The Seventh Inning Stretch

The office had been eating him alive for months. Marcus moved through cubicle rows like a zombie, his colleagues' voices blurring into white noise, spreadsheets swimming across his screen until they lost all meaning. He'd forgotten what it felt like to care about anything—about the quarterly projections, about the team-building exercises, about himself.

Then came the text from Sarah: *Dad's got box seats. Saturday. Please come.*

He almost said no. The Marcus of three years ago would have been there in a heartbeat, beer in hand, heckling the umpire. But the Marcus of last Friday had stared at his bedroom ceiling at 3 AM, calculating whether anyone would notice if he simply stopped showing up.

Saturday found him at the stadium anyway. The familiar crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd—it all felt like watching a movie of someone else's life. His father had insisted on buying him a new hat, something to replace the grimy trucker cap he'd been wearing since college. The fresh brim cast a shadow across his face that felt like armor.

"You look like hell, son," his father said, not unkindly, as the bottom of the fourth inning dragged on. "Sarah says you haven't been returning her calls."

Marcus watched the pitcher wipe sweat from his brow. "I've been busy."

"Busy." His father's laugh was dry. "I worked forty years in a factory that gave me ringing in both ears. Still made time for the people who mattered. What's killing you, Marcus? Is it the job?"

The question hung there as the batter connected, sending a ball arcing toward deep center field. The crowd rose as one, thousands of voices merging into something almost primal. For a moment, Marcus felt something crack open inside him—not much, but enough.

"I think I died somewhere along the way," he said, surprised by his own honesty. "Just kept moving anyway."

His father's hand settled on his shoulder, grip firm. "Zombies do that. But you're not dead yet. You're just at the bottom of the ninth, down by three, with two outs. You've seen this game. Miracles happen."

Marcus adjusted his new hat, the brim still stiff and unfamiliar against his forehead. The scoreboard glowed in the deepening twilight. He thought of Sarah, of the unread emails piling up, of all the reasons he'd given himself to stay numb.

Then he thought of being down by three with two outs.

He pulled out his phone and texted Sarah: *Dinner after the game? I miss you.*

"You're right," Marcus said, finally really looking at his father for the first time in months. "I've seen this game. And the inning's not over yet."