The Last Inning

The coaxial cable lay severed on the floor like a dead snake, its copper guts exposed where she'd sliced through it with kitchen scissors. Sarah had always hated how the television droned in the background, a constant third presence in our marriage. Now that she was gone—moved out three days ago, taking the cat and the good wine glasses—I still hadn't called to have it reconnected.

Outside, lightning forked across the October sky, illuminating the empty space where her reading chair used to be. The storm had been brewing for hours, much like the realization that had hit me last Tuesday: we'd been playing for different teams for years, me still swinging at every pitch like an eager rookie, her already walking toward the dugout.

I cracked a window and the smell of rain and wet asphalt poured in. On the nightstand, her baseball card collection sat in neat plastic sleeves—the only thing she'd left behind. Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, cards her grandfather had given her before he died, back when she still believed in things like forever.

My phone buzzed. My boss, probably, wanting something for the morning meeting. I didn't check.

Instead, I drove to the beach where we'd spent our honeymoon. The ocean was black except for where the lightning struck the water, turning waves momentary white. I stripped down and waded in, the cold shocking me awake, gasping. Swimming out past the breakers, floating on my back as the storm broke directly overhead, I thought about how Sarah had tried to tell me so many times. About how some relationships, like some careers, like some lives, reach an innings limit. You play your heart out, but eventually, you have to walk off the field.

Treading water as rain lashed my face, I finally understood what she'd meant when she said she was tired of playing a game she couldn't win. The scoreboard had been lit for years. I'd just refused to look up.