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Raindrops freckled the skin of Noah’s arms as the stadium rumbled with the chant of forty thousand fans. Win Big! Win Big! Win Big!

The dirt on the pitching mound vibrated with energy. His fingers caressed the seams of the ball. Win Big! Win Big! Win Big!

Noah zeroed in sixty feet six inches from where he stood. A flash of two fingers, down and in. Noah nodded. Rooster adjusted his stance behind home plate and held up his target. Win Big! Win Big! Win Big!

No runners on. Two strikes. Two outs. Noah stared at the catcher’s mitt. The same target he’d been staring at for the past thirty years. Better to stare at that than the stands. The seats. The empty spot he used to hunger for his dad to fill. Then eventually Gracie.

Noah stepped back, lifted his arms above his head for his windup. His arm rotated, wrist flicked. Thump!

Noah didn’t have to hear the umpire’s call to know it was a strike.

He walked off the mound. Players ran past him on their way to the dugout. Raindrops fell faster. His first baseman shouted something, but Noah couldn’t hear.

His ears hummed. Rock music, voices, hands clapping, feet stomping. He couldn’t hear anything except for the defeated voice of one man, haunting him still, all these years later following that one Little League game.

Good game, Son.

Noah should have said something at the time. Should have responded. Should have looked his dad in the eye. Acknowledged him. Responded to his messages later. Answered one of his calls. Read one of his letters.

He shouldn’t have stayed away until he received the call years later that his dad was running out of time.

Lightning flashed.

Because by the time Noah had shown up, he’d been too late.

Just like with Gracie.