Gemotions

"You're kidding me, right?" Mark’s voice was a low growl, barely audible above the rhythmic thud of the practice balls. His coach, a portly man with a perpetually cheerful demeanor, just shrugged, completely oblivious. Mark felt a knot tighten in his gut. The familiar feel of the hardwood floor beneath his feet felt wrong, the worn leather of the baseball mitt he held in his hand suddenly repulsive. He wanted to leave, to vanish, to escape the suffocating weight of this failure. He slowly turned and walked towards the exit, without another word.