Blue Grass and Broken Bats

The dog had been waiting on the porch for three days when I finally pulled into the driveway. Buster—my ex-wife's lab, not mine—thumped his tail against the weathered wood, that sound that says everything and nothing at all. I'd come for the divorce papers she'd left on the kitchen counter, but found myself sitting on the swing instead, watching him watch me.

My phone buzzed. Third time this morning. Some corporate bullshit about Q3 projections. I'd told them I needed personal time after the funeral, but apparently grief operates on a different timeline than shareholder expectations. Let them wait.

The baseball fields behind the house were empty. Summer league ended weeks ago. Dad had coached there for twenty-five years, standing in the dugout with that same tobacco-stained cap, barking encouragement at teenagers who'd forget him by Christmas. He'd died believing I made something of myself—corner office, stock options, the American dream. The irony was, the man I'd become was exactly the kind he'd warned me about.

Buster limped over and rested his chin on my knee. Old dog, bad hips. We had that in common.

"He kept your jersey," someone said from the fence line.

I hadn't heard her approach. Sarah, the neighbor Dad had always said was sweet on me in high school. She held something folded in one hand—my old varsity jacket, number 23, smelling of cedar and mothballs.

"Thought you might want it back," she said. "Before the estate sale."

The dog whined. I realized I was crying. Not the dignified single tears people claim to shed, but the ugly, choking kind that comes when you've been holding everything in for too long. Sarah sat beside me on the swing, not saying anything, just letting the silence stretch until it became something like peace.

Behind us, the baseball diamond baked in the afternoon heat. For the first time in years, I didn't think about projections or margins or the performance review waiting on Monday. I thought about dirt and grass, the crack of a bat, and how some things can't be quantified.

"Throw the ball?" Sarah asked.

Buster was already up, tail going, like he knew something I didn't. Like maybe, just maybe, some games aren't over until you say they are.