The Undead Game

Marcus stood at the padel court, racket dangling from fingers that felt increasingly numb these days. Around him, the Tuesday night group laughed—corporate types in expensive athleisure, all of them moving through the same choreographed dance of middle-aged escape. He felt like a zombie among them, hollowed out by months of litigation and the slow death of a fifteen-year marriage.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ex-wife again. The question about their daughter's weekend schedule. He ignored it.

"You're up, Marcus," called Greg from the opposite court. The same Greg who'd been through two divorces and still believed in the healing power of sponsored sports.

The game began. Padel was like tennis for people who'd given up on precision, all walls and angles and second chances. Marcus smashed the ball against the glass, watching it rebound in ways he couldn't control anymore.

He thought about baseball—those weekends with his father at the minor league stadium, the sun on his face, the simple arithmetic of innings and outs. His father had loved baseball for its elegance. Nine innings, three outs, no ambiguity. Everything that Marcus's life wasn't anymore.

"You okay, man?" Greg asked afterward, as they sat in the clubhouse drinking craft beers that tasted like market research.

Marcus looked at the mirror behind the bar. A man with graying temples and expensive shoes, someone who'd forgotten how to be honest. "Just tired."

"We're all tired," Greg said, clapping his shoulder. "That's why we're here."

Outside, the parking lot was filling up with luxury SUVs. Parents arriving to pick up children from various activities. Marcus saw his own daughter across the lot, climbing into his ex-wife's car. She didn't see him. He stood there in his sweaty padel clothes, a spectator to his own life.

The baseball card his father had given him on his deathbed burned in his wallet. Play catch, it said on the back. Some things you don't get back.

Marcus got in his car and drove home to an empty house. Not a zombie, he told himself. Not yet. But he wasn't sure he could prove it anymore.