Three-Second Memory

Marcus's stomach did backflips as he stared at the baseball field. Varsity tryouts in twenty minutes, and he'd forgotten his glove. Again.

"You've got the memory of a goldfish, Marcus," his sister had yelled that morning. She wasn't wrong. The family goldfish, Bubbles, had been alive for three years. Marcus had forgotten to feed it exactly zero times. His brain just prioritized differently.

He popped a vitamin C gummy into his mouth. His mom had bought the industrial-sized container from Costco, convinced it would prevent him from getting sick before tryouts. What she didn't know was that he'd been trading them to Jake in exchange for answers to chemistry homework.

"Yo Marcus!" Jake waved from the dugout, wearing his lucky jersey inside out. "You ready to crush it or what?"

Marcus's throat went dry. Jake had been his best friend since kindergarten, but everything felt different now. Jake had grown six inches over the summer. His voice had dropped an octave. Meanwhile, Marcus was still waiting for his growth spurt to arrive in the mail like a delayed Amazon package.

"Yeah," Marcus lied. "Totally."

The coach blew his whistle. "Alright gentlemen, let's see what you've got. Batting practice first."

Marcus stepped up to the plate, his hands sweating through his batting gloves. He could feel everyone watching—Jake, the seniors who'd made varsity last year, Sarah from his English class who'd stopped by the field after softball practice. Her laugh carried across the diamond.

First pitch: swing and a miss.

Second pitch: foul ball.

Third pitch: CRACK.

The ball sailed over the left fielder's head and kept going. Marcus's legs moved on autopilot, sprinting around the bases. He could hear Jake screaming "LET'S GOOO!" as he slid into home plate, dirt flying everywhere.

His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape. For three seconds, he felt infinite. Like he could do anything. Be anyone.

Then the moment passed, and reality crashed back in. But this time, it didn't feel so heavy.

"Nice," Jake said, bumping his shoulder. "Almost like you've played before."

Marcus laughed. "Shut up."

That night, he sprinkled some extra flakes into Bubbles' bowl. The fish swam to the surface, doing its little happy dance. Three seconds of memory, max. Maybe that wasn't so bad. Sometimes you only needed a moment.