Thunder in the Ninth

The thunder started rumbling in the third inning. Perfect timing, as always.

I was already spiraling. Coach Bennett had benched me after I struck out swinging at literally nothing, and I was sitting on the dugout bench, digging through my backpack like a loser, trying to find my gummy **vitamin** D supplements. Because apparently my mom read some article about teenage athletes being deficient and now I'm the guy taking Flintstones vitamins during a varsity game.

"Still sucking on those kiddie gummies, huh?" Tyler said, dropping onto the bench next to me. Of course he had to notice. Tyler, who'd already hit a double and made that diving catch in right field. Tyler, whose hair somehow stayed perfect even in eighty percent humidity.

"It's for my bones," I mumbled, which was honestly the worst defense I could've come up with. Tyler laughed, that easy laugh that made everyone like him automatically, but I caught the flicker of judgment in his eyes. Or maybe I was just projecting. Maybe I was the only one who cared.

The sky was turning that weird greenish color that meant trouble. Coach kept glancing at the clouds, and parents in the stands were checking their phones nervously. We were down 4-1, bottom of the seventh, two outs, runners on second and third. And somehow, someway, I was getting sent up to pinch-hit.

"You got this, man," Tyler said, slapping my shoulder. "Just make contact."

As I walked to the plate, the first flash of **lightning** cracked across the sky. Bright enough that everyone actually gasped. For a second, everything was illuminated — the worried faces, the dust swirling in the wind, the **baseball** field stretched out like something from a dream. Then thunder shook the ground beneath my cleats.

The umpire made the call to pause, but Coach yelled, "One more out! Finish the inning!"

So I stepped into the box. The pitcher wound up. I saw the spin on the ball, saw it breaking low and away, and for the first time all season, I didn't overthink it. I didn't worry about the vitamins in my pocket or Tyler watching from the dugout or how badly I'd played all spring.

I just swung.

My bat connected with that perfect, solid sound that every ball player lives for. The ball sailed toward the gap in left-center, and both runners scored. By the time I slid into third with a triple, the rain was coming down sideways.

"HELL YEAH!" Tyler screamed from the dugout. "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"

As the team rushed the field and the storm finally broke overhead, I realized something: nobody cares if you take gummy vitamins. They just care if you can deliver when the lightning flashes.