Gemotions

The weight of the catcher’s mitt felt impossibly heavy in Liam's hands. He'd envisioned himself as the pitcher, the master of the mound, the one everyone watched. Now, he was relegated to a position that required him to simply receive, to react, to be a shadow. He leaned against the chain-link fence, the metal cold against his cheek.

He watched the other pitchers warm up, their fluid movements, their focused intensity, each gesture a reminder of his own failed ambition. He swallowed hard, a bitterness rising in his throat. Even the roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat, the exhilaration of the game -- all felt dull, muted, like a memory of a life that wasn't his anymore.