The Three-Base Life

The corporate pyramid rose before Marcus, gleaming in the Chicago skyline like a monument to other people's ambition. Fifty-third floor. He'd made it, finally. The corner office with the lake view, the salary that made his parents weep with pride, the parking spot with his name on it.

But standing here, in his office that smelled faintly of lemon polish and corporate success, Marcus couldn't stop thinking about baseball.

Specifically, Tuesday nights at the rusted diamond behind the old community center, where the grass grew in patches and the chain-link fence hummed with cicadas. David would be there tonight, probably. His oldest friend. The one who'd stopped returning Marcus's calls three months ago, around the time Marcus canceled their usual game for a "critical board meeting."

"Mr. Blackwood?" His assistant's voice through the intercom. "The McKinsey team is waiting."

Marcus stared at his reflection in the glass. He was forty-two and had everything he'd spent two decades chasing. The pyramid—his father's word for it, 'climb the pyramid, son'—had a summit, and here he was. The air was thin up here. Lonely.

His phone lit up. A text from an unknown number: *David's in the hospital. Heart attack. 42.*

The pyramid blurred. Marcus remembered what David always said during those Tuesday games: "Life's not about stealing home, Marcus. It's about who's in the dugout with you."

He pressed the intercom. "Cancel the meeting."

"But sir—"

"Cancel it."

Marcus grabbed his coat. Behind him, the corporate pyramid gleamed, indifferent and waiting. Ahead lay the hospital, and maybe, if he wasn't too late, one more chance to step up to the plate.