The Seventh Inning

The baseball sat on his desk, gathering dust for three years. Not just any baseball—the one his father had caught at Fenway, the summer before the diagnosis. Marcus had meant to give it to him for Christmas, but timing had a cruel way of revealing our priorities.

Now, in the empty apartment where his father's presence lingered like cigarette smoke in curtains, Marcus found himself sitting on the floor with an orange in one hand and the baseball in the other. The dog—a golden retriever named Bear who had outlived everyone—rested his chin on Marcus's knee, watching with that maddeningly patient stare dogs somehow develop.

"You miss him too, huh?" Marcus whispered. Bear thumped his tail once.

His father had taught him to peel oranges in one continuous strip, a useless party trick he'd performed every Sunday morning for thirty years. Marcus's fingers fumbled, the citrus scent sharp and suddenly overwhelming. It smelled like hospital corridors and goodbye promises that neither of them meant to keep.

The oncologist had given him six months. He'd lasted three weeks.

Marcus's phone buzzed—his ex-wife, probably. Sarah, who'd left because grief was too heavy to carry for two. She'd said she needed space, but what she'd meant was that she couldn't watch him drown anymore. So she'd moved to Seattle, and he'd stayed here with the ghosts and the dog and a baseball that should've been a Christmas gift.

Bear let out a soft whine, nudging Marcus's hand. The orange peel hung ragged, imperfect—unlike his father, who had been meticulous until the very end. Even dying, Arthur had arranged his pill bottles by size and color.

"Okay," Marcus said, peeling the rest quickly, imperfectly. "Okay."

He fed Bear a segment, then ate one himself. Tart and sweet and impossible to swallow. The baseball felt smooth against his palm, promising futures that would never happen.

Outside, the neighbors' children played catch. The thwack of leather against leather carried through the open window. Marcus stood, Bear scrambling up beside him, and placed the baseball on the shelf where his father's photograph smiled down at them.

"Next season," he said, and meant it for the first time in three years.