Gemotions

“I know this is a big ask, James,” the baseball coach said, his voice apologetic. “But we need you to pitch.” James stared at the worn leather of his glove. He was a shortstop, a fielder. He'd honed his skills. Years of practice. He loved the crack of the bat, the feel of the ball in his hand. Pitching was a different world. He'd never really learned it.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He looked up at the sky, the endless blue suddenly seeming to mock him. The sun was hot. The field was bright. He felt the weight of the moment, the weight of expectation.

He walked to the mound. He felt nothing.