Zombies at the Plate

Marcus shuffled into third period like a zombie, his brain feeling like someone had replaced it with cotton balls. Three consecutive nights of Diamond Dogs gameplay until 3 AM will do that to you. He slumped into his desk, Coach Barker's voice droning about the social pyramid of high school athletics—something about varsity at the top, JV below, and freshmen at the bottom forming the foundation.

"Henderson! You trying out for the team or what?" Barker barked, and Marcus straightened up. The baseball team. He'd been dreaming about varsity since middle school, back when he and his dog Buster would chase balls in the park until sunset. Buster was gone now, but the dream wasn't.

"Yes sir," Marcus managed, though his voice cracked like he was still thirteen.

"Good. Show up at the bull field tomorrow at 3. Don't be late."

The old municipal field—everyone called it the bull field because of that massive Target bull sign visible beyond the outfield fence. Marcus had heard stories about seniors having to prove themselves by hitting homers over the bull's head.

Tryouts were a blur. His arms felt like lead, his swing sluggish. But in the fifth inning, it happened—a pitch right down the middle, and Marcus connected. The ball sailed toward the bull sign, rising higher and higher, clearing the fence, disappearing behind that massive red target.

Silence. Then whoops from the seniors.

"Not bad, zombie," called Tyler, the varsity shortstop, grinning. "Maybe you've got some life in you after all."

Marcus's phone buzzed in his pocket. His mom: Found your old glove in the garage. This mean what I think it means?

He grinned back at Tyler, feeling alive for the first time in days. The pyramid didn't seem so tall anymore. He was climbing.