The Art of Treading Water

I peel the orange, its citrus spray sharp in the humidity, watching Jared gesture frantically from the dugout. Thirty years as groundskeeper, and this kid—barely twenty-two, clipboard in hand—thinks he can teach me about field maintenance.

"The dirt's too loose out there, Harry."

The sun dipped behind the stadium, painting everything in bruised orange. I'd tended this infield through three marriages, one heart attack, and more losing seasons than I cared to count.

"Rain's coming Thursday," I said, tearing into the fruit. "I know when to pack it."

The swimming pool had become my anchor. At midnight, I'd slip into the chlorinated water, letting it wash away the day's disappointments. My wife, Diane, had learned to expect my wet towel on the hook each morning. She'd find me at the kitchen table, smelling of pool chemicals and orange juice, staring at nothing.

"You're going to get yourself fired," she'd say, pressing coffee into my hands.

She'd left six months ago. Said I'd become untethered, like a buoy with no chain.

Now, nights at the pool stretched longer. I'd float on my back, watching the ceiling lights ripple through water, wondering if this was all there was—maintenance work, canned oranges, and a bed that felt too big.

"Harry?" Jared again. "You listening?"

I finished the orange, wiping sticky fingers on my uniform. The baseball field stretched before me, meticulously groomed, perfectly meaningless.

"Sure, kid," I said. "I'm listening."

Maybe tomorrow I'd finally walk into that pool fully dressed. Maybe tonight. The thought settled in my chest like something long-awaited.

"Tell me again about the dirt."

I smiled as the stadium lights flickered on, one by one.