Gemotions

"I need you to move to catcher," the coach had announced, his voice devoid of any inflection. "We need a stronger presence behind the plate." Michael stood frozen, the baseball bat suddenly feeling heavy in his hands. His stomach dropped like a stone.

He'd always been a shortstop, his position. He'd built his identity around it. The quick throws, the diving catches – that was him. He felt the blood pounding in his ears. The suggestion felt like a personal insult, a dismissal of his hard work.

He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the familiar green of the infield, the familiar rhythm of the game. He slowly opened his eyes, and the world seemed a little sharper, a little brighter. He forced a smile. He'd just have to be the best damn catcher they’d ever seen.