The Bottom of the Ninth

The stadium lights flickered on like artificial stars, casting long shadows across the empty section where Roger sat alone. At forty-seven, he'd become what his ex-wife called him: a emotional zombie. Not the brain-eating kind, but the walking variety—hollowed out by mortgage payments and weekends spent watching his son play baseball from the plastic bleachers.

He adjusted the team cap she'd bought him seven years ago, back when they still stood together at these games. The brim was frayed now, much like their marriage had been in those final months—unraveling at the edges while neither one bothered to stitch it back together. Today marked three weeks since she'd left. Three weeks of sleeping in the center of their king-sized bed, as if the empty space beside him might somehow warm itself through proximity.

His son, Michael, stepped up to the plate. The boy focused entirely on the pitcher, swinging with that terrifying confidence of fifteen-year-olds who believe themselves immortal. Roger felt a sudden, violent urge to scream: *It doesn't matter. None of it matters. You'll get married, you'll buy a house, you'll sit alone at baseball games wondering where it all went wrong.*

Instead he stood and clapped mechanically, a puppet whose strings had gone slack years ago.

The concession stand water clocked in at six dollars—a small fortune for what was essentially glorified tap water. But Roger bought it anyway, relishing the cold condensation against his palm. The first sip shocked him back into his body, sharp and clean and real. He watched his son round third base, laughing with teammates, alive in a way Roger couldn't remember being in decades.

Maybe that was the real zombie state—not walking dead, but walking asleep. Going through motions because momentum demanded it. He'd been wearing this hat for years because it was easier than admitting he'd outgrown the person he was when she gave it to him.

Roger took off the cap and set it on the empty seat beside him. The stadium lights reflected off his bare scalp, and for the first time in three weeks, he felt something like hope—small and fragile, but present.

The game ended. Michael spotted him in the crowd and waved, grinning. Roger stood up, hatless, and waved back.

Tomorrow, he'd water the plants she'd left behind. The day after, maybe he'd finally call that therapist whose number had been sitting on his counter for six months. Baby steps.

But tonight, he'd let himself be proud of his son, and that was something.