The Last Inning

The iphone lit up at 3 AM again. Sarah's name across the screen. Again. Six months after the divorce, and she still called when she was drunk, when the silence got too loud. Marcus let it ring, watching the light illuminate the empty side of the bed where she used to sleep, her cat curled into a circle like a comma at the end of a sentence she'd never finished.

He'd taken the cat, a judgmental orange tabby named Stadium, in the split. Some joke they'd made early on, back when they still shared a baseball team and a life and a sense of humor about both. Now Stadium watched Marcus with those disapproving yellow eyes, as if the cat knew Marcus was the one who'd struck out.

Marcus started running at dawn, pavement hammering beneath his feet, each step an attempt to outrun the iphone's persistent glow. The neighborhood loop took him past the old Little League field where he'd coached their son's team before—before the deployment, before the accident, before everything that came after. The backstop stood rusted and ghostly, the dugouts empty.

Today, something made him stop. A baseball lay in the weeds near home plate, scuffed and weathered, like something the universe had rolled toward him and then abandoned. Marcus picked it up, the leather still recognizing his palm in some ancient way.

His father had taught him to throw. Had sat on this same fence twenty-five years ago, watching Marcus practice until his arm ached, saying somethings you keep. Somethings you let go. The trick is knowing which is which.

The iphone buzzed again in his pocket.

Marcus stood at the pitcher's mound and threw the ball toward the backstop. It hit the chain link with a satisfying clang. Again. Again. Each throw something released, something acknowledged.

The cat was waiting on the windowsill when he returned, yellow eyes tracking him as he entered the apartment. The iphone sat on the kitchen counter, dark now, Sarah's name vanished into the recent calls list.

Marcus poured coffee and called his mother for the first time in three months. The baseball sat on the table between them, a small white planet in the morning light. Stadium jumped down and head-butted his hand, forgiving him for whatever the cat had decided he'd done wrong.

Somethings you keep. Somethings you let go.

Marcus picked up the phone and sent Sarah a text: I hope you're okay. Then he put it in the drawer and walked to the window, watching the morning take hold of the city, thinking maybe he'd finally learned the difference.