The Final Inning

Mark stood at the edge of the cemetery, sweat pooling in his palms. He hadn't picked up a baseball in twenty years, but the weight in his chest felt exactly like stepping to the plate in the bottom of the ninth—full count, bases loaded, everything on the line. The dog at his feet, a rescue mutt named Buster he'd adopted after the divorce, nudged his hand with a wet nose, grounding him.

David's absence hit him harder than he'd expected. They'd been inseparable since Little League, playing baseball in the park until dusk, their friendship surviving college, failed marriages, and career disasters. They'd made plans to grow old together, the kind of casual promises that feel eternal until they suddenly aren't. pancreatic cancer had moved fast—too fast for goodbyes, too fast for the closure everyone talks about like it's a real thing.

The reception buzzed with conversations Mark couldn't bring himself to join. Coworkers shared stories about David's efficiency, neighbors recalled his well-tended lawn. Nobody mentioned how he'd once driven twelve hours through a blizzard just to sit with Mark after his first wife left, or how they'd spent three days constructing the perfect baseball card collection, only to lose it in a basement flood the following spring. The small moments that actually make a life.

"He talked about you constantly," David's mother said, pressing something into Mark's palm. "Found this while cleaning out his attic."

A baseball card. Mark's rookie card from high school, the one that had made the local paper. He'd forgotten it existed. On the back, in David's meticulous handwriting: *Best friend. Better player.*

The dog whined softly, and Mark realized he was crying—not the polite tears of the reception, but something raw and ugly. He slipped the card into his wallet, next to the photos of his own kids he hadn't seen in six months. Some friendships don't end; they just get interrupted by the chaos of living, and then it's too late.

Buster needed walking. Mark would go home, call his children, maybe dig out his old glove. The seasons would keep turning, innings would end, but some losses stay permanent. He placed his hand on the casket one final time—part prayer, part goodbye, part promise to remember everything that actually mattered.