Vitamin C and Curveballs

The orange bottle sat on my nightstand like a judge and jury. Vitamin C Immune Boost, 1000mg, Mom's latest obsession since she started listening to those wellness podcasts.

"Take it," she called from the kitchen. "You don't want to get sick before tryouts."

I dry-swallowed two pills. They tasted like artificial oranges and disappointment.

Baseball tryouts were in three days. Three days until I found out if I made varsity or spent another season rotting on JV while my friends moved up without me. The weight sat heavier than any vitamin regimen could fix.

That's when I saw him again—the bear.

He'd been showing up behind the left field fence for weeks. A massive black bear, just watching practice like he was scouting talent. Coach said animal control wouldn't come because "bears have rights too" or some California nonsense. The guys called him Lefty. Someone started a rumor he was the spirit of our old third baseman who graduated last year.

"Yo, Marcus," Jay called from his car Friday morning. "Party at Chloe's tonight. You coming?"

I hadn't been invited. But Jay was cool like that—inclusive to a fault, even when it meant inviting the quiet kid who spent all summer hitting off a tee in his backyard.

"Can't," I said, gripping my backpack straps. "Gotta practice."

"Suit yourself." He peeled off, and I wondered if that was it—if I'd chosen baseball over having an actual life.

Saturday, I hit the field at dawn. Lefty was there, doing that thing bears do where they sit like oversized humans. I took a swing, missed, took another, missed again. The frustration burned in my chest. I slammed my bat into the dirt.

"Screw it," I muttered. "Screw this whole thing."

I sat down in the grass, back against the fence, twenty feet from a wild bear. We both just sat there—me in my cleats and practice jersey, him in his fur, both of us stuck in this in-between space. Wanting something but not knowing how to get it.

My phone buzzed. Mom: Don't forget your vitamins! Love you.

I laughed. It came out jagged and real. Lefty made this huffing noise, almost like he was laughing too.

Monday, I hit three doubles at tryouts. Coach wrote something on his clipboard and actually nodded. Not much, but it felt like something.

Tuesday, Jay texted: We're going to the lake Saturday. You should come.

I stared at my phone. Then at the orange vitamin bottle. Then at the field where Lefty hadn't appeared for three days.

Maybe I'd spent sixteen years thinking I had to choose—baseball OR friends, ambition OR connection, being the serious kid OR having fun. Maybe the real curveball was that I could be all of it.

I grabbed a vitamin, washed it down with water, and texted Jay back.

Yeah. I'm in.