The Zombie Outfielder

I looked like a zombie. Not the cool, dramatic kind from TV—more like the undead result of pulling an all-nighter to finish my history project while stress-eating leftover spinach dip from the party. My mom took one look at me before school and made me take a bagel, which was now sitting untouched in my backpack.

"You alive, Maya?" Carlos asked, falling into step beside me. He was the kind of friend who noticed things, which was both annoying and exactly what I needed sometimes.

"Barely," I muttered, adjusting my backpack straps. "But I have to survive until baseball practice. Coach is doing position evaluations today."

The school's social pyramid was never more obvious than during spring sports season. At the top sat the varsity players—the ones who'd been swinging bats since they could walk, whose parents somehow always ended up team moms and boosters presidents. Then came the rest of us, trying to prove we belonged somewhere.

I'd played recreation league forever, but this was my first year trying out for the actual school team. My dad had pitched in college and still coached my little brother's team. The pressure wasn't spoken, but it lived in the way he watched my practices from his car, pretending he was just reading the newspaper.

"You've got this," Carlos said, reading my mind like he always did. "You're faster than half the varsity players. Just don't overthink it."

Easier said than done. When we got to the field, Coach Miller gathered us around. "Alright, ladies. Today we're finding our outfielders. Who wants to show me what they've got?"

My hands were literally shaking. I'd been dealing with this weird confidence issue all year—like I knew I could do things but suddenly couldn't make my body cooperate. My dad called it "game anxiety." I called it humiliating.

I stepped up when Coach called my name, focusing on everything Carlos had told me about staying loose. The first ball came soaring toward left field—I sprinted, eyes locked on it, and made the catch clean. The second was higher, requiring me to track it all the way to the warning track before snagging it just before it dropped. The third—

"Watch the spin!" someone yelled from the dugout.

I adjusted, tracking the ball's movement, and caught it easily.

"Solid," Coach Miller said, making a note on his clipboard. "Nice reads out there."

On the way home, Carlos and I stopped at the convenience store for slushies. "So?" he asked, waiting for me to say it.

"I made the team," I said, finally letting myself smile. "Varsity."

"About time," he said, bumping my shoulder with his. "I told you. Zombie or not, you've still got game."

"Shut up, Carlos."

"Never."