The Spinach Slide Into Home

Marcus stood in the batter's box, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The vintage baseball cap perched on his head—his grandpa's from 1987—felt two sizes too big, sweat already staining the brim.

"You got this, bro!" yelled Jordan from the dugout. Marcus wasn't so sure.

Yesterday's practice had been a disaster. Coach Miller had taken one look at Marcus's scrawny arms and suggested he "bulk up." So Marcus had spent the morning researching athletes' diets on TikTok, which somehow led to him chugging a disgusting spinach and protein powder smoothie that tasted like wet grass. Now his stomach was staging a full-on rebellion.

The pitcher wound up and fired. A fastball, right down the middle. Marcus swung, his bat connecting with nothing but air. The ball thunked into the catcher's mitt with embarrassing finality.

"Strike one!"

Behind him, someone snickered. Probably Tyler, the team's star shortstop who'd been giving Marcus weird looks all week. Marcus adjusted his hat lower, trying to disappear inside it.

Second pitch: another swing and miss. His throat felt like he'd swallowed sandpaper. He needed water badly, but he couldn't bail now. Not in front of everyone.

Third pitch came high and outside. Marcus took it—ball one. Small victory.

He stepped out, wiping his palms on his uniform. The dugout chatter died down. This was it. Make or break. That stupid article he'd read said vitamin B-12 could boost athletic performance, so he'd popped an extra one that morning. Probably placebo, but he'd take whatever confidence he could fake.

The pitcher released the ball. A curveball, hanging right in Marcus's sweet spot. He swung, channeling every awkward ninth-grade moment, every time he'd felt too small, too quiet, too everything.

CRACK.

The ball sailed into the gap between center and right field. Marcus bolted, his legs pumping,hat flying off as he rounded first. The crowd's cheers washed over him like cool water on a blazing day. He kept running, dirt flying, lungs burning, spinning past second, charging toward third.

"Go! Go! Go!" Jordan screamed.

Marcus slid into home plate, his cleats kicking up a cloud of red dirt. Safe by a mile. He lay there grinning at the sky, sweat dripping, heart racing, feeling more alive than he ever had in his fourteen years.

Someone helped him up. It was Tyler, handing him his dusty hat with a nod of respect.

"Nice slide, rookie."

Marcus grinned, sweat and dirt and ego all over his face. Maybe that spinach smoothie wasn't so bad after all.