Three Strikes at Midnight

Marcus sat on the bench, his iPhone screen glowing in the darkness of the dugout. 2:47 AM. He'd been doomscrolling for three hours, watching everyone else's highlight reels while his own life felt like a blooper reel.

"Bro, you good?" Juan whispered from the next locker. Marcus jumped, nearly dropping his phone. "Yeah. Just...you know."

"Checking if she posted?" Juan raised an eyebrow. "Maya's not gonna post at 3 AM. Even influencers need sleep."

Marcus groaned. "I'm not stalking her. I'm just...preparing. For tomorrow."

"Right. The big baseball showcase." Juan snorted. "Because scouts totally check your follower count before they check your batting average."

Marcus pulled a bottle of vitamins from his bag. "Coach says I need to bulk up. These are supposed to help with, like, focus and stuff."

"Or you could just sleep," Juan suggested. "That's literally free."

But sleep wouldn't come. Not with tomorrow hanging over him like a sphinx's impossible riddle: What happens when the guy nobody notices suddenly becomes the guy everybody's watching?

The baseball field at dawn felt different. Empty. Sacred. Marcus stepped into the batter's box, his phone finally tucked away in his bag. The first pitch screamed toward him—fast, unfair, impossible.

Strike one.

He adjusted his helmet. Thought about Maya sitting in the stands later today. Thought about the vitamins that were supposed to make him something he wasn't.

Strike two.

Then he remembered what his dad had said: "The hardest part isn't hitting the ball. It's figuring out who you are when nobody's watching."

The third pitch came. Marcus didn't try to be the player everyone expected. He just swung.

CRACK.

The ball sailed toward the fence as the sun broke over the horizon, gold and impossible and perfect.

"YES!" Juan screamed from somewhere. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Marcus stood in the box, grinning like an idiot. His phone was dead in his bag. The vitamins were forgotten. For the first time in forever, he wasn't worried about who was watching.

He was just playing baseball.

And somehow, that was everything.