Thunder Before the Spark

My hat sat three sizes too big, swallowing my forehead like I was trying to disappear inside it. Dad's old baseball cap, the one he wore when he actually bothered to show up to my games. Now I was the one standing at home plate,Varsity tryouts sophomore year, and literally everyone was watching.

"You got this, Marcus!" someone yelled. I adjusted the brim, sweating through my underarmor.

First pitch: fastball right down the middle. I froze. Strike one.

"Choke artist in the batter's box!" someone whispered from the bench. Great. So this was happening.

That's when I noticed it—a calico cat padding along the fence behind home plate, like it owned the place. Coach Hayes hated animals on the field. But this cat? This cat had zero respect for authority. It hopped onto the backstop, orange-and-white tail flicking with attitude, staring directly at me like *you're not actually gonna swing, are you?*

Second pitch: curveball low. I checked my swing. The ump called it a ball. Whatever.

Then the sky went purple. That ominous pre-storm stillness where everyone knows what's coming but nobody moves yet. A jagged scar of lightning cracked the horizon, close enough that I could practically taste the ozone.

"Game's on weather delay, ladies!" Coach Hayes shouted, grabbing his equipment bag. "Everyone hit the dugout!"

But I stood frozen, staring at the cat. It wasn't running. It was crouched in attack position, staring at something in the dirt near home plate. Something shiny. A lucky penny? No—way better.

I walked over, hat sliding up my forehead. The cat didn't move, just watched with these ancient, judgmental eyes. There in the dirt, practically glowing in the weird pre-storm light: a baseball card. A 1952 Mickey Mantle, worn but intact, like it had been waiting specifically for this moment.

The cat meowed once, satisfied, then sauntered off like it had just delivered my destiny.

"Marcus, move your—"

"Coach, I found something."

Lightning struck again, closer this time. The air crackled. Something in my chest shifted—not fear anymore. Something electric. I tucked the card in my back pocket, pulled my hat down tight, and suddenly I didn't care who was watching.

"Can we finish this?" I shouted over the thunder. "I've got one more swing in me."

Coach stared. Then, slowly, he grinned. "First pitch coming in thirty seconds. Don't miss it."

The cat sat on the fence, tail wrapped around its paws, watching like it knew everything all along.

I hit that ball so hard they're probably still looking for it.