Gemotions

Coach Miller’s voice, usually a booming command, sounded distant, almost apologetic. Mark, a star shortstop, felt like he'd stepped into a funhouse mirror. He'd lived and breathed baseball since he could walk. Now, Coach wanted him to try pitching.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture clumsy and unfamiliar. The sun beat down, turning the familiar smell of freshly cut grass into a dizzying aroma. His chest felt tight, constricted.

"I... I don't get it," he mumbled, his voice a low growl. The infield, his domain, suddenly seemed vast and foreign. He longed for the reassuring thwack of the ball hitting his glove, the familiar rhythm of the game.