Bottom of the Ninth

The little league baseball field smelled of cut grass and parental desperation. Mark sat alone on the aluminum bleacher, the cold metal seeping through his jeans, watching his son Toby stand in the batter's box—a scrawny kid with too much heart and not enough coordination.

His iPhone buzzed in his pocket. Sarah again. Or maybe her lawyer. He'd stopped checking. The divorce papers sat on his kitchen table like a dead thing, waiting for signatures that would dissolve twelve years of marriage into property divisions and custody schedules. He'd been such a bull-headed fool, convinced that working eighty-hour weeks would somehow count as love. Now the house was too quiet, except for the cat—Buster—who'd stare at him with accusing yellow eyes from Sarah's favorite armchair.

"Strike three!" the umpire called, and Toby's shoulders slumped. Mark felt it in his own chest.

A father beside him offered a consolatory grimace. "Tough game."

Mark nodded, swallowing the familiar lump in his throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vitamin D supplement—Sarah had bought him a bottle last winter, said he never saw the sun anymore. He dry-swallowed it, choking slightly.

"Dad!" Toby trotted over after the game, cleats clicking on the pavement. "Did you see me almost hit that one?"

"I saw, bud. You had nice form." Mark wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders, feeling the sharpness of shoulder blades that seemed to grow more prominent every month. Soon Toby would be too old for this, for the easy affection Mark had only recently learned to give. "Want to get pizza?"

"Can we get the kind Mom likes?"

Mark's chest tightened. "Sure. We can get pepperoni."

He checked his phone finally. Sarah had sent a picture of Buster sleeping on her windowsill, caption: "He misses you." It wasn't permission. It wasn't forgiveness. But as they walked toward the car, Toby's hand finding his, Mark thought maybe, just maybe, it was the first inning of something new.