Three Strikes at Authenticity

The goldfish cracker crumbs on my jersey were probably the least of my problems. Standing at home plate during tryouts, I could feel everyone watching—especially Jordan, whose perfect swing and perfect hair had been the subject of half the texts in our group chat for weeks.

"You got this, Marcus!" someone yelled. I didn't.

Strike one. The ball practically mocked me as it hit the catcher's mitt.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably my mom asking if I took my vitamin D gummies this morning. Because apparently, in addition to everything else, I was now the kid whose mother reminded him about supplements via text during baseball tryouts. Peak sophomore year energy.

Jordan leaned against the backstop, talking to Tyler and Ava. The way they laughed at something he said—that genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that I couldn't seem to earn anymore—made something in my chest twist. We'd been best friends since elementary school, back when goldfish were actual pets we won at carnivals and not social currency I desperately needed.

"You're overthinking it," Jordan had told me last week when I'd spent twenty minutes analyzing a group chat. "Just be yourself."

But which version? The one who actually liked the dumb puns I made? The one who pretended to care about college applications because everyone else did? The one who faked interest in baseball because Jordan lived for it?

Second pitch. I swung so hard I almost spun myself into the ground. Strike two.

Coach called timeout. "Marcus, breathe. You're gripping the bat like it insulted your mother."

The team snickered. I felt heat crawl up my neck.

Then—wildly inappropriately—I thought about the vitamin gummies. How they were shaped like cartoon bears and tasted like artificial fruit punch. How my pharmacist dad had insisted I "wasn't getting enough sunlight" and needed supplementation. How the worst part wasn't taking them—it was needing them at all.

Third pitch came.

I didn't swing. I just watched it sail past, perfect and inevitable and completely wrong for me.

"You're out," the umpire said.

Jordan jogged over as I walked off the field. "Hey, you okay?"

And maybe it was the failure, or the humidity, or just—finally—the exhaustion from maintaining a version of myself I'd outgrown months ago, but I found myself laughing. Actually laughing.

"Honestly?" I said. "No. I hate baseball. I've always hated baseball. I only tried out because you did."

Jordan blinked. Then, slowly, grinned. "I kind of figured. That's why we kept texting you memes during practice—we thought you'd bail."

"Wait, what?"

"Dude." Jordan shook his head. "We literally have a group chat called 'Marcus Pretending to Like Sports' with me, Tyler, and Ava. We were waiting for you to give up the bit."

I stared. Then I laughed—really laughed, the kind that makes your abs hurt and your eyes water.

"I have actual goldfish crackers in my bag," I said. "Want some before we go find actual food?"

"Only if you admit defeat on this whole athlete persona first."

"Consider it retired."

We walked off the field together, and for the first time in months, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. No vitamin supplement required.