The Last Inning

The storm broke just as Miller found the old baseball card in his father's study. Lightning fractured the sky outside, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air—same dust that had accumulated over three years since his father's death.

Miller's hair had started thinning at thirty-seven, accelerated by the divorce and the promotion that came with longer hours. He ran his hand through it, feeling the receding hairline that his mother had always blamed on his father's genes. Now here he was, back in the childhood home, sorting through a lifetime of accumulated belongings.

The dog—a golden retriever named Buster that Sarah had left behind when she moved out—lay curled at Miller's feet. The poor creature was aging too; his muzzle had gone white around the vitamin supplements Miller had been mixing into his food, trying to delay the inevitable.

"Almost done, buddy," Miller said, his voice echoing in the empty room.

The baseball card was a 1952 Mickey Mantle, edges softened from years of being handled. His father had shown it to him once, when Miller was twelve and had struck out in his Little League game. *The eyes,* his father had said. *You have to keep your eyes on the ball, no matter what life throws at you.*

Miller had tried. He really had. He'd kept his eyes on the ball—promotions, mortgages, the American Dream—that elusive fastball that kept just outside his reach. And somewhere along the way, he'd missed Sarah growing distant, his father getting sick, the accumulation of years that now sat in cardboard boxes around him.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm was moving in fast, like time itself.

Miller set the Mantle card on the desk. He should sell it—the card was worth enough to cover a year's worth of those vitamins for Buster, maybe even a down payment on a smaller place. But he couldn't. It wasn't about the money. It was about the moment his father had handed it to him, the rare pride in the old man's voice, the fleeting feeling that maybe, just maybe, he could make him proud.

Buster stirred, letting out a soft whine.

"Yeah, I know," Miller said. "I know."

He put the card in his pocket. The rain began to fall, drumming against the roof, and for the first time in three years, Miller didn't feel quite so alone in the house.