The Riddle in the Dugout

Marcus's hands were sweating through his batting gloves. Again. Varsity baseball tryouts were tomorrow, and his stomach was doing somersaults that would rival an Olympic gymnast. His phone buzzed — another group chat blowing up about who was making the team this year.

"Bro, you good?" asked Jordan, sliding onto the bench beside him. "You look like you're about to puke."

Marcus's golden retriever, Barnaby, chose that exact moment to gallop across the field with something in his mouth. Because of course. Because Barnaby had zero chill and even less sense of personal space.

"Barnaby, drop it," Marcus sighed, already exhausted.

But his dog trotted right up to them and proudly deposited ... a plastic sphinx head? At their feet?

Jordan cracked up. "Okay, what is this? Ancient Egyptian baseball practice?"

"My dog found a mystical artifact and now he's our pitching coach," Marcus deadpanned, but he was smiling. "Better question: why does our local park have random sphinx parts?"

They'd discovered the truth later — the historical society was setting up an Egypt exhibit nearby, and Barnaby had helped himself to a prop. But that moment broke Marcus's tension so hard he actually laughed.

"Hey," Jordan said, suddenly serious. "You're overthinking tomorrow. You've been playing since we were twelve. Just trust your swing, man. The only riddle you need to solve is not caring what everyone thinks."

Easy for Jordan to say. He was naturally good at everything, while Marcus was the guy who thought too much about everything.

That night, Marcus couldn't sleep. He kept seeing that plastic sphinx head and its weird painted-on smile. What would he ask the sphinx if he could? Probably something dumb like "Will I make the team?" But real answers don't come from magical statues.

They come from showing up anyway.

Tryouts were brutal. Coach Miller watching like a hawk. The seniors in their letterman jackets lounging against the fence like they owned the place. Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs until he thought it might bruise them from the inside.

First pitch: strike one swinging.

Second pitch: foul ball.

Third pitch: he connected. The crack of the bat echoed across the field, and the ball sailed deep into center field. He rounded first, watching it drop in for a double.

When he looked back at the dugout, Jordan was grinning and giving him a thumbs-up.

And Barnaby — who'd somehow escaped the yard again — was sitting there next to Jordan's bag, tail thumping like he'd personally hit the double.

"Your dog is living his best life," Jordan said.

Marcus exhaled, finally feeling like he could breathe. Yeah. Maybe they all were.

The sphinx head sat on his shelf now, a reminder that sometimes you can't overthink the riddle. You just have to swing.