Three Strikes at Sunset

The old golden retriever, Buster, moved with painful slowness these days. His hips had given out last winter, and now evening walks were more meditation than exercise. David adjusted his grip on the leash, watching the sunset paint the sky in bruised purples and dying oranges. He should be home. He should be at the padel court with Elena, their Tuesday ritual for seven years of marriage.

Instead, he was walking the dog they'd adopted during that first hopeful spring, back when they'd spent hours debating names and picking out matching tennis rackets. Padel had been her idea—a sport they could learn together, something fresh and mutual. They'd been terrible at first, laughing at their missed shots, the ball ricocheting wildly off the glass walls. But they'd improved, month after month, their movements synchronizing until they became that couple other couples watched with quiet envy.

Last week, Elena had missed their Tuesday match. She'd forgotten to call, forgotten to cancel. When David arrived at the court alone, the pro had given him a sympathetic look, as if the score was somehow visible on his face.

'You okay, man?'

'Fine,' David had said. 'Just needed to stretch before the game.'

Baseball had been his father's religion. Strike one was missing a birth. Strike two was forgetting the anniversary. Strike three was unforgivable. David had grown up believing in the mathematics of failure—three chances, then you're out. The old man had lived and died by those numbers.

Buster stopped to sniff a patch of dying grass, his tail giving one weak wag. David waited, patient in a way his father never was. Elena had called this morning, finally. She'd been having an affair. Not with a person—with what she called 'finding herself,' which apparently involved therapy sessions, yoga retreats, and leaving their Tuesday court empty.

'Three strikes,' David said aloud, and Buster looked up, confused but attentive.

The thing about baseball, his father had forgotten to mention, was that you could always come back tomorrow. The season was long. The game could change.

David turned toward home, toward the padel bag still sitting in the hallway, toward Elena sitting at the kitchen table, waiting. Buster followed, his golden coat catching the last light. They had innings left. Maybe they'd play again. Maybe not. But walking away without taking your swing—that was the real strikeout.