The Fourth Inning Summer

Arthur sat on his porch swing, watching old Barnaby — his tabby cat of seventeen years — bat a worn baseball across the wooden floorboards. The ball had belonged to his friend Michael, gone now fifteen years. The leather was cracked, the seams fraying, but Arthur could still trace the stitches with his arthritic fingers and remember.

"You'd like him, Michael," Arthur whispered to the empty air. "He's got your stubborn spirit."

It was the summer of 1948 when he and Michael had played baseball every day in Mrs. Gable's field. Arthur had thick dark hair then, and Michael could hit a ball clear to the treeline. They'd argue about who would pitch for the Yankees someday, then cool off with a swim in Miller's Pond, floating on their backs watching clouds.

Now Arthur's hair was white as August clouds, and he swam through memories instead of water. Some days the current was gentle. Other days, like today, it pulled him under.

Barnaby nudged his ankle with the baseball, purring like a small motor. Arthur scooped up the cat, feeling the steady rumble against his chest. "We're both old, aren't we?" he murmured. Barnaby blinked golden eyes — Michael's eyes — and settled deeper into Arthur's lap.

Inside, his granddaughter Emma was packing for college. She'd inherited his hands — long, tapered — and maybe, just maybe, his love for telling stories. She'd found the baseball yesterday and asked about it. Arthur had told her everything.

"Grandpa," she'd said, "I'm scared. About leaving. About everything changing."

Arthur had placed the baseball in her palm. "Michael and I swore we'd be friends forever. We were. Just not the way we expected." He'd touched her cheek. "The fourth inning always ends, Em. But the game continues."

Barnaby kneaded Arthur's thigh. The porch swing creaked. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed.

Arthur closed his eyes, listening. The summer wind carried fragments of another time — the crack of a bat against leather, the splash of two boys cannonballing into Miller's Pond, Michael's voice saying, "Best friends don't say goodbye, Artie. They say see you later."

Emma stepped onto the porch, baseball in hand. "Ready, Grandpa?"

Arthur opened his eyes. Barnaby purred louder.

"Ready," Arthur said. "And Em?"

"Yeah?"

"You've got a good arm. Don't forget to use it."

She smiled, tucked the baseball into her pocket, and somewhere, in the space between memory and now, Arthur felt Michael laugh.