The Summer We Didn't Rot

I felt like a zombie most of that July—stumbling through humid afternoons in a daze, my brain fried from scrolling and waiting for something to happen. Then Leo knocked on my door with a baseball bat in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other.

"We're doing it," he said. "Tryouts for the travel team. You coming?"

Leo was the kind of friend who didn't ask if you were ready—he just assumed you would be, and somehow that made you believe it too. I hadn't played since Little League, but the way my mom kept looking at my messy room and unmade bed told me she was ready for me to have somewhere to be.

The first day at the field, I panicked about everything. My hair had gotten weirdly long over the summer, flopping in my eyes when I tried to track fly balls. I kept pulling at it, feeling like everyone was staring—especially when I whiffed on an easy ground ball and heard someone snort.

But Leo just threw the ball back. "Your head's not in the game, bro. You're thinking too much."

After practice, we hit the creek behind the park. The water was shockingly cold after hours in the sun, perfect for washing off the embarrassment. We floated there, talking about everything and nothing—school in the fall, the girl Leo liked in homeroom, how weird it felt that we were growing up but somehow still the same kids who'd scraped knees in this same creek years ago.

"You're not a zombie anymore," Leo said suddenly, splashing water at my face. "You're actually present."

I laughed, wiping water from my eyes. "Present enough to kick your ass at tryouts tomorrow."

"Bet." He grinned. "Loser buys post-game boba."

I didn't make the travel team. But I made something better—a version of myself that showed up, that tried stuff even when I might fail, that had a friend who'd drag me out of zombie mode when I needed it most. Some summers you don't become who you thought you would. You become something realer.