The Ninth Inning of September

At forty-seven, you don't run toward anything anymore. You run away.

The pavement cracked beneath my sneakers at 5:47 AM, the same time I'd been lacing up for three years. My knees clicked like the dashboard of Martha's old Honda, the one she drove away in. Somewhere behind me, Barnaby — our golden retriever, now technically just my dog — panted heavily, his muzzle silvered, his enthusiasm for this ritual undimmed by the arthritis that had us both moving slower these days.

'Come on, you bastard,' I muttered, though I wasn't sure if I meant him or myself.

We passed Miller Park, where a lone baseball sat in the weeds beyond left field — a ghost from some summer game, abandoned like my expectations for middle age. I'd played in college. Third base. Could've gone pro, maybe, if not for the shoulder injury and the girl who promised me everything and delivered only her absence.

Barnaby stopped to sniff at something dead in the ditch. A rat. A bird. The remains of whatever creature had run out of luck.

'You're better at this than I am,' I told him. 'You don't pretend the running means something.'

Because that's what I did, wasn't it? I ran like I could outrun the silhouette of myself at 27, the one with options and momentum and the sweet, delusional certainty that life would unfold like some carefully called game. I'd swung and missed. I'd watched fastballs zip past, frozen in the batter's box of my own making.

The sun breached the horizon, pink and gold and absolutely indifferent to my epiphanies. Barnaby looked up at me, tail wagging, ready for whatever came next. Breakfast. A nap. Another run tomorrow. He wasn't running away from anything. He was just... running. Being. The dog had it figured out.

I dropped to my knees in the dew-heavy grass and buried my face in his fur, smelling dirt and loyalty and the simple stupid grace of showing up. He licked my ear. He didn't care about strikeouts or the ninth inning or the way time narrowed the diamond while you stood holding a bat you'd forgotten how to swing.

'Start getting up,' I whispered. 'Start getting up.'

We rose together, dog and man, and turned toward home.