Zombie Curveball

I shuffled onto the pitcher's mound feeling like actual zombie. Three hours of sleep, two tests, and my phone had blown up with drama texts since 6 AM. Coach yelled something about focus, but my brain was still buffering.

Across the plate stood Connor—that massive senior who looked like he ate dumbbells for breakfast. He glared at me like I'd personally offended his entire lineage. The baseball felt slick in my sweaty palm. Just throw strikes, I told myself. Don't think about how Jessica posted that TikTok roasting your fit.

"You gonna pitch or what?" Connor yelled. Some of his teammates snickered.

That's when it hit me—I didn't care. Not about Connor's attitude, not about winning, not about the college scouts supposedly watching in the stands. I was done letting other people's expectations run my life.

I wound up and threw the most disrespectful curveball of my life. It hung there, practically begging to be crushed. Connor swung so hard he practically spun himself into the ground.

Strike three.

The batter's curse word was creative, I'll give him that. But for the first time all season, I didn't care about being "the good kid" or making my parents proud or whatever narrative they'd written for me. I just wanted to go home, order excessive pizza, and doom-scroll in peace.

My teammates rushed the mound, whooping like we'd actually won something important. Coach clapped my shoulder, saying I had "ice in my veins." If he only knew I was running on fumes and Mountain Dew.

"You coming to the party tonight?" Tyler asked while we packed up.

"Nah," I said, surprised by how easy it was. "I've got important plans."

"Doing what?"

"Existing," I said. "Without wanting to die inside."

He looked at me like I was speaking in tongues, but I meant it. Let them deal with the drama, the expectations, all that bull. This zombie was finally reclaiming his brain.