The Bottom of the Ninth

Martin sat in Section 214, Row 12, wearing his father's fedora—the one he'd promised never to sell, even after the estate agent suggested everything must go. The hat smelled of mothballs and old tobacco, a scent that made his chest ache with something too complicated to name.

His iPhone buzzed in his pocket. Sarah's third text in an hour: *Please pick up.* He didn't need to read it to know she'd say the same things she'd been saying for months. About how he was distant. How he lived in the past. How she couldn't compete with ghosts.

Below him, the baseball game crawled toward its conclusion. The stadium announcer's voice boomed over the crowd, but Martin heard only his father's whistle from summer little league, the way he'd shouted "Good eye!" even when Martin struck out swinging.

On the concourse before the game, he'd won a goldfish at a carnival booth. Three tosses, three rings around a soda bottle. The teenager working the booth had looked at him strangely—a forty-year-old man playing kids' games alone. Now the plastic bag swayed between his sneakers, the orange fish darting in frantic circles, unaware it would spend the night in a mixing bowl before Martin could find a proper tank tomorrow.

"Fish gotta swim," his father used to say, usually when Martin was stuck on something. *Batter up.*

The home team's best hitter stepped to the plate. The crowd rose. Martin stayed seated. His phone lit up again: *I'm staying at my sister's. We need to talk.*

He watched the fish swim its endless laps. He'd bring it to Sarah's apartment tomorrow. Maybe she'd help him name it. Maybe they'd talk about how they used to come to games together, back when she still thought his nostalgia was charming, before it became the wall he built between them.

The crack of the bat echoed through the stadium. A high, arcing ball toward the right field fence. Martin watched it climb, watched the outfielder drift back, the crowd holding its collective breath. For a moment, anything could happen. The game could turn around. The marriage could be saved. His father could walk through the gates and take the empty seat beside him, complaining about ticket prices.

The ball dropped into the outfielder's glove. The crowd groaned. Game over.

Martin gathered the goldfish bag and stood. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed: *Can I come over? I have something to show you.*

The fish swam on. The inning wasn't over yet.