Corporate Walk-Off
The vitamin C supplements sat on Marcus's desk like a desperate plea to his immune system. Forty-seven years old and staring down the barrel of another corporate restructuring, he needed all the help he could get. His phone buzzed—HR requesting his presence in the glass-walled conference room, the one at the apex of their office pyramid where careers went to die.
Marcus's cat, Barnaby, would be waiting at home, blissfully unaware of mortgage payments and 401(k) vesting schedules. Sometimes he envied the creature's simple existence: eat, sleep, demand attention, repeat. No quarterly reviews. No teams to dissolve or restructure.
He'd played baseball in college, a center fielder with decent speed and a dream of the majors. The dream died junior year, replaced by business school and the promise of stability. Now stability was the thing crumbling around him. Life threw curveballs, sure, but this was something else—this was the whole damn stadium being sold out from under him mid-inning.
"Marcus," Sarah from HR said, not looking up from her tablet. "We're transitioning your role."
He thought of his father, dead at fifty-two from a heart attack. The same age Marcus was approaching. The vitamins, the gym membership, the attempts at stress reduction—were they just postponing the inevitable? The corporate pyramid needed fresh blood at the base, and he was becoming part of the foundation now.
"I understand," Marcus heard himself say.
Walking home through the autumn chill, baseball memories surfaced uninvited. The crack of the bat, the smell of cut grass, the absolute certainty of out or safe. Corporate America offered no such clarity. Everything was gray areas, soft landings, strategic realignments.
Barnaby met him at the door, rubbing against his legs with calculated affection. Marcus scooped up the cat, burying his face in soft fur. Tomorrow he'd update his resume. Tonight, he'd pour a drink and maybe watch the playoffs. Baseball was still fair, still true. Three strikes, you're out. Simple as that.