The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball game had dragged into the seventh inning when Marcus's iPhone buzzed in his pocket. He knew without looking. Sarah had left three messages already. The goldfish—their daughter's goldfish—wasn't going to make through the night.

Around him, the crowd roared as someone hit a home run. Marcus watched the ball arc through the stadium lights, following its trajectory with the same detached fascination he'd applied to his marriage for years. He'd stopped caring about the score around the fourth inning, somewhere between Sarah's first text about Luna floating sideways and the vendor offering him another overpriced beer.

"You're more emotionally invested in that fish than you were in us," she'd said during the argument that preceded her moving out last week. The accusation had lingered like the smell of stale popcorn in the stadium air.

He remembered buying the goldfish three years ago, a carnival prize Emma had won with an impossible toss. They'd named it Luna because it seemed to glow in its bowl on the kitchen counter. Sarah had been the one to research proper care, to clean the tank weekly, to explain to six-year-old Emma about life cycles when the first fish died.

Marcus had simply nodded and paid for the food.

His iPhone lit up again. Emma's face appeared on screen—she'd been crying. The call went to voicemail before he could decide whether to answer. What would he say? That he was sorry about Luna? That some things just don't last, no matter how carefully you feed them?

The inning changed. The stadium organist played a familiar tune. People stood up around him, stretching their legs, ordering more food. Life continued in its ordinary rhythm, indifferent to the small deaths occurring simultaneously in countless homes.

Marcus stood too. He walked toward the concession stands, past families who seemed to have what he'd lost. A father lifted his daughter onto his shoulders so she could see better. The girl laughed, pointing at something Marcus couldn't see.

He found himself at a quiet corridor near the restrooms, iPhone in hand. Sarah answered on the first ring.

"She's gone," Sarah said softly.

"I'm sorry," Marcus replied, and meant it more than he could explain.

"Emma wants to know if you'll help her bury it tomorrow."

Marcus looked up at the television mounted on the corridor wall. The baseball game continued without him. "Yes," he said. "I'll be there."

He hung up and returned to his seat. In the bottom of the eighth, someone finally scored. The crowd went wild. Marcus watched the celebration unfold with new understanding: every game ends, but not everyone gets to say goodbye properly. Tomorrow, he would help his daughter learn that lesson too.