The Pop-Up Fly

Marcus adjusted the fitted **hat**—dad's old Giants cap from like, the stone age—and tried to look like he belonged. The baseball field behind school was where the cool kids gathered every Friday, and finally, finally, Jason had invited him to play.

"You got this, bro!" Jason called from the pitcher's mound. "Easy out."

Marcus stepped up to the plate. His hands were sweating through his batting gloves. Thirty people watching. Mostly juniors and seniors. He was just a sophomore, a nobody trying to be somebody.

His **iphone** buzzed in his back pocket—probably Mom wanting to know when he'd be home for dinner. So embarrassing. He ignored it.

First pitch: high and outside. Ball one.

Second pitch: Marcus swung and missed. Strike one. Someone giggled in the outfield. His face burned.

Third pitch: a perfect fastball right down the middle. Marcus made contact—a solid crack that sent the ball soaring into left field. But not over the fence. A pop-up.

"I got it! I got it!" Tyler, a varsity jacket senior, camped under the ball. But at the last second, a gust of wind caught it. The ball dropped onto the warning track.

"GO!" Jason screamed.

Marcus bolted. His lungs burned, legs pumping, dust kicking up behind him. He slid into second base—safe—just as the throw sailed past the bag.

The inning ended with Marcus stranded on second. Game over. They lost by three runs.

But Jason dapped him up anyway. "You hustle, man. That's what matters."

Marcus's phone lit up again: *come home for dinner, sweetie!* No matter that he'd only reached second base on a wind-assisted blooper. No matter that nobody else was texting their moms during the cool kid hangout session.

He grabbed his stuff from the dugout, holding his phone in one hand and his dad's hat in the other. Something about tonight felt different. Maybe fitting in wasn't about impressing Tyler and the varsity squad. Maybe it was about finding people who didn't make you question everything about yourself.

He texted Mom back: *on my way.*

And put the hat back on his head—backward this time. His way.