Zombie Curveball

Mikey shuffled into third period English feeling like the walking dead. Three hours of Fortnite the night before will do that to you. His brain was basically a zombie at this point — lurching from one thought to another, hungry for something he couldn't name.

"Dude, you look rough," said Jamar, sliding into the desk beside him. "Baseball tryouts after school? You going?"

Mikey groaned. "My dad's making me. He's all, 'It builds character' and 'I was captain sophomore year.' Like, okay boomer, times have changed."

The truth was, Mikey secretly wanted to make the team. Wanted that orange and white jersey so bad it made his chest tight. But admitting that felt like surrendering to who his dad wanted him to be, not who he actually was — whoever that was.

At lunch, Mikey sat alone (again) peeling an orange, the citrus scent cutting through the cafeteria's pervasive smell of tater tots and teenage despair. He watched the varsity players joke around at their table, easy in their skin, comfortable in their certainty.

He felt like a zombie among the living — moving through the motions, passing for human while something essential felt missing.

Tryouts were a disaster. Mikey's first at-bat, he swung so hard he practically spun himself into the ground. Strikeout. The coach's clipboard-click sounded like a gavel.

But then, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded (okay, fine, it was just scrimmage), Mikey stepped up again. Something clicked — maybe desperation, maybe finally letting himself want it. The pitch came, high and outside, and Mikey's bat connected with that perfect sweet-spot sound that echoes in your chest.

The ball sailed toward the orange-tinted sunset — and cleared the fence by inches.

"Yo, what?!" Jamar yelled from the bench. "There's literally zombies with more life than you five minutes ago!"

The coach nodded. "Nice. You've got some pop in that bat, kid."

Walking home, Mikey couldn't stop smiling. Maybe he didn't have to choose between being himself and being his dad's son. Maybe he could be both — a baseball-playing, zombie-game-loving, orange-peeling mess of contradictions. Maybe that's what growing up actually was: figuring out which parts to keep, and which parts to leave behind like last season's jersey.