Inklings 2025

Bottom of the Ninth Constantino Peña ’26 The dirt shifts beneath my cleats, As I walk to The Dish. I dig in, tighten my grip. Miami humidity drapes over me, Like a second skin. Sweat traces rivers down my brow. Inhale. The weight of the bat settles in my hands. The weight of the crowd — Onto my shoulders. 3-3; Two outs. Bottom 9th. Man on second, bouncing on his toes. The dugout is on its feet, yelling so loud their voices blur, a tidal wave of sound crashing over the field. I don’t hear them. Silence. The pitcher stands tall, eyes locked on me like he already knows the ending. I shake my head, a smirk crossing my face. Nah, Bro, not today. His breathing slows. I match it. Never taking my eyes off his. First pitch—fastball, outside. I let it go. Ball one. He resets, nods, winds up again. A slider this time, breaking late. I flinch, swing— Miss. He smirks, eyes burning, leans in and mutters— Estúpido. Strike one. Damn it. Reset. 35