Part 5 – The Weight of Small Hands
The next morning dawned gray, clouds sagging low over the Arkansas hills. Gene McCallister sat at the kitchen table, staring into a cup of coffee gone cold. Beside his chair, Champ slept soundly, his breaths shallow but steady.
Gene rubbed his temples. Nights had become long stretches of listening—counting the seconds between the dog’s inhales, fearing the silence when it stretched too far. His own body ached, but he pushed through. Age had made him no stranger to pain. It was loss that frightened him.
The floor creaked behind him. Caleb padded in, still in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction. He didn’t bother with breakfast; he went straight to Champ, kneeling, stroking the old dog’s fur.
“Morning, boy,” he whispered. “You hanging in?”
Champ’s tail tapped faintly, a tired acknowledgment.
Gene watched, throat tightening. Caleb had grown quieter since the vet visit. The boy had always been full of chatter, but now he carried himself differently—shoulders a little hunched, gaze a little older.
“Grandpa,” Caleb said suddenly, not looking up. “If he’s hurting…how do we know when it’s too much?”
The question landed heavy. Gene set down his coffee. “We’ll know, son. He’ll tell us in his own way.”
Caleb nodded, though his lips pressed together tight. He bent down and pressed his forehead gently against Champ’s. “I’ll listen,” he whispered.
That afternoon, while Gene mended a fence post out back, he noticed Caleb in the yard with Champ. The boy had dragged out an old blanket and spread it beneath the oak tree. He placed Champ carefully on it, bringing along a bowl of water and a small plate of scraps.
Then Caleb sat cross-legged beside him, a book open in his lap. Gene recognized it—the worn copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer that had once belonged to Mark.
Caleb cleared his throat and began to read aloud, stumbling a little but pressing on. His voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the story, and every so often he glanced at Champ, who lay with eyes half-closed, tail twitching at the sound.
Gene leaned against the fence post, hammer forgotten. Something caught in his chest—an ache, but also a kind of relief. The boy was finding his own way to carry the weight.
When the reading paused, Gene walked over. “What’s all this?”
Caleb shrugged. “He likes it. His tail moves when I read. Maybe it reminds him of Dad.”
Gene swallowed hard. “Maybe it does.”
Caleb looked up, his expression earnest. “I don’t want Champ to think we’ve forgotten him. Or Dad either.”
Gene lowered himself carefully onto the blanket, his old knees protesting. He laid a hand on Champ’s back, feeling the frail warmth beneath his fur.
“Son,” Gene said, “love doesn’t forget. It just changes shape.”
That evening, Gene cooked supper—cornbread, beans, and fried potatoes. Caleb carried his plate to the porch instead of the table, setting it down next to Champ so the dog wouldn’t be alone.
“Want me to bring you some sweet tea?” Caleb called back through the screen door.
Gene chuckled softly. “Since when do you wait on me?”
“Since you’ve been waiting on him,” the boy replied.
It wasn’t the words of a child. It was the words of someone stepping into responsibility. Gene felt a strange mix of sorrow and pride.
They ate outside together, Champ lying between them. Fireflies blinked across the yard, the evening air heavy with the smell of honeysuckle.
“Grandpa,” Caleb said after a long silence, “do you think dogs go to heaven?”
Gene set his fork down. The question had no simple answer, but the boy deserved one.
“I think,” Gene said slowly, “that heaven wouldn’t be heaven without them. I think your daddy’s up there right now, maybe waiting for Champ to come play fetch again.”
Caleb’s eyes softened, glistening in the porch light. “I hope so. I hope they’ll wait for me too.”
“They will,” Gene said firmly. “That’s what family does. Waits. Holds on.”
Caleb reached out and rested his hand on Champ’s paw. The old dog shifted slightly, pressing back.
The following Saturday, there was another Hawks game. Caleb suited up, though his excitement was tempered by worry.
“Can Champ come?” he asked.
Gene looked at the dog, who was curled in his bed, exhausted even after a full night’s rest. His body seemed smaller now, as if the years were finally pressing him flat.
“I don’t think he’s strong enough for the field,” Gene said gently.
Caleb’s shoulders sagged. “But he cheered for me last time.”
“I know, son. But sometimes the greatest cheer is just being here when you come home.”
Caleb nodded reluctantly. He bent down and kissed Champ on the muzzle. “I’ll play for you,” he whispered.
At the field, Gene sat alone in the bleachers, watching Caleb step up to the plate. The boy’s eyes kept darting toward the empty spot where Champ had sat before.
Gene clenched his fists, fighting back the urge to shout instructions. Instead, he whispered to himself, “Swing true, boy. Swing for him.”
Caleb connected with a sharp line drive into left field. Not a home run, but a clean hit, and he ran with fierce determination. The crowd cheered. Gene felt his chest swell with pride—not for the hit, but for the boy’s resilience.
When the game ended, Caleb ran to him, breathless. “Did you see? Did you hear the crowd?”
“I did,” Gene said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But I also heard something else.”
“What?”
“The sound of you carrying more than just yourself out there. That’s what makes a ballplayer. That’s what makes a man.”
Caleb blinked, unsure how to answer, but the words settled deep in him.
That night, Caleb brought his trophy from the game into Champ’s bed. “This is yours too,” he told the dog, laying it gently beside him.
Champ sniffed it, then rested his head against the boy’s hand.
Gene stood in the doorway, unseen, tears welling in his tired eyes. He realized then that Caleb had taken up the mantle—not just of ballplayer, but of remembering, of honoring, of loving without fear.
And Gene understood something else too: the boy was teaching him as much as he was teaching the boy.
Later, on the porch, Caleb asked a question that stopped Gene cold.
“Grandpa,” he said, “when Champ’s gone…will you cry?”
Gene inhaled sharply. His instinct was to say no, to be the rock. But he couldn’t lie.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I’ll cry. Same way he cried at the ballgame. Because some things deserve tears. And some loves can’t be carried any other way.”
Caleb nodded. He looked older in that moment, standing in the porch light with fireflies around him.
“Then I’ll cry too,” he whispered.
Gene put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “And that’s how we’ll carry him forward. Together.”
Below them, Champ let out a soft groan, shifting in his sleep, as though he understood. His tail wagged faintly against the porch boards, the rhythm of a life still present, still loved.
And though the night carried the heaviness of what lay ahead, it also carried something else—an unspoken promise that the weight of love, no matter how heavy, would not crush them. It would bind them.
Part 6 – The Longest Inning
By late July, the Arkansas heat pressed down like a heavy glove, and even the nights gave little relief. Gene McCallister rose early to open windows, but the air was thick and unmoving. He turned to check on Champ, who hadn’t stirred from his bed.
“Morning, old boy,” Gene said softly. He crouched down, brushing the dog’s fur. Champ’s eyes opened slowly, cloudy with age, and he tried to lift his head. It wobbled in the effort before sinking back to the blanket.
Gene’s stomach clenched. Each morning now felt like rolling dice against time.
When Caleb came downstairs, his first words weren’t “good morning” anymore. They were, “How is he?”
“Still with us,” Gene said.
Caleb hurried over, kneeling. “Hey, Champ. You’re alright. I’m here.” His hand slid along the dog’s ribs, counting each breath as if his will alone could keep them coming.
The boy’s devotion both broke and mended Gene’s heart. He remembered doing the same at Mark’s hospital bedside, whispering encouragements while machines clicked and hummed, pretending words could bend fate.
Now Caleb was living that same ache. Too young, Gene thought. Too young to carry this weight.
That afternoon, Gene tried coaxing Champ outside. The old retriever managed two shaky steps off the porch before collapsing in the grass, tongue lolling. Gene knelt beside him, one hand cradling his head.
“You’ve run enough bases for a lifetime, boy,” he murmured.
Caleb appeared at the door, panic in his voice. “Grandpa, he fell!”
“I know. He just can’t hold himself like he used to.”
“Then we’ll carry him,” Caleb said fiercely, racing down the steps. He slipped his arms under Champ’s belly. His skinny arms strained, but he gritted his teeth and lifted with everything he had. Gene helped steady the load, and together they got Champ back inside.
When they set him down, Caleb dropped to his knees, breathless. “See? We’ll help him every time. He doesn’t have to do it alone.”
Gene’s chest ached. He wanted to tell Caleb that help wouldn’t be enough forever, but he couldn’t. The boy needed hope.
That evening, as cicadas sang outside, Gene phoned Dr. Henson. He stepped onto the porch, lowering his voice.
“He’s fading fast,” Gene said.
Her tone was kind but firm. “Keep him comfortable. Watch his eating and drinking. And if you feel he’s suffering more than living…call me.”
Gene stared at the darkening sky. The words “more than living” echoed in his head.
When he went back inside, Caleb was curled on the floor next to Champ, whispering stories of the last ballgame. The boy’s hand rested gently on the dog’s paw. Gene’s throat burned.
The following Saturday was another Hawks game. Caleb insisted on going, but his heart wasn’t in it. He sat quiet in the truck, staring out the window.
“You don’t have to play if you’re not up for it,” Gene said gently.
Caleb shook his head. “No. I have to. For him.”
At the field, the absence of Champ was like an empty seat at a funeral. Parents chatted, kids laughed, but Gene felt only silence where the old retriever should have been.
Caleb stepped to the plate his first at-bat and struck out swinging. His eyes darted toward the bleachers, searching for something that wasn’t there. Gene clenched his fists, aching to fill the void.
“Keep your eye on it!” he shouted. His voice carried like it hadn’t in years.
Caleb straightened, nodded faintly, and went back to the dugout.
By his next at-bat, the boy found his swing. A sharp grounder shot between shortstop and third, rolling into left field. The crowd cheered. Gene leapt to his feet, clapping hard, his voice booming: “Atta boy, Caleb!”
It wasn’t Champ’s cry. But it was something.
Caleb reached base, standing tall, and for a moment, Gene saw relief in the boy’s shoulders.
After the game, Caleb asked quietly, “Do you think Champ could hear me from home?”
Gene swallowed hard. “I think he hears everything that matters.”
That night, back at the farmhouse, they found Champ lying near the porch door, too weak to lift his head when they entered.
Caleb knelt beside him instantly. “We won, Champ. We won for you.”
The dog’s tail wagged once, barely moving the fur. His eyes flickered open, then closed again.
Caleb pressed his face into Champ’s neck. “Don’t leave yet. Please don’t leave yet.”
Gene turned away, gripping the doorframe. The same helplessness from Mark’s hospital room surged back—the knowledge that love couldn’t bargain with death.
Later, after Caleb finally went to bed, Gene stayed awake on the floor beside Champ. He stroked the dog’s fur, whispering truths he hadn’t dared say in daylight.
“You carried me through after Mark. You sat with me when I couldn’t stand to hear the silence. You kept me from going under.”
The dog’s breathing rattled faintly, each inhale fragile.
“I don’t know if I can do it again without you,” Gene whispered. His tears dropped into Champ’s fur. “But maybe Caleb can. Maybe that’s why you held on this long—to hand him the baton.”
Champ gave the faintest sigh, as if agreeing.
The next morning, Caleb found Gene still on the floor, slumped against the wall. Champ lay nestled against his grandfather’s leg, eyes closed, chest rising faintly.
“Grandpa,” Caleb said quietly, “he’s worse, isn’t he?”
Gene nodded. “He’s near the end, son.”
Caleb’s jaw clenched. “Then I want to be with him for every second.”
And he was. The boy skipped practice, skipped friends, skipped summer games of tag and creek fishing. He stayed by Champ’s side, reading aloud, singing little half-remembered songs, stroking fur worn thin.
At night, he prayed out loud. “Please let him stay just a little longer. Please.”
Gene listened from the hallway, his heart breaking. He remembered praying the same prayers over Mark, and the silence that followed when they went unanswered.
One night near the end of July, a storm rolled in, thunder shaking the windows. Caleb jolted awake and hurried to Champ’s side. The dog whimpered softly with each rumble, too weak to rise.
Caleb lay down beside him, arms wrapped around his neck. “I’ll keep you safe, boy. Just like you kept me safe.”
Gene stood in the doorway, watching lightning flash across the boy’s face. He realized then that the baton had already been passed. Caleb was carrying the weight.
And Gene—who had spent years drowning in grief, clinging only to the dog—felt something shift. Maybe it was alright to let go, because the boy would not let memory die.
Still, as the storm raged, Gene whispered a prayer into the dark: Not tonight. Please, not tonight.
When the storm broke and silence settled, Champ still breathed—but faintly, each inhale a thin thread.
Caleb fell asleep with his head on the dog’s chest, lips murmuring even in dreams. Gene pulled a quilt over them both, lowering himself into the rocking chair nearby.
He sat there through the night, rocking slow, counting each breath, fearing the one that wouldn’t come.
The longest inning was underway.
And Gene knew the game was nearing its final out.