The Pitch Before Lightning

The cable guy was supposed to come between eight and twelve. It was 7:58 when Marcus's phone buzzed.

"U coming?" – Sam.

I stared at the screen. Sam and I had been best friend since kindergarten, back when we traded Pokémon cards and shared juice boxes. Now he was varsity baseball royalty, and I was... still figuring out my thing. Theater tech, mostly. Which is how I ended up stuck at home waiting for the cable guy instead of at his final game before tryouts for the travel team.

"Can't. Dad's working late."

The three dots bounced. Then disappeared. Then bounced again.

"Seriously? This is THE game."

I knew what he meant. Coach was watching. Scouts from the elite summer league were supposed to be there. This was it for Sam – the moment he'd been training for since we were twelve and he'd first thrown a no-hitter in Little League.

Outside, the sky had turned that weird yellow-green color that makes adults nervous and kids feel like something's about to happen.

The cable guy showed up at 8:04. Older dude with a thick beard and a van that smelled like coffee and old cigarettes.

"Storm's coming," he said, squinting at the sky.

"How long?" I asked.

"Twenty minutes, kid. Maybe thirty."

My phone: "Storm delay. U still got time."

I ran. Two miles in sneakers that were not made for running, lungs burning, thinking about how Sam and I had barely talked all week. How he'd joined the varsity group chat that I wasn't in. How I'd finally found something I was good at – lighting design for the spring musical – and he'd missed it because of practice.

I could hear the PA system from three blocks away.

The field was empty. Players huddled under the dugout, parents in cars. Sam stood alone near home plate, untied his cleats, swinging his bat in slow, deliberate circles.

"You came," he said, not looking at me.

"Cable guy was fast."

We sat on the bleachers as the first rumble of thunder rolled in.

"I'm not gonna make the team," Sam said quietly.

"What? You're the best pitcher—"

"My shoulder's been messed up since February. I haven't told anyone."

The first flash of lightning cracked across the sky, sudden and bright.

"I joined tech crew," I said. "For the musical. I'm doing lighting."

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in months.

"That's cool, man. Actually cool."

We watched the lightning split the sky in bright veins, neither of us moving for cover, just sitting there as the first drops started falling, not saying anything else because we didn't have to.

The game got called. Sam's shoulder got worse – he needed surgery in June. I did lighting for two more shows. We're not as close as we were when we were kids trading cards, but we still text. Sometimes about baseball. Sometimes about theater tech. Sometimes about lightning storms and cable guys and the things you can't plan for.