Bottom of the Ninth
The baseball diamond shimmered under stadium lights, a green oasis in the concrete city. Marcus sat alone in the bleachers, his iphone face-down on the metal bench beside him. Three ignored notifications. Two voicemails from his sister. One from the hospice nurse.
His father's voice echoed in memory: *Keep your eye on the ball, son.* Dad had coached Marcus through Little League, standing behind him in the batting cage, calloused hands guiding Marcus's stance. Now Dad lay in a hospital bed, his mind wandering like a base runner caught between bases, not sure whether to advance or retreat.
The team mascot—a giant, furry bear—waddled through the stands, high-fiving children. Marcus watched the bear's exaggerated enthusiasm, its fixed smile hiding a human being inside, sweating and anonymous beneath the costume. We all wear masks, he thought. Some just have bigger heads.
His phone buzzed again. Marcus didn't pick it up. Instead, he watched the batter—a kid maybe twenty, grinding through the minors, chasing a dream that statistically would never come true. Marcus had been that kid once, before real life intervened: divorce, a career that felt like dressing up in a suit every day to sell things people didn't need, a father who'd never quite said he was proud but showed up to every single game.
The old golden retriever mix sat beside him, head resting on Marcus's knee. Buster had been Dad's dog, the one constant companion through the decline, the one creature who didn't care about cognitive decline or baseball statistics or failed marriages. Buster just wanted to be near. Marcus scratched behind the dog's ears, the rhythmic thump-thump of the tail against the bench the only honest thing in this manufactured moment of Americana.
"You miss him too, huh?" Marcus whispered.
Buster whined softly, pressing closer.
The crowd roared as the ball connected, a crack like thunder sending it soaring toward the fence. Marcus watched it arc through the night sky, a brief moment of perfect suspension before gravity asserted its claim.
His phone lit up with a fourth notification. This time, Marcus looked.
*Dad's asking for you.*
Marcus stood, collecting his things. The game would end without him. The bear mascot high-fived a toddler near the dugout. The baseball continued its eternal dance between pitcher and batter. And somewhere in the space between memory and letting go, Marcus understood that some things you don't get to finish—you just get to say goodbye, and hope that counts as crossing home plate.