When Bears Bleed Green

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip the bat. Only two weeks into freshman year and I'd already earned the nickname "Bear"—not because I was tough, but because I'd gotten spinach stuck in my teeth during lunch AND managed to trip over my own backpack in the same period.

"You got this, Bear!" yelled Jordan from the dugout. Note the sarcasm.

It was the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs. The entire baseball team was watching. Jordan's older sister Maya—the one I'd been lowkey crushing on since orientation—was leaning against the fence behind home plate, scrolling on her phone but probably watching anyway.

Coach had put me in as a pinch hitter because apparently "we needed everyone." Probably just wanted to embarrass the new guy.

The pitcher wound up. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The first pitch came—high and outside. Ball one.

"Easy out!" someone shouted from the other team.

Second pitch: I swung late and missed completely. Strike one.

My palms were literally dripping now. I wiped them on my uniform pants, trying to look chill and failing.

Third pitch was perfect—right down the middle. I didn't think. I just swung. The connection felt solid, a satisfying crack that sent the ball soaring toward right field. I dropped the bat and sprinted, watching it clear the fence.

Game-winning home run.

The team rushed the plate. Jordan actually slapped me on the back. "Not bad, Bear. Not bad."

But the best part? Maya walked over as I was catching my breath. She held up her phone—she'd been recording.

"That was actually kind of epic," she said, grinning. "Wanna hang out after the game? There's this smoothie place that actually puts spinach in their drinks and it's not gross."

I looked at my palm—still sweaty, shaking a little. Then I looked at her.

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Sometimes being the bear means you come out roaring.