Pyramids in the Outfield

The orange lay on his desk like a fallen sun, its skin dimpled and perfect. Jack stared at it while his phone buzzed with another calendar notification: 'Career Vision Discussion - Conference Room B.' Outside his window, the office pyramid rose in glass and steel — executives at the apex, managers like him in the middle, the bulk of workers supporting it all from the base. Or so management liked to claim.

His father had taken him to baseball games every Sunday until the divorce. 'See how they build the pyramid,' his dad would say, pointing at the defensive lineup. 'Infielders forming the foundation, outfielders the next tier, pitcher at the top.' Jack had nodded solemnly, unaware his father was really talking about his own corporate climb, not baseball strategy.

Now Jack peeled the orange, his office filling with citrus sharp as memory. His phone lit up again: Sarah. 'You coming to dinner? I'm making your mother's lasagna.' He didn't answer. Three years of marriage, and she still thought his mother's recipes meant something to him.

The conference room felt like a temple. Human Resources sat across from him, a pyramid file on the table between them. 'We're restructuring, Jack. Your role's been eliminated.' They used the word 'pyramidal' twice, explaining the new organizational chart.

That night, Sarah found him in the backyard, arranging baseballs in a pyramid on the patio. The security lights made his skin look sickly orange. 'Jack?' He didn't turn. 'I built a pyramid once,' he said. 'In Little League. Coach said it was the strongest structure. But then the wind knocked it over, and the balls just scattered everywhere.'

Sarah didn't say anything. She just sat beside him in the grass, and together they watched the baseball pyramid dissolve under the security lights, rolling away into darkness like lost seasons.