Page 2 of Big Pitch Energy

I trailed off not wanting to say the words. Hell, I don’t even want tothinkthem.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. A lot can happen in three months.” he said. “Have you considered working with someone new? Maybe get a fresh perspective?”

“Like who? The Waves have specialists for every joint, muscle, and nerve in my arm. If it was physical, they’d have caught it.”

“Something outside the box.” After another stretch of silence, he added, “A sports psychologist, maybe?”

Ray is only trying to help, and I don’t want to take my frustration out on him.

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I can ask,” he said. “I’ll touch base in a couple days. In the meantime, if you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks Ray.”

We ended the call and I kicked at the dirt, filling in the hole where my plant foot kept landing. I grabbed the bucket and started collecting the balls I'd pitched into the net, each one a reminder of my shitty velocity. After putting everything away in the shed—bucket, radar gun, and display—I shut the door and turned around to find Mom standing on the deck with two glasses of iced tea.

“All done for the day?” she asked, assessing my mood with the precision that only mothers possess.

I nodded, kissed her cheek, and took the glass she offered. We both sat, and I took a long gulp of tea, avoiding her gaze.

“I was just talking to Ray.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“Same old, same old. Keep working, keep trying.”

Mom sipped her tea thoughtfully, watching as I picked up my glove and examined the laces.

“The doctors say there's no physical reason you can't throw like before, right?” I nodded. “That means the issue is elsewhere.”

“Yeah, Ray suggested talking to a sports psychologist.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your energy is blocked.”

I barely contained my eye roll.

My mom is the strongest person I know. She had to be to get us through the tough years after my father left. For most ofmy life, she worked two or three jobs to support us. And as I got older, every extra penny went toward my baseball gear and travel teams. Hell, she’s the one who built my first backyard bullpen. So once I got my first big contract, I paid off her house and gave her enough money so she could quit her jobs.

And that’s when she got allwoo-woo. She’d always been spiritually curious, but with extra time on her hands, she went all in. Crystals on the windowsills, incense burning in the living room, books about chakras and energy healing stacked on her bedside table.

When she learned enough, she wanted to open a new age shop to teach others. Of course I helped her with that too, and now Moonlight and Marigolds is an integral part of the Starlight Shores community.

But just because she’s into all that stuff doesn’t mean I am.

“Mom, I don't think?—”

She cut me off and leaned forward to squeeze my hand.

“I’m sure Hope can help you. She does incredible work.”

I assume she’s talking about Hope Keller who owns the yoga studio next door to my mom’s shop. But I have no idea how that would help.

“What kind of work?”

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