Three Strikes at Growing Up

Marcus stood at the plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead weight in his sweaty palms. The summer sun beat down on the dusty field, and somewhere in the distance, his dad's voice carried through the thick air. "Keep your eye on the ball, son!"

He wanted to disappear. This was supposed to be just another casual game at the park, but somehow Jessica—the girl he'd been crushing on since seventh grade—had shown up with her friends. Now every swing felt like a performance review.

Strike one. The ball whizzed past, mocking him.

"You got this, Marcus!" Tyler shouted from the dugout. His best friend pumped his fist enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the social crisis unfolding.

Strike two. Marcus's face burned hotter than the asphalt.

That night, he sprawled across his bedroom floor, surrounded by the glow of his TV. He channel-surfed mindlessly, flipping past infomercials and reality shows on basic cable. His mom popped her head in.

"Rough day?" she asked, setting a glass of water and a vitamin on his nightstand. "Don't be too hard on yourself, honey."

He grabbed the vitamin and popped it in his mouth without water. "Mom, I struck out swinging. In front of Jessica. Again."

She smiled. "Marcus, your father struck out in front of me three times before we finally started dating."

"Seriously?"

"Fourth time, he hit a home run. But I was already impressed that he kept getting back up there."

The next week, Jessica sat next to him at lunch. Her tray bumped his arm as she slid into the seat.

"Hey, Baseball Star," she said, grinning.

Marcus choked on his chocolate milk. "What?"

"You kept swinging even after you struck out. That's pretty badass." She stole a french fry from his plate. "So, you doing anything this weekend?"

He almost dropped his tray. "I might need to practice more. You know, for next time."

Jessica laughed, and Marcus decided that maybe striking out wasn't the worst thing that could happen.