The Last Innings of Summer

Arthur sat on his front porch, watching his great-granddaughter Emma chase fireflies in the gathering dusk. She clutched a plastic bag containing her prize—a goldfish she'd won at the church carnival earlier that day.

"Grandpa, his name is Buster," Emma announced, holding up the bag. "Like the baseball player!"

Arthur smiled, his weathered face crinkling around eyes that had seen eighty-four summers. "Buster," he repeated softly. The name opened a door in his memory he hadn't stepped through in decades.

His friend Harold had called every bull on his family's farm "Buster." They'd been twelve years old, thick as thieves, convinced they'd be the next Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. Every Saturday afternoon found them at the town baseball diamond, Harold pitching, Arthur batting, dreaming of the major leagues.

Then came the summer of 1948. The year they learned that some Busters were more stubborn than others. Harold's father had bought a new bull—a massive creature with horns like crescent moons and a temperament to match. That bull, naturally, was christened Buster.

"We'll ride him," Harold had declared with the confidence only twelve-year-old boys possess. "Like cowboys."

Arthur could still feel the terror and exhilaration of that afternoon. They'd crept into the pasture, Harold carrying his father's saddle, Arthur gripping a handful of sugar cubes. Buster had tolerated their approach, his dark eyes watching them with what Arthur now recognized as amusement rather than aggression. It was only when Harold attempted the saddle that Buster decided he'd had enough.

The ride lasted seven seconds—shorter than any baseball inning Harold had ever pitched. They'd tumbled into the dirt, breathless with laughter, while Buster snorted and trotted away, his dignity intact.

They never did ride that bull. But they did talk about it for the next sixty years, every conversation circling back to that summer afternoon like a runner rounding home plate.

Harold had passed on three years ago, leaving Arthur with memories sweet as honeysuckle and sharp as broken glass. Sometimes, in the quiet moments between sunrise and the rest of the world waking, Arthur still reached for the phone to call his friend, to share another memory of their endless summer.

"Grandpa?" Emma's voice pulled him back. "Do you want to see Buster? He's swimming!"

Arthur rose slowly, his joints stiff but his heart light. He watched the tiny orange fish dart through its bowl, flashes of gold in the kitchen light. Somewhere, he knew, Harold was laughing.

"Your Buster," Arthur said, placing a gentle hand on Emma's shoulder, "is going to have wonderful adventures. But you know what's better than one Buster?"

Emma shook her head, her eyes wide.

"Having a friend who remembers all the Busters with you."