The Cable Guy's Fastball

The orange sun was bleeding into the smog as Marcus climbed another telephone pole, his cable hook biting into the wood. His thighs burned from the running—three miles every morning before dawn, desperate chase of a ghost. At thirty-four, he was in better shape than half the MLB players he watched on the televisions he connected.

He hadn't picked up a baseball in six years. Not since that night at Triple-A when his shoulder had made a sound like a pistol shot and his dreams had scattered like starlings.

"Hey! Cable guy!" A woman's voice from below. "You gonna fix my ESPN or what?"

Marcus secured the line. His shoulder throbbed—permanent weather barometer.

He climbed down to find Sarah waiting, her hair the same orange it had been in college. She was holding two beers. "You're still running from it, aren't you?"

"Just doing my job, Sarah."

"Bullshit." She cracked both beers open, handed him one. "I saw you at the park yesterday. Throwing to yourself. Your friend—I mean, your old coach—told me you hit ninety on the radar gun. After everything."

Marcus took a long pull. The beer was warm. "That was different. No pressure. No scouts. No—"

No expectations. No seventeen-year-old kids looking at him like he was God. No night games where the stadium lights turned everything electric and terrifying.

"The independant league tryouts are next week," Sarah said quietly. "I looked it up. They're taking anyone with a pulse and a history."

"I install cable now."

"You're scared."

Marcus finished his beer. The sun had set completely, leaving that bruised purple darkness that always made him think of innings played, opportunities missed. His shoulder ached, yes. But some other part of him—something deeper, more stubborn—ached worse.

"You know what's funny?" he said. "I still dream about it. Every time I'm running in the morning, I'm rounding second. Every time I see a baseball on TV, I can feel the seams."

Sarah touched his arm. "Then why aren't you playing?"

Marcus looked at the cable spool in his truck. At the house with the dark television. At the orange glow dying behind the hills.

"Tell you what," he said. "Fix me up with those tryout details. And maybe I'll let you buy me dinner instead."

Sarah smiled. "Deal. But you're paying. Retirement packages for cable guys can't be that good."