The Unnatural *Wattpad Featured Story*

Chapter 1

Standing 60 feet 6 inches away from a 21-year-old colt who can throw a baseball 100 miles per hour is the loneliest place on the planet. I won't make it in major league baseball unless I can hit guys like that. I offer a silent plea to God as I stare out at the mound, even though I know He doesn't help me hit. That's my job. But, recognizing the Almighty helps me suppress the fear that slows my bat speed and curb the lust for success that clouds my mind. 

I can use all the help I can get.

Momentarily freed from crippling emotions, I dig into the batter's box against a six-foot-six right-handed pitcher named Chad Sloan. Behind him is nothing but sickly brown grass. A chain-link L-screen shields him from hot shots up the middle. Pitchers and catchers have already been in camp for a week, but I haven't done anything more than stretch, run though some fielding drills, and hit against a pitching machine for the past couple of days.

I'm in my first major-league camp with the Kansas City Jesters and I want to make a good first impression, even though we're only playing a simulated game. A simulated game is almost exactly like being a kid when you smacked the ball around your backyard and pretended  you were winning the World Series. Except, in the major-league version, you don't get to toss a lazy gumdrop in the air before clobbering it with your bat. Here, a grown-up pitcher armed with an exploding fastball, a vicious curve, and darting slider throws the ball.

Simulated games are a drill most teams perform either in spring training, or to help a player rehabbing an arm injury during the season. The purpose is to help pitchers build up their stamina so they can handle a heavier workload. Hitters join simulated games on a volunteer basis. Something possessed me to take the plunge against the hottest young arm in camp.

At least I'll find out where I stack up right away. Waiting around won't help.

Fortunately, I'm a lot closer to mid-year form than Sloan. I played in Mexico this winter and my season only ended three weeks ago. I force myself to ignore the lively chatter coming from the three other hitters gathered around the batting cage and focus on the foe standing on the mound.

Sloan blasted through three levels in the minors last season and skipped AAA when the Jesters called him up in September. I never crossed paths with him in the minors—I played in the Red Sox organization last year—but I know all about him. The guys on Sports Center can't stop talking about his triple-digit fastball and his $4 million signing bonus.

The Mexican Pacific League didn't have anything like him.

As Sloan starts his windup, I try to ignore a cloud of gnats that convene a pow-wow centered on my head. A searing pain floods my left eye when my lid grinds a tiny insect into a corpse against my cornea. Before Sloan's first pitch even reaches the plate, I run from the batter's box like a t-ball player unhinged by his first Little League pitch.

I bend over nearly twenty feet from the batter's box as I try to clear the streaking tears from my eye. The assistant pitching coach, whose name no one has bothered to tell me, calls, "Steee RIKE One!"

To make matters worse, my prospective teammates standing behind the batting cage hoot and laugh at my distress.

"Hey, Bush Leaguer—the plate's over there!"

I see smirks all around the batting cage.

"If you step up like a big boy, mommy will bring you some milk and cookies."

So much for making a good first impression.

The assistant pitching coach, who is deciding whether batted balls are hits or outs since no one plays the field in a simulated game, can't help but chuckle. However, his mirth dies as he points a radar gun at the prize pupil on the mound. Back to business.