That afternoon, I couldn’t focus on the mound. The ball felt heavy in my hand, and the catcher’s mitt seemed miles away. I kept thinking about the receptionist’s confusion, the way her voice had dropped when she realized the mistake.
As soon as practice ended, I pulled out my phone and typed the name into the search bar: “Brady Feigl Baseball.” I expected to see my own stats, my own headshot, my own college highlights. What I found made the hair on my arms stand up.
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There was another one. A pitcher. Same height. Same build. He was wearing a different jersey, but the face staring back at me was… mine. It wasn’t just a resemblance; it was like looking into a mirror that showed a slightly older version of myself.
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I scrolled frantically, my thumb slipping on the glass. He was 6’4″. I was 6’4″. He had red hair and a thick red beard. I had red hair and a thick red beard. He wore thick-rimmed glasses. I wore thick-rimmed glasses.