Page 2 of Glitched Play

Double crap.

"I lost track of time."

Mom snorts. "Imagine that."

The sarcasm is well-earned.

Today is the opening game of the regional tournament. My younger brother's baseball team is hosting, which means the entire family has been preparing for this like it's the World Series.

"Everyone's already here," she says.

"I'm leaving now."

"Your father is driving me crazy."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

She laughs. "I'll save you a seat."

The call disconnects and I stare at the papers scattered across my desk and at the basket full of failed goodbyes. Then I shove the blank sheet into a drawer.

Enough.

I grab my keys and head out. Maybe a day away from this is exactly what I need.

The baseball complex is packed. Cars are parked in the grass. Parents carry folding chairs like they’re headed into battle. Kids chase foul balls from batting practice.

I close my eyes, inhaling the smell of sunscreen, popcorn, and freshly cut grass that hangs in the humid air.

Welcome to summer baseball.

I find my family immediately, mostly because they're impossible to miss. My father stands against the fence, laser focused on warmups. Mom chats with three other baseball parents. My older sister, Lauren, scrolls through her phone. And my brother Tyler is taking swings in the cage. I’m the middle child sandwiched between two superstar athletes. Lauren plays professional soccer.

And Tyler is a superstar, and I love watching him do what he loves. He’s one of those guys where nothing comes before baseball—not girls, not studying, and not partying. He’s dedicated and disciplined.

My parents have always shown up for that kind of dedication. They were at every one of Lauren’s soccer games decked out in team shirts, with coolers, and enough sideline opinions to coach the national team. They were at every one of Tyler’s games too, cheering from the bleachers, tracking stats, clapping until their palms turned red.

Our family calendar used to look like it had been attacked by highlighters—practice, tournament, away game, championship—and somehow they never missed the things that happened on fields, under lights, in front of crowds.

But my parents have never watched me play in an online tournament. They’ve never seen my hands cramp after hours of practice or heard the way a team chat goes dead right before a final round or understood that one wrong move can cost you the whole match. To them, gaming still sounds like something you do when you’re bored, not something that requires strategy, reflexes, discipline, and the ability to stay calm while thousands of people are trying to beat you from behind their own screens. And maybe that’s what makes it harder than regular sports in some ways. Not everyone can throw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball or sprint down a soccer field, but almost everyone has a computer. Everyone thinks they can play. Which means the pool is endless, the competition is brutal and proving you’re good takes more than talent.

It takes obsession and to my parents, that’s different than being disciplined.

I see Mom. She has Tyler’s Mom appliquéd on the front of her shirt with orange and blue rhinestones. Her mouth curves into a smile when she notices me.

"About time," Mom says.

"Good to see you too."

Dad glances over."How's work?"

There’s his obligatory check-in, not because he doesn't care. He just doesn't understand.

None of them do.

I work for a large software company with above average pay, great benefits and a solid career path. But every day I wake up wishing I worked in gaming instead, but those jobs are hard to come by.

"Work's good. Boring but it’s fine."