Gemotions

The announcement crackled over the intercom, a mechanical voice delivering the death knell. “Number 12, to the mound.” Liam’s stomach dropped. He was a shortstop. A shortstop! His hands, which usually felt sure and confident on the infield, were now tingling and uncertain. He looked at his glove, at his bat, and suddenly felt like an imposter.

His legs felt like lead as he walked toward the pitching mound. The roar of the crowd, usually a source of adrenaline, now felt like a predatory growl. He climbed the mound, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm.

He stared at the batter, a hulking figure with a menacing glare. The sun seemed to intensify its rays, beating down on him with crushing force. He cleared his throat, but no sound emerged. This couldn’t be happening.