The Zombie Pitcher's Dilemma

I looked like a **zombie**. No joke—actually deceased, walking among the living, sustain only by caffeine and sheer will. Three nights of grinding Diamond rank in Valorant will do that to you.

"You going to the tryouts?" Maya leaned against my locker, flicking her hair. She had this way of making everything look effortless, unlike me, currently operating on two hours of sleep.

"For **baseball**?" I rubbed my eyes. "Definitely not. I haven't picked up a bat since, like, seventh grade."

"Coach Bennett needs a pitcher. You were decent back in the day." She smiled, and my stomach did this annoying little flip thing that definitely had nothing to do with sleep deprivation. "Come on. It'll be fun. Plus, it'll get you out of the house. Your mom told my mom you've been, and I quote, 'rotting your brain' on summer break."

"She's not wrong," I muttered.

The truth was, my dad had been on my case about getting 'active' again. Ever since the **cable** bill got cut—to 'save money,' allegedly—my gaming setup had felt oddly empty. No Twitch streams in the background. No watching pros between matches. Just me, alone with my thoughts and the crushing weight of my mediocrity.

So I showed up to tryouts looking like a walking corpse, dark circles making their debut. Maya waved from the outfield, looking annoyingly radiant in the morning sun.

"Ethan! You made it!" Coach Bennett's voice boomed. "Grab a glove. Let's see what you've got."

I took the mound. My arm felt like it belonged to someone else—a zombie arm, stiff and unfamiliar. I wound up and threw, expecting disgrace.

Strike one.

I blinked. Threw again. Strike two.

By the time I struck out the third batter, the team was actually cheering. Maya jogged over, grinning. "Okay, you didn't suck. That's genuinely surprising."

"Thanks, I think?" I said, then immediately regretted it because she laughed and my face did this thing where it forgot how to human.

Later, my mom dropped off a 'recovery smoothie' after practice. I took one sip and nearly gagged. "Is this... **spinach**?"

"With kale and a hint of mango! It's brain food, mijo. You're looking less zombie-like already."

I watched myself in the mirror. She wasn't wrong. The dark circles were fading. For the first time all summer, my brain felt—sharp. Present. Not lagging like a bad connection.

That night, I didn't boot up my PC. Instead, I sat on my front porch with a real, actual baseball, spinning it in my hands, thinking about Maya's laugh and the way the sun hit the outfield.

Maybe the cable wasn't coming back anytime soon. And maybe that was okay.

I was done being a zombie. Time to actually start living.