The Sphinx in Center Field

Marcus stood at home plate, his new baseball cleats clicking against the concrete. First day of freshman tryouts, and his stomach was doing somersaults that had nothing to do with lunch.

"You're up, freshman," called Jensen, a junior whose ego was bigger than the stadium. Some guys whispered Jensen's older brother's stats like they were holy scripture. Marcus gripped the bat, sweat slick on his palms. He'd watched every game on cable last season, studied Jensen's brother's swing frame by frame, but nothing prepared you for forty pairs of eyes judging your every twitch.

He missed the first pitch. Second one, he connected. Line drive straight to center field.

"RUN!" someone yelled, and Marcus's legs kicked into gear. He rounded first, glanced at the coach—a retired pro with a face like carved granite, permanent scowl included. The guys called him "the Sphinx" behind his back because the man never gave anything away. No smiles, no nods, just eyes that missed zip.

Safe at second. Marcus's heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out.

Practice ended with sphinx-faced Coach handing everyone a single sheet of paper. Cuts would be posted Monday. Marcus walked home swinging his backpack, thinking about how cable commentators made everything sound epic, but real life was just sweaty socks and uncertainty that tasted like bile.

His mom was watching something on the living room TV when he got home. "How was it?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?" She raised an eyebrow. Marcus shrugged, disappeared into his room, and spent the weekend overanalyzing everything. The way he'd held the bat. The Sphinx's expression when he'd slid into second. Whether Jensen's look had been respect or pity.

Monday morning, the posted list appeared like a judgment day verdict. His name was there—fourth from the bottom. Not starting lineup, not even bench, but something worse: "Practice Squad."

The Sphinx caught him staring at the paper. "You swing too hard, kid. Trying too hard to be something you're not yet."

Marcus blinked. That was the most words he'd heard the man say all week.

"But I made the cut?"

"You showed up," the Sphinx said, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement? Respect? "That's more than most. Now show up tomorrow ready to learn."

Marcus walked home lighter, baseball gear clanking against his back. Some things, he realized, weren't about cable-worthy hero moments or instant validation. They were about showing up, even when you were terrified. Even when you had no idea what you were doing. Especially then.

He grinned. Freshman year was gonna be interesting.