The Third Inning

The vitamin C supplements rattled in Marcus's pocket as he pushed open the door to Sunset Hills. His father had never taken vitamins in his life—said they were for people who'd forgotten how to eat real food—but now the staff insisted. Marcus understood it was about control, about feeling like something could still be fixed.

His dad sat by the window, wearing the faded baseball hat Marcus had given him for Father's Day fifteen years ago. The Yankees logo was barely visible, the brim permanently curved from decades of being placed on the same hook in the garage. The hat had accompanied his father to every Little League game, every weekend barbecue, every moment that mattered.

"They said you missed lunch again," Marcus said, placing the vitamin bottle on the nightstand.

His father turned slowly. The brown spots on his hands had spread since last week. "Not hungry. The food tastes like—" he waved a hand, searching for the word his aphasia kept stealing, "like wet paper."

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed. "Mom's baseball glove is still in the attic," he said softly. "From when she played college ball. I found it last weekend."

His father's eyes sharpened. For a moment, the fog lifted. "She could throw a fastball," he whispered. "Scared the hell out of me the first time I saw her pitch."

"You ever tell her that?"

"Every anniversary." His father's voice cracked. "What I wouldn't give to watch one more game with her. Just sit in the stands, drink overpriced beer, complain about the umpire."

Marcus felt the burn of tears he'd suppressed for months. His mother had been gone two years, his father sliding away since. He pulled a baseball from his jacket pocket—a new one, still pristine—and placed it in his father's palm.

"Tomorow," Marcus said. "I'll bring Mom's glove. We'll play catch. Right here."

His father closed his fingers around the ball, the first genuine smile Marcus had seen in months breaking across his face. The vitamins sat untouched on the nightstand. Some things, Marcus finally understood, couldn't be fixed with pills. But this—this broken, beautiful moment—this was something real.