The Seventh Inning Stretch

David's phone lit up for the third time that inning, another useless notification from work. He set the iPhone face-down on the aluminum bench, watching his reflection distort in the blackened screen. His hair had started thinning at thirty-two, a slow retreat his father called "nature's corporate ladder." Now, at forty-seven, there was almost nothing left to surrender.

The baseball game dragged on. Some AA affiliate versus another, nobody important, though the fathers in the stands screamed like their sons were pitching for the Yankees. David had come because his therapist suggested he "reconnect with activities that once brought joy." Baseball had been his father's religion, but the church felt empty now.

He peeled an orange he'd brought from home, the citrus spray sharp and sudden. Sarah had always bought the same kind – navel oranges, never the easy-to-peel Cuties. "Adults should work for their fruit," she'd said, grinning, juice running down her wrists. Three years since the divorce, and still the smell could transport him back to their kitchen, Sunday mornings before everything curdled.

His phone buzzed again. Not work this time.

"Dad, Mom says you're not answering your texts. Are you coming to Emily's swim meet?"

The swimming. He'd forgotten. Emily, twelve and rapidly becoming someone he didn't quite recognize, the first state qualifier in the family. He'd promised he'd be there. He'd bought the tickets to this baseball game three weeks ago, when she was still talking about quitting the swim team.

The orange felt heavy in his hand. The crowd roared – a home run, someone's triumph. David stood up, the phone now clutched tight against his chest. The bright afternoon suddenly felt like he was underwater, everything distant and blurred, the pressure of expectation and disappointment and love all pressing against his lungs.

He walked toward the exit, leaving the orange half-eaten on the bench. Someone would enjoy it. Someone was always hungry for something he couldn't give them. The pool was twenty minutes away. Emily would understand. Probably. She was becoming generous like that – a kindness that hurt, somehow, more than resentment ever could.

He got into his car and started driving, his phone finally silent. Tomorrow he would be better at this. Today he would just show up.