Name: Nick Petro
Team: Malsberg Marauders
Position: Pitcher
Age: 32

“Awright, Nifty, you’re up.”

The call of his long-worn nickname breaks the macaw out of a daydream. Still weaning himself off of morning coffee, he blinks before he remembers to step up in front of the mess of equipment on a platform over sand.

An attendant dangles a sheet of poses barely an inch from his eye. Nick, in a comparatively minor role as a closing pitcher, had to wait all morning for his cards to be shot like the rest of the relievers. The pose guide is pulled back apathetically before he can even understand what it is.

The camera operator who called him up, a gruff otter in his 40s or 50s, addresses Nick again with a knowing grin. “So, think you can save our squad this year?”

Nick, awake at full attention, speaks of the last teammates in line. “So long as they score runs.” The potential arrogance of that statement hits him and he scrambles to correct it. “Like always,” he stutters.

The otter snorts. “Did you watch them last year? The offense sunk like a brick!”

Nick didn’t even read the papers during his year off, but his friends made sure to tell when the press scribbled something flattering. The pulse around Malsberg read skepticism for the upcoming year; a declining Marauders team would have to fight to avoid a bottom finish, or God forbid, relegation.

Amidst that cloud of negativity, there was a beacon of hope: didja hear? Nifty’s back in town.

The city and team adores the future Hall of Famer. He’s smart, loyal, and willing to own up to his mistakes. The last year he played, he accumulated the best season strikeout rate in baseball history. This narrowly broke the record set the previous year, also by him. Although his one year retirement remains a mystery to the public, only those closest to him recognize it as a product of his own mind.

It was just too much. Nick knew tough losses were the fault of the whole team, but he couldn’t avoid pinning them on himself. Forget his absurd individual numbers, or the rock-solid reputation they gave him: even if he shut down the opposition every night, his arm would tire, and far weaker teammates would surrender a shaky lead. If only he could pitch forever.

Nick never wanted to leave for good, but retirement offered a chance to mentally recuperate. Instead of leaving for a more fortunate team, like many assumed he would, his jump back into the game brought him back to Malsberg. This time, with techniques to talk himself down when his anxiety acted up.

In the present, he perks up a little bit when he’s asked to strike his first pose. His smile isn’t quite natural, but his form feels comfortable and loose. He can’t stop himself from blinking at the camera flash.

“Eyes open,” the photographer grunts, as if unaware of reflex. “Shoulders up.”

Nick straightens his back. The wind rustles the palms of the tree behind him and sifts through his feathers. “How am I now?”

The otter turns back to the camera to take more shots.

While he looks out to a far point on the beach, Nick thinks about how much his teammates hate the annual beach photoshoot. The Marauders, being a rival of the oceanside Skippers, typically try to leverage themselves as the real coastal team. Oftentimes, they end up looking like a weak baby sibling punching above their weight. To Nick, all of this is charming. It feels like home, and he’s back once again. While there’s still that pang of uncertainty, being here on the beach feels like a sign of a fresh start.

The otter looks up from his viewfinder and nods. “You’re doing just fine.”

The flash envelops the macaw again. This time, Nick wears a natural smile.

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