The Seventh Inning Stretch

The iPhone buzzed in my pocket — another work email, demanding what little remained of my attention. I ignored it, watching Marcus negotiate his way through the crowded aisle with two beers and a pretzel. My brother looked like Dad sometimes, especially in profile. The resemblance had grown sharper since the funeral.

"He would've hated this," Marcus said, sliding into the seat beside me. "Fucking Cubs down by three, and that dog alone at home probably chewing through the drywall again."

Buster, Dad's golden retriever. We'd argued over who'd take him. Marcus had a newborn. I had a mortgage and a breakup I was still processing, six months later. Now the dog slept in Dad's old recliner, and I slept on the couch because the bed felt too big, too empty, too honest.

The baseball game continued its slow rhythm. Around us, families shouted and couples shared popcorn, unaware that somewhere in the stands, life was unraveling one thread at a time.

"Remember that commercial league he coached?" Marcus asked suddenly. "When you hit that home run and broke your wrist?"

"He taped it himself," I said. "Then made me pitch the rest of the season."

"Because he knew you'd never swing for the fences again if you didn't learn the consequence."

My phone lit up again. A text from Sarah: *Can we talk?*

"Bear market," Marcus said, catching my expression. "That's what Dad called it. When everything's crashing and you still have to decide whether to hold or sell. He taught me that the night Mom left."

I hadn't known that. There was so much I hadn't known — the sphinx-like silence Dad had carried like a coat, his riddles answered only in retrospect.

The crowd roared. A Cubs player had rounded second, heading for third. But I was watching my brother, understanding for the first time that we were both orphaned in different ways, that grieving wasn't a process but a landscape we'd wander indefinitely, sometimes alone, sometimes within sight of each other.

I picked up my phone and typed: *Not tonight. But maybe not never.*

"You gonna sell?" Marcus asked, gesturing at the phone.

"I'm gonna hold," I said. "Long-term investment."

Marcus nodded, signaling for another round. The game stretched on, and for the first time since Dad died, I didn't want to be anywhere else.