Bottom of the Ninth

The stadium was mostly empty by the seventh inning stretch—just me, a scattering of diehards, and a ginger cat that had wandered in from somewhere.

I'd been coming to these minor league baseball games since college, back when Mark and I had season tickets together. Back before the promotion, before the passive-aggressive emails, before he stopped returning my calls.

Some friend.

The cat settled in the row ahead, tail twitching as it watched the batter take practice swings. A stray, like most things in my life lately. My wife had left three months ago, taking the dog. The firm was "restructuring." Mark had found a new best friend at his new firm, someone who could help him climb faster.

"Here for the baseball too?" a voice asked.

I turned. A woman in her thirties, stained jersey, baseball cap pulled low. She'd been sitting three rows back all night.

"Came for the nostalgia," I said. "You?"

"My dad used to bring me." She gestured at the empty seat beside her. "He died last year. I keep thinking I'll stop coming, but then I don't."

The ginger cat stretched, walked over, and jumped onto the empty seat between us. We both laughed.

"I think he likes you," she said.

"Or he just wants nachos."

"That cat's got better taste than that." She extended a hand. "Sarah."

"David."

We watched the rest of the game in comfortable silence. The cat purred. The home team won in the ninth—walk-off single, improbably magical. The crowd erupted. Sarah and I stood with them, high-fiving like we'd known each other for years.

"Drinks?" she asked as the stands emptied. "There's a place nearby."

"Sure."

As we walked out, leaving the cat asleep in the empty seat, my phone buzzed. Mark. Subject line: "Quick question about the Anderson file."

I deleted it without opening.

Sarah waited by the exit. "Ready?"

"Yeah." I pocketed the phone. "Let's go."

The stadium lights flickered behind us. Somewhere in those empty rows, the cat opened its eyes, watching us leave, already forgetting.

Outside, the city hummed. Inside, for the first time in months, something shifted.

Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Full count.

And I was finally stepping up to the plate.