Gemotions

I stared at the coach, struggling to keep my face a mask of composure. “You want me to pitch?” I almost choked on the words. I was a shortstop! I had my routine, my glove, my plays memorized. The mound was a different universe. My stomach plummeted, the familiar joy of the game turned sour.

“But the team needs you,” he said. The team. That phrase felt like a burden, not a reward. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. The vibrant field suddenly seemed vast and unforgiving. I forced a smile, but my lips trembled. The roar of the crowd seemed to mock me.