The Seventh Inning Stretch

The baseball flew toward the fence in a perfect arc, and David watched it like he used to watch his marriage—hoping for something spectacular, expecting another disappointment. He was forty-seven, sitting alone in the bleachers, while his daughter Lily pitched her first game of the season.

His ex-wife Elena hadn't come. She was moving today, boxes stacked like the arguments they'd never resolved. Their split had been civil, the kind where nobody screamed but nothing was forgiven. The lawyers had divided their assets with surgical precision. He'd kept the house. She'd taken the cat—Barnaby, who'd always preferred her anyway. David had wanted the dog, a golden retriever named Cooper who'd somehow become his only confidante.

"Strike three!" the umpire shouted.

Lily's shoulders dropped. David's chest tightened. He wanted to run down to the mound, tell her it didn't matter, but he stayed frozen. That was his pattern now—staying frozen while everything fell apart.

Cooper whined beside him, sensing the tension. Good dog. Elena used to say dogs were uncomplicated love, while cats were complicated indifference. She'd loved that dichotomy. She'd probably phrase it better, with her graduate school vocabulary and her tendency to intellectualize everything that hurt.

"Dad!" Lily waved from the field. She'd been pulled from the game.

He stood up, knees popping. The coach was gesturing for parents to come down. Something about a team meeting, pizza afterward. Normal things. Things that families did together.

"Your mom's not coming," he told Lily when he reached the dugout. "She's busy with the move."

Lily nodded, accepted it. She was twelve, old enough to understand that parents were flawed people who made mistakes and then lived in separate houses. Young enough to still believe they might fix it anyway.

"Cooper can sleep in my room tonight," she said.

David looked at the dog, thumping his tail against the chain-link fence. Remembered the cat, Barnaby, who'd sleep on Elena's pillow now. Thought about baseball games, marriages, the way some things ended while others kept going.

"That sounds good," he said.

They walked to the car together, not running from anything anymore. Just walking, which was harder.