The Bullpen Diaries

Marcus sat at his desk, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like an insect stuck in a jar. He dry-swallowed another **vitamin** D pill—his third attempt that week to combat the windowless existence of corporate accounting. The bottle sat beside his monitor, a promise to himself that he wouldn't become another office casualty, pale and hollowed out by spreadsheets and quarterly projections.

His phone vibrated. Another text from his father: *Game 7 tonight. Remember 1993?*

Marcus did remember. He'd been eight years old, sitting on his father's shoulders, the air thick with hot dogs and anticipation. That was the year the **bull**—his father's nickname for the opposing team's relentless closer—had struck out the final batter with the bases loaded. His father had wept openly, unashamed, crushing Marcus against his chest as the crowd erupted. "That's the beauty of it," he'd whispered into Marcus's hair. "The agony, the glory. All of it."

Now his father sat in hospice, his body consuming itself while Marcus navigated office politics and avoided eye contact with his actual boss—a man named Richard who everyone called "The **Bull**" behind his back, though not for any athletic prowess. Richard was simply loud, stubborn, and impossible to reason with.

Marcus's screen flashed with an email: *URGENT: Budget revisions needed by EOD.* Another Saturday sacrificed. He thought about his father, wasting away in a sterile room that smelled of antiseptic and false hope. The old man still had his radio, still listened to every game, still believed in the poetry of balls and strikes, in the possibility that something extraordinary could happen in the bottom of the ninth.

Marcus opened his drawer and pulled out an old **baseball** card his father had given him—preserved in plastic, the player frozen in mid-swing, forever young. He'd carried it through three jobs, two apartments, one failed marriage. It was the only thing that felt real anymore.

He typed his resignation letter, something he'd been drafting for months. Then he closed his laptop, grabbed his coat, and walked out. The **bull** could wait. Game 7 started at seven.