Gemotions

"We need you at shortstop, Jake." The words hit him like a physical blow. Jake, the team's designated hitter, stared at the coach. His bat, usually a source of comfort, suddenly felt like a useless piece of wood.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. He imagined the fielding practice, the constant pressure of making plays. It was a skill he'd never truly focused on, a world away from his hitting practice.

He went through the motions, but the rhythm was off, his movements clumsy. He felt like a stranger in his own uniform. He saw other players smirking. Each mistake was a fresh stab, each missed ground ball a fresh insult.