Zombie Mode at the Plate

My life had officially become one long, exhausting replay of the same day. Wake up, drag myself through AP classes where the fluorescent lights hummed like dying insects, then baseball practice where Coach Henderson screamed about "hustle" and "grit" like they were products we could buy at the mall.

I was in full zombie mode — that particular teenage condition where you're physically present but mentally somewhere in the stratosphere. My teammates called me "Sleepy Marcos" which was hilarious if you've never heard it eight hundred times.

"You good, dude?" Tyler asked, tossing me the baseball. He was the kind of guy whose hair always looked perfect, even after two hours of drills.

"Just thinking about how much I'd rather be doing literally anything else," I said, then immediately felt guilty. I used to love baseball. The crack of the bat, the way the ball felt in my hand, that perfect moment when everything synced up. But lately? It just felt like another obligation, another checkbox on the endless list of Things That Would Look Good on College Applications.

That's when Sarah from the debate team walked past the field, eating an orange like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She peeled it slowly, almost deliberately, letting the citrus scent cut through the smell of sweat and dirt. She caught me watching and actually waved instead of looking at her phone like a normal person.

"Nice form!" she called. "Very zombie-like!"

Something about the way she said it — like she was in on the joke instead of making fun of me — snapped me out of it. I laughed. A real laugh, not the performative one I used at lunch when someone made a joke I didn't understand.

"That's kind of the goal," I yelled back. "Intimidate the other team with my undead energy."

"It's working!" She took a segment of the orange and pretended to examine it like a scientific specimen. "Ten out of ten, would definitely be scared of this zombie."

The rest of practice, I wasn't thinking about GPAs or college essays or what my parents expected. I just played. Even threw a no-hitter during our scrimmage, which Tyler said was "actually sick" in that way guys have of complimenting each other while pretending not to.

Later, Sarah was still sitting in the bleachers when practice ended. She tossed me an orange slice as I walked by.

"For energy, zombie," she said. "Can't have you falling apart on me."

"Baseball zombie needs sustenance," I agreed, sinking onto the bench beside her. The orange was perfect — sweet, tangy, real. "So, what were you doing here all this time?"

"Debate practice got out early," she shrugged. "Figured I'd come witness the legendary zombie in action. Plus, watching you guys hit things seemed more entertaining than going home to argue with my sister about the remote again."

We sat there as the field lights flickered on, mosquitoes beginning their nightly assault. I told her about the pressure of varsity sports and college expectations. She told me about debate tournaments and how she secretly wanted to study marine biology instead of political science.

"You know what the problem is?" she said, finishing her orange. "We're all so busy performing the roles we think we're supposed to play that we forget to actually enjoy anything. Like, your baseball thing? You clearly still love it when you're not overthinking everything."

"Observant for someone who was just watching a zombie practice," I said.

"I notice things," she grinned. "Also, your form actually is terrible."

We both laughed, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was sleepwalking through my life. The zombie was awake, and maybe, just maybe, being undead wasn't so bad after all.