Gemotions

The leather of the glove felt supple against his palm, the familiar weight a reassurance. Jake meticulously polished the baseball, the small imperfections of the stitching a tactile delight. The afternoon sun beat down, warming his back as he stood on the pitcher's mound, the familiar territory. He knew his role, and he relished it. He was a force to be reckoned with.

Coach Davies called him over. Jake slowly walked towards the bench, the sound of the crowd a familiar hum in the background.

"Jake, we're thinking of moving you to shortstop," the coach said, his voice friendly, but serious.

Jake paused, his hand instinctively reaching for the pocket of his glove.

"But Coach, I feel very fine pitching," he said.