The Papaya Incident

Marcus stared at the bathroom mirror, popping his third vitamin D supplement of the week. His mom swore it would help with energy, but the only thing he needed energy for was overthinking.

Tomorrow was baseball tryouts—again. Last year, he'd struck out looking. Literally. The bat had never left his shoulder. The memory still made his face hot.

"You're overthinking it," his best friend Riley had told him at lunch. "Just swing the damn bat."

Easy for Riley to say. Riley was the guy who ate papaya like it was candy. Who carried exotic fruit in his backpack like it was normal. Who somehow made everything look effortless.

That evening, Marcus sat on his front porch, baseball glove on his hand, tossing a tennis ball against the wall. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Rhythm.

A stray cat—orange, scrawny, missing half an ear—crept out from under the porch. It watched him, yellow eyes narrowed.

"What?" Marcus asked. "You think I'm gonna choke again?"

The cat sat, started grooming its paw like it had all the time in the world.

Marcus's phone buzzed. Riley: *My cousin's coming to tryouts. He plays varsity. Show him what you got.*

Panic flared. Then anger. Then something else—something sharp and determined.

The next morning, Marcus stood in the batter's cage, baseball dust rising around him. The coach pitched. Marcus didn't think. He just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed over the fence. Silence. Then cheering.

Afterward, Riley tossed him a slice of papaya from his backpack. "Exotic post-game celebration."

Marcus took it, grinning. "Weirdo."

"You love it."

On the walk home, Marcus saw the orange cat again. It nodded at him. Or maybe that was just in his head. Either way, he nodded back.

Sometimes things change. Sometimes you just have to swing.