I groan internally as the ball goes flying upwards. Holding my glove above me, I catch the ball before it smacks the top of my head. This is about the fiftieth practice pitch that’s gone wrong. Our game starts in 20 minutes and I’ve had at most two pitches that were remotely decent.

I’ve been practicing for 30 minutes and still can’t get it right. Sure, anyone could throw a ball, but a softball pitch is incredibly unique. The arm moves from across the body, in a full circle, the body rotating with it, until the final release. Even then, there is a very particular area, called the strike zone, where the ball has to go for it to be considered an actual pitch and not just a toss. Even more specific is the target area to earn a strike—every pitcher’s goal. At this rate, there’s no way I’m going to see myself on the pitcher’s mound today, not that I’m complaining.

“Everyone, huddle up. Catchers get your gear on while I read the lineup,” Coach Gill announces. I rush over to the pavilion, setting my glove on the bench. It’s not like I’m going to need it until the third inning.

She rambles off the list of names and their corresponding positions: center, left, and right outfielders, first, second, and third basemen, shortstop, and catcher. The breath I was holding in releases and my jaw relaxes as it’s proven I won’t be starting. I toss the ball I’m still holding a few feet up in the air before catching it flawlessly in the pocket of my glove. I throw it up again, a bit higher this time.

“And Ria as our starting pitcher,” She finishes with a smile.

The ball flies past me and smacks the ground.

I stare at my coach in unimaginable shock. Me? Pitch? The pitcher is the center of the game, literally. I couldn’t imagine being the center of attention like that, every single play starting and ending with me: starting with the ball leaving my glove and ending with it returning to the homely pocket.

The air leaves my lungs. My heart starts pounding as if it’s trying to break out of my chest like I’m trying to break out of the suffocating bubble of distress surrounding me. The sinking realization settles on me like a dense blanket of cement.

“Wait, I’m starting?” I reach the coach in a panic as the rest of the team disperses.

“There’s no other Rias on the team, are there?” She jokes. I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.

“No, I don’t think you understand. I can’t start. I can’t even get a ball to go straight, let alone into the strike zone,” I explain.

“No, I don’t think you understand. I’m the coach and I believe this position is the best fit for you even if you don’t see it. That also means that what I say goes. You are starting pitcher, and you are going to go out there and throw your best pitches, even if that means not a single ball gets into play and we have to sub you out,” she shoots back, not easing my anxiety at all but making it clear that I have no out in this situation, pun unintended.

I walk away, frustrated, but that feeling passes as the wave of dread consumes me once again. With shaking hands, I pull my glove on and re-lace my cleats just to stall. When I finally make it onto the field, everyone is in their positions, and the coaches and umpire are growing restless.

When I reach the pitcher’s circle, I pick up the bright green ball and hold it tightly. My fingers brush over the seams as I step onto the pitcher’s plate. I firmly plant my feet into the dirt before stepping my left leg backwards and resting the ball at my hip.

I take a deep breath as irritation seeps onto the batter’s face. My hands grow sweaty, and I realize I need to throw this ball before it becomes too slippery to hold. I close my eyes, and when I open them, my vision is narrowed into a thin tunnel leading straight to the catcher’s glove.

3… 2…, I start in my head, but before I can get to “1,” my arm impulsively reaches up and behind me, making the full circle before propelling the ball.

It launches upward and plummets outside the backboard and into the grass.

I stare at the ball, green with envy, as it rolls away to seek sanctuary in the woods behind the softball field.

The umpire clears his throat to get my attention and throws me a new ball once he has it. I mimic the same deep breath and therapeutic closing and focusing of my eyes.

3… 2… 1, I think to myself, waiting until “1” this time. The ball flies about two feet before crashing into the ground. The dirt kicked up settles in my throat and I cough.

The catcher hastily retrieves and throws me the ball. I go through the same routine of breathing and narrowing my vision.

It’s only me and that catcher’s glove right now. That’s it, I say internally. There’s no crowd, no coaches, no umpire, no runners, no batter.

I pull my arm back, thrust it up and around, and throw the ball, holding my breath. The sound of my heartbeat amplifies in my ears and my head feels as if it’s about to implode. The ball flies through the air for what seems like forever.

It’s a perfect strike.

The crowd erupts and the second baseman runs in to hug me. I hug her back before a stern look from Coach Gill warns her to return to her post. I look at Coach to find a smile resting on her face.

The ball is thrown back to me, and I know I need to focus. I won that battle, but I’m not even close to winning the war. I breathe in and out, twice each this time, and blur out everything around me besides that glove. My arm goes up, around, and releases. My breath gets caught in my throat.

Another strike.

Everyone starts clapping and cheering, the girls in the pit reciting one of the cliché chants we made up.

“Let’s go Number 2!” I hear someone from our pit shout. I bow towards the benches.

An embarrassingly wide smile creeps onto my face. Once the ball returns to my glove though, Coach Gill shushes everyone.

“Focus in, breathe, and release, Ria, you got it,” the girl on shortstop manages to tell me.

“Quiet Number 6, you know better,” Coach Gill scolds from the benches.

I laugh to myself then, once again, I take a deep breath, narrow my focus, and let the muscle memory take over. My arm flies in its circle and ejects the ball. It flies past the bat and straight into the glove of the catcher, the pocket closing around it.

Third strike: the batter is out.

The whole infield runs in to hug me, but the moment is quickly spoiled by Coach Gill’s voice commanding everyone to return to their positions. She cannot, however, stop the crowd and pit’s loud cheering. The batter throws the bat to the ground and marches off the field with clenched fists.

I grasp the ball and prepare for another pitch once a new batter is in position. I think to myself about how I would never have experienced that or performed so well if I hadn’t tried, hadn’t pushed myself. I need to go out of my comfort to do things like this. Without doing that, I would never have fallen in love with pitching. I realize that I learned a valuable lesson: there is far too little time in this life, and the things worth experiencing must be worked for and reached for, even if that means failing a thousand times before finally succeeding.