Zombie at the Plate

Marcus stood in the batter's box, his knees doing that weird wobbly thing they always did when people were actually watching. The rim of his trusty baseball cap pulled low over his eyes—he'd been wearing this thing since seventh grade, the brim permanently curved, a sweat stain forming a perfect circle around the crown. It was basically part of his identity at this point.

"You look like a literal zombie," Mia yelled from the dugout, which, okay, fair. He'd been up until 3 AM doomscrolling on his iPhone, watching those 'signs your crush likes you' TikToks that definitely weren't helping his anxiety. Now here he was, squinting in the harsh afternoon sun, mouth drier than his social life.

"Yo, Marcus! You good?" called Tyler from first base, flicking his own cap backward like the instant-athlete move that always made Marcus feel secretly inadequate.

"Yeah," Marcus croaked. "Just need some water."

He grabbed the bottle from the dugout, chugging it like someone who'd never heard of hydration etiquette. The water spilled down his chin, soaking the front of his jersey. Perfect. Absolutely mortifying.

The pitcher wound up. Marcus gripped the bat, thinking about how much he hated baseball sometimes—how much he hated all of it, really. The expectations. The way his dad always asked "how's the team?" instead of "how are you?" The way Mia always tried to set him up with her friends because "you're so nice, Marcus, you just need to put yourself out there."

The pitch came—high and outside. Ball one.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket. Probably his mom. Or maybe—his stomach did that flippy thing—maybe it was HER. The girl from his English class who'd smiled at him yesterday while they were both reaching for the same copy of "The Great Gatsby." He'd spent the entire night drafting and deleting texts like some kind of message-ghosting zombie.

"Hey, zombie boy!" Mia shouted. "Focus! You're up!"

The next pitch came in low. Marcus swung, connected solid with the ball, and watched it sail toward left field. A hit. An actual hit.

"YEAAH!" Tyler yelled, pumping his fist. "Let's go, Marcus!"

Something shifted. Marcus trotted toward first base, his baseball cap somehow feeling lighter on his head. The zombie feeling faded. For once, he wasn't overthinking every micro-movement, every potential awkward moment, every way this could go wrong. He was just... playing. Just existing.

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he realized, you just had to swing.