The Vitamin C Pregame Ritual

Marcus crushed the Flintstones vitamin in his palm, exactly like he did before every game. It was his thing—his weird, slightly embarrassing pregame ritual that somehow calmed his nerves. The chalky citrus taste grounded him, reminded him he was still the same kid who played catch with his dad in the backyard, even if the varsity baseball team now acted like every practice was the World Series.

"You good, man?" Ty asked, smacking his glove. "You look like you're about to puke."

"Yeah. Just... nerves." Marcus forced a grin. "Trying not to embarrass myself in front of the scouts."

"Bruh, you've been killing it all season," Ty said, but Marcus could tell he didn't get it. Ty didn't get how it felt to constantly prove yourself—the only Black kid on the team, the one everyone assumed was there because of diversity quotas, not talent. The one who had to be twice as good to be considered half as good.

His golden retriever, Buster, waited by the fence, tail thumping against the chainlink like a metronome. His dad had brought him—for luck, he'd said. Because Buster had been there for every big moment: the first home run, the perfect game, the time Marcus broke his arm sliding into home and Buster licked away the tears in the emergency room.

The game was brutal. Marcus struck out his first at-bat, swinging at air like a preschooler with a whiffle bat. By the seventh inning, they were down 5-2, and the scouts had already packed up their folding chairs. This was it. The moment everyone had been waiting for—proof that Marcus didn't belong.

Then came the bottom of the ninth. Two runners on bases, two outs, full count.

The pitcher wound up and threw heat—ninety-two miles per hour of pure intimidation. Marcus swung and connected with that sweet spot on the bat, the one every player dreams about. The ball soared over the left fielder's head, over the fence, into the parking lot where Buster went absolutely nuts.

Game-tying home run.

"LET'S GO BABY!" Ty screamed, dumping Gatorade over Marcus's head. "That's what I'm talking about!"

They won in extra innings, and afterward, as the scouts lingered, Marcus found himself surrounded by teammates who suddenly wanted to be his best friends. But it was Buster who reminded him what actually mattered—unconditional love, the kind that didn't care about stats or scholarships or proving anything to anyone.

"You're a beast," one of the scouts said, shaking his hand.

Marcus thought about the vitamin he'd crushed before the game. About how it wasn't really about luck—it was about remembering who he was, regardless of who was watching.

"Thanks," Marcus said. "But I'm just playing baseball."

That night, with Buster asleep at the foot of his bed, Marcus scrolled through his phone. Everyone from school had posted about his hit. Even Sarah Martinez, the girl he'd been too nervous to talk to all semester, had commented.

He smiled at the ceiling. Maybe tomorrow he'd finally say hi.

Maybe tomorrow he wouldn't need the vitamin.