The Zombie Left Fielder

I dragged myself onto the baseball field, feeling like a zombie that had been awake since the dawn of time. Third all-nighter in a row raiding with my Discord squad will do that to you.

Marcus Brooks stepped up to the plate—varsity jacket perfect, hair somehow defying humidity, the kind of guy whose Vitamin D definitely came from actual sunshine, not the fluorescent glow of gaming monitors. Meanwhile, I was running on empty and whatever caffeine was still in my system from yesterday.

Coach Rivera's voice carried across the field: "HUSTLE, CHAVEZ!" But my legs were having none of it. They felt like lead pipes.

Then Marcus hit it—a line drive soaring straight toward left field. My position.

Time slowed down. I could see the ball spinning through the air, could hear my teammates screaming, could feel the moment stretching like taffy. And then my brain just...Buffered. Complete system freeze. I watched the ball sail past my glove and plop into the grass while the other team's runners rounded the bases like they owned them.

After the game, Marcus found me sitting on the bench, staring into nothing.

"You good, man?" He held out a bottle of orange gummies. "Vitamin C. My mom swears it helps with focus."

I laughed, actually laughed. "Yeah, I think my problem is more like... Vitamin Sleep."

"No cap," he said, sitting down. "You've been moving like a zombie all week. Everything good?"

And something about the way he asked—genuine, not just making conversation—made the truth spill out. The gaming addiction, the failing grades, the pressure to be as effortless as him.

"My mom's been trying to get me to eat spinach," I admitted. "Says it's brain food. I've been throwing it in the trash."

"That's cold," Marcus winced. "My parents got me a cable subscription so I'd stop scrolling doom feeds at 3 AM. Didn't work, obviously." He tapped his phone. "But turning it off myself? That helped."

That night, I actually ate the spinach. And I took the vitamins my mom left by my plate. And when my Discord pinged with raid invites, I turned my phone off instead.

Two weeks later, Marcus hit another line drive to left field. This time, I was ready. I sprinted, dived, and caught it inches from the grass.

The bench went absolutely feral. Marcus jogged over, grinning.

"Not bad for a recovering zombie."

"Living my best life," I shot back.

And for the first time in months, it wasn't a joke. It was the truth.