The Seventh Inning Stretch

The plastic seat pressed against my back, uncomfortable and familiar. Around me, the crowd roared as the batter connected with a fastball, the baseball arcing toward the outfield fence. I didn't cheer. My eyes were fixed on Section 204, Row G, Seat 12—where David should have been.

The water in the cup holder had gone warm an hour ago. Condensation had left a ring on the armrest, a temporary mark on something that would outlast us both.

Three years since we'd spoken. Since the funeral, really. His wife's death had cracked something fundamental in him, and I'd tried to be the friend who could hold the pieces together. But grief makes selfish people of us all, and eventually, I'd stopped calling.

The sunset burned orange across the sky, the same color as the polo shirt he'd worn to his son's graduation—the last time I remember seeing him really smile. Not the polite grimace he'd worn at Thanksgiving, or the hollow laugh at Christmas. Real joy, before everything.

My phone buzzed. A text from his sister: *He's at the hospital. Not good.*

The baseball game continued around me, meaningless and eternal. I stood up, leaving the water, the seat, the unspoken years between us. Some friendships don't end with a bang or a fight. They just fade like light across a stadium sky, and you realize too late that you should have reached out before the darkness took over completely.

I walked toward the exit, orange light spilling across the concourse, and wondered if some broken things could still be mended, or if I was just fooling myself into thinking it mattered anymore.