The Zombie on First Base

Marcus slumped against the dugout fence, looking like a straight-up zombie after three weeks of finals, zero sleep, and his parents' endless divorce drama. His skin had that sickly gray tint, eyes rimmed with red circles that screamed I haven't slept since 2019.

"Bro, you good?" I asked, nudging his cleat with mine. "You look dead."

"Honestly?" Marcus cracked a weary smile. "I feel like I've been running through life at full sprint with no finish line in sight."

Coach blew his whistle. "Marcus, you're up. First base. Move it!"

The guy could barely stand, let alone play baseball. But Marcus being Marcus, he dragged himself out there. I jogged to first to cover him, my ride-or-die friend looking like he might actually collapse right there on the baseline.

Our pitcher wound up and threw—fast, straight at Marcus's ribs. Most people would've bailed. Marcus didn't even flinch. He took the hit like a champ, dropped his bat, and sprinted toward first like his life depended on it.

"Slide!" I screamed.

Marcus hit the dirt hard, cleats up, dust flying everywhere. Safe by an inch. He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, covered in red clay and sweat, and started cracking up.

"What's so funny? You just almost died."

"No joke," he wheezed, still laughing. "For like five seconds? I wasn't thinking about grades, or my mom moving out, or any of it. I was just... running."

I extended a hand to pull him up. "That's the game, man. Everything else disappears when you're on the field."

Marcus stood, brushing dirt off his uniform. He looked more alive than he had in weeks. "Yeah. Hey, thanks for not letting me quit."

"We don't quit on each other," I said, bumping his fist. "Now get up. You got stolen base practice, and Coach is already glaring at us."

Sometimes you don't realize how much you need something until you're sliding into home covered in dirt, completely exhausted, and finally, actually awake.