Riddles in the Inning

The baseball game flickered on the hospital television—bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. David's father hadn't opened his eyes in three days, but his breathing still kept time with the invisible rhythm of innings played and lost.

'You never answered the riddle,' David whispered, smoothing the blanket over his father's papery hands. 'The sphinx asked: what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? You said it was about baseball—about how you crawled to the game as a kid, ran the bases as a pro, and walked with a cane toward the end.'

His father's nickname had been Bear since college—a hulking first baseman who'd crush home runs then hibernate through off-seasons, emerging heavier and angrier each spring. But the bear that haunted their final conversation wasn't that fierce creature of the diamond. It was the bear of grief, hibernating through years of unsaid things between them.

The crowd on television roared. Someone hit a grand slam.

David remembered standing before the Great Sphinx in Egypt three years ago, his father's hands trembling as he traced the eroded limestone. 'She ate everyone who couldn't solve her,' his father had said, voice cracking. 'But the real question isn't what walks on how many legs. It's what we carry while we're walking.'

Now, in the sterile room smelling of antiseptic and fading hope, David finally understood. The sphinx's riddle wasn't about the stages of life—it was about the weight we bear through each one. His father had borne the expectations of stadiums, the disappointment of injuries, the silence between father and son like a heavy coat.

The monitor flatlined at the exact moment the baseball player slid into home plate.

David kissed his father's forehead, the skin still warm. 'Safe,' he said.