The Last Inning

The orange glow of sunset spilled across Richard's mahogany desk as he leaned forward, his thinning silver hair catching the light.

"I'm not a sphinx, Richard," I said, cutting him off before he could utter another riddle disguised as a performance review. "And I'm done playing your games."

He smiled — that predatory expression I'd seen too many times over fifteen years at this firm. He'd spent decades treating colleagues like sphinxes, demanding we solve his impossible puzzles while he hoarded the answers. The baseball metaphors were his specialty. He loved saying we were in the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs — always manufactured urgency, always the drama of a comeback that never materialized.

I reached across the desk and placed my resignation letter face-down between us. The orange envelope was deliberate — his least favorite color, a small rebellion after years of swallowing my impulses.

"You're throwing away a career," he said, suddenly dropping the sphinx act. Real emotion cracked his polished facade. "After everything I've—"

"After everything you've taken credit for," I finished. "After every idea you claimed as your own. After every time you threw me under the bus while smiling like we were teammates."

I thought about the Little League baseball championships I'd missed last month — my daughter's pitching debut, which Richard had insisted couldn't be skipped because of a deadline he moved anyway. That was when I understood: some games aren't worth playing, even when you're on the home team.

"It's not a game anymore," I said. "It stopped being one years ago. You just never noticed."

I walked out of his office carrying only the cardboard box of personal items I'd packed that morning. In the parking lot, I pulled out my phone and dialed my wife.

"I did it," I said when she answered. "I'm coming home."

"Good," she said. "There's an orange chicken in the oven. And Emma's still wearing her baseball uniform. She wants to show you her curveball."

I got into my car and drove toward the actual things that mattered, leaving the sphinx and his riddles behind in the darkening office tower. Some innings, you have to know when to walk away.