Gemotions

He paced the length of the dugout, the rhythmic thud of his cleats against the concrete a frantic counterpoint to the buzzing in his ears. “Catcher?” Javier’s voice, when he finally spoke, was barely a whisper, a croak lost in the sudden, echoing silence. He’d spent his entire life mastering the art of the curveball, the precise trajectory, the deceptive spin. Years of practice, all for naught? He yanked at his cap, his fingers fumbling. The baseball felt alien in his hand, a hard, unfamiliar weight. His stomach churned as he envisioned the pitcher’s mound, the catcher’s crouch. How could he possibly learn everything so fast?