The Seventh Inning Stretch

The old baseball cap sat crushed in his hands, its brim frayed from three years of Sunday games. Michael sat alone in the stands, section 204, row 12—exactly where Elena used to sit. Three rows behind him, a couple in their twenties shared popcorn, their easy laughter cutting through the summer heat.

"That's complete bullshit," she'd said, not looking up from her salad. The spinach leaf had been stuck in her teeth the entire conversation—small detail, but he'd noticed everything by then. "You're making up problems that don't exist."

The words had hung between them like smoke. She was right, in a way. He had been manufacturing outrage, picking fights about dinner plans and weekend trips, anything to break the suffocating silence that had settled over their marriage like a heavy blanket. But she was also wrong. The problems were real; they just weren't the ones he was naming.

On the field, the batter swung and missed. The crowd groaned. Michael thought about his father, who'd taken him to his first game when he was eight, bought him his first hat, taught him how to keep score. "Baseball teaches you patience," his dad had said. "Most of life is waiting." His father had died two months before the wedding. Michael sometimes wondered if that's when things started to unravel—if he'd been so focused on being strong for Elena that he forgot how to be vulnerable.

He'd never told her about the panic attacks, the way he'd wake up at 3 AM convinced he was failing at everything. The job, the marriage, the hypothetical children they never discussed. She called him her "rock." Rocks don't crack. Rocks don't need support.

The mascot—a bull in a jersey—danced on the dugout. The announcer's voice boomed: "Let's go, Bulls!" Some corporate sponsorship deal. Everything was for sale now.

Michael stood up, knees popping. Seventh inning stretch. He'd always hated this part—the forced camaraderie, strangers linking arms, singing together like they weren't all just passing through each other's lives. That's what he and Elena had been: two people passing in the night, pretending they were building something permanent.

"Take Me Out to the Ball Game" blared through the speakers. Michael put on his hat, pulling the brim low. He'd keep coming to these games. He'd sit in her seat until it stopped feeling like she should be beside him. Until the empty space beside him felt like choice, not loss.

The hot dog vendor walked by. "Get your dogs!"

Michael raised his hand. "One. With everything."

He was hungry, suddenly. Maybe it was time to finally start nourishing himself.