Page 10 of Big Pitch Energy

“I’m not sure. I didn’t throw today.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she said. “Did you feel anything? Maybe a little warmth? Some tingling?”

I hesitated, then said, “I guess I felt more relaxed afterward.”

She didn’t buy it, not really, but she let it hang there.

“Did Hope say anything about your chakras being blocked? Or your energy?”

I stabbed a piece of chicken.

“No.”

My answer came out too quick, too sharp. It was just too much, especially with how confused I still felt about what I did experience. Talking about energy blockages over chicken cacciatore with my mom? No thanks.

She looked disappointed again, so I threw her a bone.

“I have another appointment Friday. Maybe more will happen then.”

Her whole face lit up with her smile.

“That tells me all I need to know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you felt something. You’re just not ready to talk about it yet. And that’s okay, as long as you stay open to it.”

I shook my head.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Aren’t follow-ups standard?”

“Maybe they are, but not for someone who went just to make his mom happy.”

I didn’t have a comeback to that, so I just kept eating. I’d just cleared my plate when she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I looked up and met her serious gaze.

“Energy work opens doors, Sammy. Sometimes to rooms we didn't know were there.”

I wanted to dismiss what she said, maybe make a joke about new age nonsense, but the words stuck in my throat. Because whatever I experienced on that table felt real. And so did the moment of strange, instant connection with Hope.

Hope

I haveno idea how long I've been glued to my screen, but my eyes burned from the strain. What started as a harmless search had spiraled into a deep dive of all things Sam Cherry.

Typing his name into the search engine had pulled up pages of articles, stats, and video highlights. He’s a pitcher, right-handed, six-foot-four, with a “cannon for an arm” and a reputation for “lighting up the radar gun.”

His fastball consistently clocks in the high 90s and occasionally breaks triple digits.When he was in the minor leagues, an announcer called himCherry Bombfor the way the pitch exploded out of his hand, and the name stuck.

Article after article praised him for his velocity, his presence on the mound, and his signature pitch…a four-seam fastball with a late rise that batters had a hard time catching up to.

And then there were the photos. Sam at charity events, with various women at premieres and restaurants. He seemed to be living a charmed life. Until the injury.

YouTube had several videos showing the moment it all went wrong. In game footage, you could see it happen in real time, Sam on the mound, winding up like usual, and then something just snapped.

He grabbed his elbow mid-pitch, face twisted in pain, and dropped into a crouch like the air had been knocked out of him. The announcers went quiet. Even without knowing exactly what had happened, it was obvious something serious had gone down.

According to the articles published in the following days, Sam’s expected recovery time was twelve to eighteen months. They all used words likestandardandroutine.But nothing I felt in his Reiki session yesterday felt routine.

I closed my laptop with more force than necessary and pressed my palms against my eyes. What was I doing? This isn't me. I don't cyber-stalk my clients, even if they happen to be the town's golden boy.

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