Seventh Inning Stretch

The empty stadium seats stretched before me like rows of broken teeth. I'd bought two tickets, of course. Old habits. The woman beside me—Claire, my therapist would call her an 'emotional surrogate' if she were being clinical—nudged my arm with her elbow.

"You're staring at the dugout again, James."

I blinked. The baseball diamond shimmered under floodlights, pristine and indifferent. Forty years I'd spent in corporate law, treating mergers like contact sports, associates like relief pitchers. Now, sitting here with Claire—twenty years my junior, wearing that orange sundress that made her look like a slice of citrus against the gray concrete—I felt something unraveling.

"My dad brought me here," I said, the words tasting like ash. "Every Sunday until I was twelve. Then he just stopped."

Claire's hand found mine. Her fingers were warm, alive. "What happened?"

"He found a new family. Literally. Weekends became visitation rights, then monthly calls, then Christmas cards." I watched the batter adjust his helmet. "I think I've been angry for thirty-eight years, Claire. Playing a game that ended before I knew the rules."

She turned to me, and in that moment, lightning cracked across the sky—a white scar opening the belly of the storm-charged darkness. The crowd gasped as one. Players scattered. The umpire shouted something lost in the sudden wind.

"James." Claire's voice was soft, urgent. "You're not twelve anymore. You don't have to wait for anyone to come back."

The rain came hard then, sheets of it washing over us. People ran for cover, but we stayed. She tasted like orange and rain and something like forgiveness. The game was called. The stadium emptied. And there, in the flooding seventh inning, I finally understood: some games you have to forfeit. Some losses are the only way to win yourself back.