Cable Night Baseball

The rotting spinach had been sitting in my crisper drawer for three weeks when the cable guy finally showed up. Marcus, his name tag read. He had gentle hands and shoulders that curved inward, like he'd spent years carrying things heavier than himself.

"Box is probably shot," he said, kneeling beside my TV. "These things, they don't last like they used to."

I watched him work. The way his fingers moved with practiced efficiency, stripping wires, reconnecting lines. There was something intimate about it — a stranger in my apartment, fixing what was broken.

"You got plans tonight?" he asked, not looking up.

"Just dinner."

"You should check the game," he said. "Cable's free this weekend. Baseball's back."

Baseball. The word hit me like a physical thing. Tom and I had met at a Giants game, fifteen years ago. He'd bought me a overpriced beer and explained the infield fly rule with such earnest enthusiasm that I'd laughed, actually laughed, for the first time since my mother died. We'd gone back every season until we stopped going anywhere at all.

"I haven't watched in years," I said.

Marcus tightened something with a twist of his wrist. "My dad used to say baseball was the only thing that made sense. Same field, same rules. Only thing that changes is who's playing."

The cable box flickered to life. A picture emerged — crisp, bright, suddenly present.

"There you go," he said, standing up. His knees cracked. "Good as new."

He handed me the receipt. His fingers brushed my palm, just for a second. Warm. Alive.

"Thanks," I said.

"Anytime." He paused at the door. "Really. Check the game."

After he left, I stood in my living room, the TV glowing with the menu screen. I went to the kitchen, scraped the liquefying spinach into the trash, the smell sharp and green and somehow hopeful. Then I sat on my couch and turned on channel 724.

Bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. The crowd roar swelled around me like an embrace, and for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone at all.