Gemotions

“You’re on the bench, son.” Those words from the manager slammed into Michael with the force of a fastball to the chest. He’d worked his entire life to pitch. Now, he wouldn’t be pitching at all. He was being moved to right field.

His vision swam. He gripped the leather of his glove, his knuckles bone-white. The diamond suddenly looked enormous, the outfield a vast, empty wilderness. The thought of standing there, waiting for balls to be hit his way, felt mortifying.

He managed a croak, “But… I don’t even know how to…” He trailed off, the words lost in the roaring in his ears. The other players, their faces unreadable, seemed to be moving in slow motion. He could feel the blood draining from his face.