The Seventh Inning Stretch

I first noticed the man in section 104 during the third inning. He had the kind of generic face that disappears in crowds, but his presence felt too deliberate. A spy, I realized with a jolt—my wife's private investigator, documenting my Saturday custody ritual like it was evidence of neglect.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, forty-two years old, sitting beside my ten-year-old son at a baseball game that should have been simple, normal, wholesome. Instead, every gesture felt weighted, every smile examined through the lens of someone else's judgment.

"Dad, you want some?" Leo asked, extending a bag of sunflower seeds.

"Sure, buddy." My hands trembled slightly as I took a handful. The tremors had started three months ago—stress, according to my doctor, though he'd prescribed vitamin B supplements and suggested I "find some work-life balance." What he couldn't fix was the hollowed-out feeling that had taken up residence in my chest, the way I moved through each day like a zombie, performing the motions of living without actually inhabiting them.

I'd always taken pride in my appearance. The thick dark hair I'd inherited from my mother had been my trademark, but now I found strands in the sink drain each morning, silver replacing black like some cruel countdown timer. When had I become this person? This hollowed-out corporate shell, navigating divorce negotiations like business mergers?

The baseball game continued around us—innings ticking past like the minutes of my dissolving marriage. I watched the batter adjust his helmet, tap the plate, swing and miss. The crowd groaned.

"You okay, Dad?" Leo asked, his small hand finding mine.

I looked at him—really looked—at the way his hair curled behind his ears like mine used to, at the concerned crease between his eyebrows. I thought about the spy in section 104, about the court date next week, about how badly I wanted to be the kind of father who didn't need court-mandated visitation schedules.

"Yeah, buddy," I said, squeezing his hand. "I'm okay."

And for the first time in months, it wasn't entirely a lie.