Three Strikes at Growing Up

Marcus stood in the dugout, his palms sweating so much he could practically water plants with them. Which was ironic, considering his mom's vitamin shop was the only thing he actually knew anything about—not baseball.

"You got this, M!" Jasmine yelled from the bleachers. She was doing her fake palm-reader voice, because last week at lunch she'd told everyone his "life line promised greatness." He'd almost died of embarrassment, but she'd just grinned and said, "What? It worked, didn't it? You finally asked Coach for a tryout."

Now here he was, seventeen years old, about to humiliate himself in front of the entire sophomore class because Jasmine had convinced him he needed to "step out of his comfort zone" or whatever.

His dad had played college ball. His older brother was the team's star pitcher. Marcus? Marcus could identify forty different species of palm trees and recited vitamin facts in his sleep. None of that was gonna help him hit a fastball.

"Batter up!"

He stepped to the plate, gripping the bat like his life depended on it. His palms were officially slippery enough to slide down water slides. First pitch: strike. The sound echoed like judgment.

"Choke!" someone yelled. Probably Tyler, who'd been waiting for this moment since Marcus transferred into his PE class.

Second pitch: another strike. Jasmine was still cheering, but even she looked doubtful now.

Marcus closed his eyes. Thought about his mom's shop, the way she measured out exact milligrams of vitamin D for old Mrs. Henderson. How she'd taught him that small things mattered—that precision, patience, and care were their own kind of strength.

He opened his eyes. Exhaled.

Third pitch came fast. He didn't swing for the fences. He just made contact—a solid, careful hit that dropped into left field.

"RUN!" Jasmine screamed.

He booked it, sliding into second base just ahead of the tag. Palms scraped, uniform dirty, heart absolutely racing.

Jasmine lost her mind. The team actually nodded at him like he was a real human being. And Tyler? Tyler looked annoyed, which was practically a victory.

"Your palm," Jasmine said later, overpriced sports drink in hand, "says this was just the beginning."

"Shut up," he said, grinning anyway.

Sometimes you didn't have to be the star. Sometimes you just had to show up sweaty and scared and swing anyway.