It is a bright spring day. The sun beats down on the ballfield, its rays accentuating the hue of the outfield grass, turning the stalks fluorescent green. The dirt, combed and swept, is hot to the touch and quick to disperse — a bad recipe for sharply hit groundballs. Hits are no concern here, though. Not in this game; not with this pitcher on the mound.

She jogs to the mound, glove in hand, mask tightly fastened. Her hand picks the softball from the dirt and shakes it. Flecks of rock fall away, wisps of dust ripple and fade into the air. She pins the ball against her waist and spins it. Once. Twice. On and on she rotates it, thumbing the seams and eyeing her catcher, who squats behind the small, white pentagon. Her gaze is unflinching, a steeled look of confidence. The players of the other team grow silent, their eyes trained upon her; the simple sight of her toeing the rubber is consuming. Yet to her, today is simply another day, another game. Her hand stills, signaling the beginning of her motion.