Zombie Mode at the Plate

The heat was already blistering at 9 AM. I stood behind the backstop, my palms so sweaty I could barely grip the fence. Jake—the star shortstop, the guy with 2.3K followers—was in the dugout surrounded by his squad. I was just the backup catcher who'd spent the last week in full zombie mode, surviving on three hours of sleep a night and way too much caffeine.

"You good, Marcus?" Coach yelled from the dugout.

"Yeah. Just—yeah."

Our leadoff batter CRACKED one toward center field. I watched from the bench, helmet already on, waiting for my turn. My little sister's goldfish had died yesterday, and I'd spent two hours helping her bury it in a Tupperware container in the backyard. She'd named it Captain Fin. I was the one who'd forgotten to feed it last weekend. Now every time I closed my eyes, I saw that fish floating at the top of its bowl.

"Fish, you good?" Jake called out. "You look like you're gonna puke."

"I'm good."

The truth: I'd been taking those focus vitamins my dad bought online—the ones that were supposed to boost reaction time and mental clarity. They'd been giving me headaches. But I needed every edge I could get. Jake had been starting varsity since freshman year. I was still fighting for a permanent spot.

Bottom of the seventh. Two outs. Bases loaded.

We were down by one.

"Marcus! You're up!"

I grabbed my bat and walked to the plate. My heart was hammering. The other team's pitcher glared at me—tall, lanky, threw heat. Behind him, the sun slanted through the palm trees lining the outfield fence, casting long shadows across the dirt.

First pitch: strike one. I never even saw it.

"C'mon Fish, you GOT this!" It was Jake, standing at the on-deck circle, actually cheering for me.

Second pitch: ball. Way outside.

Third pitch—I connected.

I felt it before I heard it. That perfect moment when the bat hits the ball just right, clean and solid. The ball soared toward right field, kept going, kept going—

CLEARED the fence.

The dugout ERUPTED. My teammates rushed the plate. Jake high-fived me so hard my arm stung. "YO WHAT WAS THAT?! You've been HIDING that swing all season!"

I stood there, grinning like an idiot, everything else finally fading away. The dead goldfish. The zombie exhaustion. The vitamins that probably didn't even work.

For once, I wasn't just the backup.

I was the kid who hit the walk-off.

And yeah, my palms were still sweating. But I didn't even care.