The Seventh Inning Stretch

The orange sunset bled into the stadium lights as Marcus sat alone in Section 204, plastic seat sticking to his thighs through chinos still bearing the crease from yesterday's interview. His father had loved baseball—had lived and died by these innings—and Marcus had kept the season tickets like an obligation, a penance he performed every Thursday.

Running had been Lisa's solution to everything. Their marriage unraveling? She'd started training for a marathon. His mother's diagnosis? Half-marathons every weekend. The day she'd finally left, she'd been lacing up her sneakers when she told him she was done running in circles, done with his quiet absences, done with the way he measured life in strikeouts and ERA instead of moments worth remembering.

He'd found it ironic—that she accused him of detachment when she was the one who'd literally run away from their problems, mile after mile, until she ran right out the door.

Now the vendor approached, his orange vest fluorescent against the gathering dusk. "Beer? Soda?" Marcus bought an orange soda because his father had always said the color looked artificial under night games, like something manufactured, and wasn't that appropriate? The taste was cloying, artificial sweetness coating his tongue.

On the field, a batter connected—ball soaring toward the same section where his father used to sit, twenty rows down. The crowd rose as one, and Marcus didn't. He thought about Lisa at her finish lines, arms raised in victory, always moving forward, always toward something new. While he sat here, preserving ghosts, keeping season tickets like they were marriage vows.

His phone buzzed—a text from her lawyer about the final paperwork. Everything was almost done. The house would sell soon.

Marcus stood up, leaving half his orange soda sweating onto the empty seat beside him. He walked toward the exit, past families and couples and groups of friends, all of them creating memories he'd spent twenty years avoiding. Outside, the air was cool. He started running—not away, not toward anything in particular. Just running, his dress shoes clicking against the pavement, wondering if it was possible, at forty-two, to learn how to stop watching from the bleachers and finally get in the game.