Gemotions

The weight of the catcher's mask pressed against Leo's face, a heavy reminder. The leather felt strange, foreign on his skin. He always liked the view from the pitcher's mound, the rhythm of the game, the control. Coach Davis’ request to move behind the plate had thrown him.

He adjusted the mask, the metal clinking against itself. The dugout felt crowded, the air thick with tension and the smell of fresh-cut grass. He stared at his glove, his fingers flexing. He wondered if he could still feel the ball coming off his hand when he wasn’t the one throwing it.

He imagined himself missing a pitch, the runners advancing. His throat tightened. The sun felt unforgiving today.