Three Strikes at Memory

Marcus's palms were sweating so bad he could practically fill a water bottle. This was it — baseball tryouts, freshman year, and every single varsity player watching like hawks ready to strike. His best friend Darius had been ditching him lately, too busy being "popular" now that they'd made the team last season. The betrayal stung worse than getting hit by a fastball.

"You're up, new kid," the coach yelled, and Marcus's stomach did Olympic gymnastics. He stepped into the batter's box, gripping the bat like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The pitcher wound up and fired. Strike one. Marcus heard someone snicker. Probably one of Darius's new friends.

The second pitch came faster. He swung anyway, connecting with nothing but air. Strike two. His face burned hotter than a summer sidewalk. Running away would be easier than this. Just bail, head to the parking lot, never look back. But then he remembered his dad's voice from when he'd taught Marcus to play: "You miss every shot you don't take, kid. Even the ones that embarrass you."

The third pitch. Marcus didn't think — he just swung.

CRACK.

The ball soared past the outfielders' heads. He took off running, sneakers tearing up the dirt, heart hammering against his ribs. By the time he slid into home, the whole field was cheering. Even Darius.

Later, sitting on the bleachers with a bag of chips, Darius found him. "Sorry I've been weird," he mumbled, looking anywhere but Marcus's face. "Coach said only five freshmen make the cut, and I didn't want us competing against each other."

Marcus stared at his friend, then at the carnival goldfish dangling from Darius's backpack keychain — a matching pair they'd won last summer, back when everything was simple. "We're not competing, dumbass. We're teammates now."

Darius grinned, finally looking him in the eye. "Yeah. Guess we are."

Marcus's palms were finally dry. Baseball tryouts were done. And somewhere in all that chaos, he'd figured out that growing up doesn't mean leaving people behind — it means learning who's worth running toward.