Gemotions

The pitcher's mound felt like home. Rain or shine, the worn clay gave way under his cleats, grounding him. He’d been the ace for three years, the undisputed leader of the team. The roar of the crowd, the crack of the bat, it was all background noise to his focus. His throws were laser-guided missiles, each one a testament to hours spent perfecting his craft. When Coach called him over, a knot formed in his stomach. But as he listened, head bobbing, the easy confidence remained, even when his coach asked him to move to first base.

“First base? But… I’m a pitcher,” he said, the words feeling foreign and small in his own ears. He pushed back against the suggestion. The coach simply smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, and kept talking about team needs.

He watched the practice unfold. Fielding grounders was a skill he'd practiced, but not with the frequency of pitching. He felt a flicker of uncertainty, like a chill wind suddenly blowing through a sun-drenched room.