Between Innings

The fedora sat on the bar next to my whiskey, a relic of a time when men wore hats and fathers were mysteries rather than memories. I'd stolen it from his closet three days after the funeral, along with the dusty baseball card collection I'd later sell for rent money. The leather band still smelled of Old Spice and something else — cedar and silence.

"Another round?" the bartender asked, but I waved him off. The baseball game flickered on the television above, muted. My son was pitching in the minors now, three hours away. I hadn't seen him pitch in person since he'd left home five years ago, hadn't spoken to him since the incident at his sister's wedding. The invitation had arrived last week, addressed to both of us, as if we still shared a last name or a life.

A golden retriever wandered in from the street, someone's well-cared-for pet with a red bandana and an easy smile. It nosed my shoe, then looked up with that particular innocence dogs possess — the ability to see through your pretenses, the ones you wear like fedoras in empty bars. I knelt down, let it lick my palm, felt something crack open in my chest that had been sealed tight since my own father's death.

"Buster!" a woman called from the doorway. The dog trotted back to her, tail wagging, loyalty as simple and uncomplicated as love should be.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the text I'd typed twenty times but never sent: *Thinking about you. Good luck tonight.* My thumb hovered, then pressed send.

The fedora went back on my head. I'd drive down tomorrow, sit in the stands with all the other fathers who'd messed up but kept showing up anyway. Maybe this time he'd wave back.