan lowered their voice, "I heard Tyler from math class joined track and he's lowkey cute. Not that I care. I definitely don't care."

"You totally care."

"I DON'T." Jordan stood up, grabbed their backpack. "So are we doing this or what?"

"Doing what?"

"Running. Like, right now. I'm supposed to be home twenty minutes ago and my mom is definitely going to ask why I smell like athletic desperation."

So we ran.

We ran past the baseball field where I'd spent three years pretending to be someone I wasn't. We ran past the neighborhood where everyone's expectations lived like carefully manicured lawns. We ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like jelly and Jordan complained about getting shin splints but kept smiling anyway.

We stopped at the convenience store. Bought slushies with crinkled dollars from our pockets. Sat on the curb and watched cars pass.

"So," Jordan said, blue tongue and all. "You gonna tell your parents?"

I thought about it. About the fights. The disappointment. The eventual awkward silence at dinner. Then I thought about running. About not having to stand in a field holding a bat that felt like a stranger's hand.

"Yeah," I said finally. "I will. Tomorrow."

Jordan bumped my shoulder. "Good. Because if you don't, I'm telling everyone you got beat at Mario Kart by a middle schooler."

"That happened ONE TIME."

"Twice. I have screenshots." Jordan held up their phone. "Blackmail is a beautiful thing, Marcus."

I laughed. Real laughed. The kind where you don't care who hears.

Maybe baseball wasn't my thing. Maybe that was okay. Maybe running toward something real felt better than standing still for something fake.

"You're the worst friend ever," I said.

"I know." Jordan grinned. "Now finish your slushie before it melts. We have track tryouts tomorrow and if I'm late, Miller's going to make us run extra laps. Again."