Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball diamond was a dust bowl under the July sun. Jack sat in the bleachers, nursing a warm beer, watching his son's Little League game with the kind of forced enthusiasm single fathers master at divorce court. Matt was at bat, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat—thick, dark hair that had always been hers, not his.

Jack remembered how Sarah's hair looked when they'd go swimming at that motel pool on their anniversary weekends, wet and heavy against her shoulders, how she'd laugh when he'd splash her and the water would bead on her skin. She'd cut it all off two months before she left him. Something about wanting to feel lighter, she'd said. The weight of it.

"You're up, Matt!" someone yelled, and Jack realized he'd missed the pitch. His son struck out, swinging at air. Matt walked back to the dugout, head down, and Jack felt that familiar hollow in his chest—the swimming sensation he'd been drowning in since February.

Sarah stood near the concession stand, her new boyfriend's arm around her waist. She'd grown her hair out again. Jack watched her laugh at something the man said, watched her push her hair behind her ear the way she used to when she was nervous, back when they were young enough to believe love could survive anything.

The baseball game continued. Parents cheered. Sunburned children ran bases. Jack finished his beer and thought about how strange it was, the way some memories could feel more real than the person sitting beside you right now. He'd go home to an empty apartment tonight. Matt would go with Sarah. But for three more innings, Jack could sit here and pretend the man he used to be was still somewhere in the stands, watching, waiting for something that wasn't over yet.