Zombie at the Plate

I hadn't slept in thirty hours thanks to that stupid history final, so basically I was a zombie. But Coach Reynolds didn't care about my sleep deprivation crisis—he'd finally benched Tyler, and this was my shot. First varsity start, sophomore year, bottom of the seventh, tied game.

The sky looked bruised, all purple and swollen clouds that kept threatening to spill over. My baseball cleats felt like they weighed fifty pounds each. I could hear the gossip spreading through the bleachers like wildfire—Tyler's friends, convinced I'd choke. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"You good, Maya?" Lisa asked from second base, giving me this look that was half sympathy, half ready to catch my fail.

"Peachy," I lied, trying to remember how to breathe.

Then lightning cracked—this blinding white fork that shattered the whole sky into pieces. The umpire shouted something about calling the game, but the coach wanted one more inning. Just one.

That's when this golden retriever came bounding out of nowhere. Like, literally appeared from behind the backstop, tongue out, living his best life. He tore across the infield like he owned the place, dodged the second baseman, and made a beeline straight for home plate.

Everyone froze. Even Tyler looked confused.

The dog stopped at home plate, looked around like what's everybody's problem, and proceeded to steal someone's forgotten batting helmet. He pranced back to his owner with it like he'd just won the World Series.

The tension broke. People were laughing. My hands stopped shaking.

I stepped into the batter's box, grinning for the first time all day. The pitcher wound up, and I saw everything—the ball spinning toward me, the storm holding its breath, that dog celebrating in the outfield like chaos was the whole point.

I swung.

Contact felt like pure electricity, but the good kind. The kind that wakes you up.