The Vitamin D Deficiency of My Forties

The bull stood in the corner office—Marcus, my boss, whose temper was as legendary as the company's falling stock prices. He'd been on a rampage since the earnings call, and I'd become his favorite target.

'You're not hungry enough,' he'd said that morning, his face inches from mine. 'In this market, you're either the bull or the bear. And you? You're just roadkill.'

I'd nodded, taken the verbal lashing, and returned to my cubicle. At forty-three, I was too old for this shit, but the mortgage didn't pay itself.

My phone buzzed—Dr. Patel's office. My vitamin D levels were critically low. 'Get some sun,' the nurse had said. 'You're working yourself into an early grave.'

That evening, I found myself at a dusty baseball field where my son Leo was playing. He was twelve now, the same age I'd been when my father took me to my last game. Dad had been a bull of a man himself—loud, demanding, impossible to please. He'd died five years ago, and I still couldn't make him proud, even in death.

Leo struck out, swinging at a pitch that was nowhere near the plate. He hung his head as the crowd groaned.

I felt it then—the urge to be the bull. To storm the field, demand better, make him tougher. Instead, I walked to the dugout, handed him a Gatorade, and sat beside him.

'Tough at-bat,' I said.

'The coach says I need to be more aggressive,' Leo muttered. 'Like you.'

The words hit me like a physical blow. Like me—the man who spent his days getting steamrolled by Marcus, his nights swallowed by insomnia, his soul eroding by degrees.

'Your granddad was the same way,' I said finally. 'Thought everything was a fight he had to win. He died angry, Leo. Alone.'

Leo looked up, really looked at me, for the first time in months.

'I don't want to be the bull,' he said quietly.

'Then don't,' I said. 'Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is bear the disappointment and keep showing up anyway.'

We sat in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon. For the first time in years, I felt something like peace.

On Monday, I gave notice. Marcus called me a coward. I told him I'd rather be a bear hibernating through winter than a bull charging at red flags.

That afternoon, I took my vitamins. I walked to the park. I watched the clouds. And for the first time since I was twelve, I picked up a baseball—just to throw it in the air and catch it, again and again, for no reason at all.