Gemotions

The coach's words hung in the air, thick and heavy. “We need you at shortstop, Ramirez.” Miguel felt his stomach lurch. Shortstop? He'd been the catcher his whole life, the anchor of the defense, the one calling the plays. Now, suddenly, he was being asked to learn an entirely new position, one demanding a different skillset, a different rhythm. He swallowed, the back of his throat dry. The other players were already starting to spread out on the field, their usual practiced ease evident. He stood rooted, his cleats feeling heavy on the familiar grass.

He watched the shortstop, Javier, effortlessly fielding ground balls. Javier, who made it all look so smooth. How could he possibly compete? A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, and he brushed it away, his hand trembling slightly. The sun felt brutally hot now.

He walked toward the infield, his steps slow, deliberate. The leather of his new glove felt foreign in his hands.