Zombie Mode at the Plate

I stood at home plate feeling like a straight-up zombie. Three hours of sleep because Maya finally replied to my text at 2 AM, and now here I was at baseball tryouts looking like I'd crawled out of a grave.

Coach Miller stared from his folding chair behind the backstop. He was built like a literal bull—massive shoulders, neck the size of a tree trunk, and a temper that made everyone rightfully terrified. "Batters up!" he barked, and my stomach did that awful flippy thing it always did when I was about to embarrass myself.

The school's social pyramid was simple: jocks on top, everyone else fighting for the scraps beneath. Freshman year had been brutal enough without voluntarily signing up for public humiliation in front of half the varsity team. But Dad wanted me to "get involved," and I wanted to prove something to myself. Or maybe to Maya. Okay, definitely to Maya.

First pitch came in fast. I swung like my life depended on it, missed completely, and nearly spun myself into the dirt.

"Easy, rookie," called Tyler, the junior first baseman who'd already made it clear he thought I was wasting everyone's time. "Maybe try keeping your eyes open next time."

A few laughs rippled through the team. My face burned. I adjusted my helmet, pretending I couldn't hear them. Second pitch—WHACK. Line drive straight to center field. I stood there for half a second too long, shocked I'd actually made contact.

"RUN!" Coach Miller's voice cracked like thunder.

I sprinted, legs pumping, lungs screaming, and slid into second base just as the throw came in. Safe. By literally an inch.

"Not bad, kid," Tyler said, actually nodding. "For a zombie."

Something shifted. The pyramid didn't matter anymore. The bull of a coach was almost smiling. And when I pulled out my phone after practice, Maya had sent another text: "heard you crushed it today 🏆". The zombie feeling was gone, replaced by something way better—the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I belonged here after all.