Zombie Curveball

The worst thing about being a freshman wasn't the homework load or the locker that smelled like someone died inside it. It was walking past the senior quad during lunch and feeling like a total **zombie** from staying up until 2 AM grinding through AP Euro notes and scrolling through TikTok until my eyes burned.

Marcus and his crew sat on their usual bench like they owned the school. Marcus was such a **bull**—built like a tank, voice like thunder, zero chill whatsoever. Last week he'd body-checked my friend Jenna in the hallway just because she didn't move fast enough, then laughed like it was the funniest thing that ever happened.

"Yo, watch where you're going, freshman," Marcus called out as I speed-walked past, my heart doing that thing where it forgets how to beat normally. I didn't respond. What was I supposed to say? "Sorry for existing on your planet, oh mighty senior overlord"?

But then fate—or whatever—decided to mess everything up.

I'd been messing around with the school's **baseball** team because my dad was all about how sports build character or whatever. I wasn't even good, but I could pitch a decent curveball when I wasn't overthinking it. Coach had me practicing late, and one afternoon I was alone in the batting cage, just throwing against the net and letting out all the frustration from existing in this endless cycle of academic pressure and social anxiety.

Marcus walked in with two of his friends, probably to grab equipment for their own practice. I froze.

"Freshman," he said, nodding. "Let's see what you got."

I thought he was gonna make fun of me. Instead, he grabbed a bat and stepped into the box. "Throw it."

My hands were shaking but I threw it anyway—a curveball that broke way outside, nowhere near the strike zone. Marcus swung anyway and missed.

"That's BS," he said, but he was grinning. "Throw another one."

We stayed there for twenty minutes. Me throwing, him swinging, missing more than he hit but never getting mad about it. His friends left after five minutes.

"You're overthinking it," Marcus said finally, tossing the bat aside. "You're trying too hard to be perfect. Just throw the damn thing."

Maybe he was right. I'd been so caught up in trying to survive, trying to be what everyone wanted—smart, athletic, chill, whatever—that I'd forgotten how to just exist without feeling like I was constantly failing at something.

"Thanks," I said, because what else do you say to the guy who's terrorized your existence all year?

"No problem, freshie." He grabbed his gear. "See you tomorrow."

And the weird thing? He actually nodded at me in the hallway the next day. Not mocking, not mean—just acknowledging I existed.

Sometimes people aren't the stories we build in our heads. Sometimes they're just tired seniors who miss playing little league and don't know how to talk to freshmen without being total jerks about it.

And sometimes a curveball can surprise you more than anything.