Part 7 – The Final Out
The morning after the storm, the farmhouse was hushed. The air hung heavy, damp with last night’s rain. Outside, puddles mirrored the pale sky, and the grass bowed under the weight of dew.
Inside, Gene McCallister sat in his rocker, staring at the sleeping boy and the failing dog curled together on the rug. Caleb’s arm lay across Champ’s chest, rising and falling with the dog’s shallow breaths.
Every exhale rattled. Every inhale seemed a battle.
Gene rubbed his temples. He’d prayed all night—selfish prayers for just a little more time. But dawn had a way of peeling the truth bare. Champ was leaving. Not today, maybe, but soon.
And Gene knew the cruelest part wasn’t that he would lose his dog. It was that Caleb would lose his first great friend.
When Caleb stirred awake, he blinked, disoriented, then tightened his arms around Champ. “Morning, boy,” he whispered. The dog’s tail flicked once, a ghost of its old vigor.
Gene forced a smile. “You hungry, son?”
Caleb shook his head. “I’ll stay with him.”
Gene nodded. He understood.
He went to the kitchen, made toast he couldn’t eat, poured coffee that went cold. He stared out the window, watching clouds drift over the Ozark foothills. The same hills that had held his life for seventy-two years, the same hills that would one day hold his bones.
And now they were preparing to hold Champ’s too.
That afternoon, Caleb asked if they could take Champ outside, “just one more time.”
Gene hesitated. The dog could barely stand, let alone walk. But Caleb’s eyes pleaded.
Together, they carried Champ out to the yard, laying him on a blanket under the oak tree. The summer air buzzed with cicadas, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his fur with gold.
Caleb sat beside him, brushing his coat with slow strokes. “Remember when you used to chase me here?” he said. His voice cracked, but he kept going. “You were faster than me. Every time.”
Gene lowered himself into the grass, leaning close. “You always were the best outfielder, old boy.”
For a moment, it almost felt like years had rewound—like Mark was still alive, like evenings of baseball practice still filled the yard. But then Champ coughed, his body trembling, and the illusion shattered.
That evening, Dr. Henson called. She checked in every few days now. “How’s he holding up?”
“Barely,” Gene admitted. “Eating little. Breathing worse.”
Her voice softened. “Gene, it may be time soon. You’ll know when the suffering outweighs the comfort.”
He hung up with a knot in his chest.
How could anyone weigh such things?
That night, Caleb dragged his pillow and blanket down from his room. He spread them on the rug beside Champ.
“I’m not leaving him,” he told his grandfather firmly.
Gene only nodded. He couldn’t argue.
He sat nearby in the rocker, watching the boy drift off with his hand resting on the dog’s paw. The house was quiet but for the ticking clock and the sound of two fragile heartbeats—one boy’s, too young to know such grief, and one dog’s, too old to keep fighting.
Hours passed. Gene dozed, then startled awake to a sound.
Champ was stirring. His legs twitched as if running in a dream. His chest rose sharply, then rattled. His head lifted weakly, eyes finding Gene, then drifting to Caleb.
The old dog made a sound—low, mournful, but oddly peaceful. Not the cry of the ballgame, not the bark of youth. A sigh, drawn from deep within.
“Grandpa?” Caleb’s voice broke the silence. He sat upright, eyes wide. “What’s happening?”
Gene knelt quickly beside them. He stroked Champ’s head, tears stinging. “He’s telling us goodbye, son.”
“No,” Caleb whispered. He pressed his face into the dog’s neck. “No, stay. Please stay.”
Champ exhaled, long and slow. His body relaxed, his tail gave one final twitch. And then—stillness.
Gene’s hand trembled as he rested it on the dog’s chest. No rise. No fall.
“He’s gone,” Gene whispered.
Caleb let out a sound Gene would never forget—a raw cry, too big for such a small chest. He clutched Champ tighter, rocking, his tears soaking the golden fur.
Gene sat back, his own tears blurring the world. He had promised himself he’d be strong, that he wouldn’t break in front of the boy. But when he reached out and felt only the weight of fur with no heartbeat beneath, the dam gave way.
The two of them wept together—grandfather and grandson, boy and man, bound by love and loss at the feet of a dog who had carried them both.
The next morning dawned clear and cruel. Caleb refused breakfast, sitting silently on the porch steps with Champ’s old collar clutched in his hands.
Gene joined him slowly, knees stiff, heart heavier than any load he’d carried in all his years.
“I don’t want to bury him,” Caleb whispered.
“I know,” Gene said. “But we’ll do it together.”
They dug beneath the oak tree where Champ had loved to lie. The soil was damp from the storm, clinging to their shovels. Caleb worked fiercely, sweat streaking his face, as if he could dig his grief away.
When the hole was ready, they laid Champ down wrapped in a faded quilt. Caleb tucked the little trophy from his last game beside him. His hands shook as he whispered, “For you, boy. You earned it.”
Gene lowered his cap, lips pressed tight. He wanted to speak—a prayer, a thank-you, something—but no words seemed big enough. So he let silence speak.
Together they filled the grave, each shovel of dirt heavier than the last. When it was done, Caleb dropped to his knees, pressing his hand flat against the mound. His shoulders shook.
Gene laid his own hand over the boy’s. “Some cheers don’t come from the crowd,” he murmured, voice breaking. “But they mean the most.”
Caleb turned into him then, sobbing against his chest. Gene held him close, stroking his hair like he had once stroked Mark’s.
And as the boy’s grief poured out, Gene felt his own finally loosen—not gone, but lighter, shared.
That night, the farmhouse was too quiet. Gene expected to hear claws clicking on the floor, the heavy sigh of a dog settling by the bed. Instead, only silence stretched.
But in that silence, there was something else too: the sound of Caleb’s breathing from the next room, steady and strong.
For years, Gene had leaned on Champ to carry his grief. Now it was the boy who carried it with him.
And though the ache was sharp, Gene realized something he hadn’t in years. Loss didn’t mean the end of love. It meant love had grown too large for this world, spilling over into memory, into legacy, into the next generation.
Champ was gone. But what he had given them—his cry at the ballgame, his loyalty, his witness to their lives—remained.
And that, Gene thought as he stared out into the dark, was a cheer that would never fade.
Part 8 – After the Silence
The first morning without Champ was the hardest.
The farmhouse felt cavernous, every creak and sigh of the old wood sharper in his absence. Gene McCallister shuffled into the kitchen, half-expecting to hear the scrape of claws across the floor or feel the heavy warmth of a muzzle against his leg. But the corner where Champ’s bed had been was bare.
He poured coffee into his mug and stared at it, forgetting to drink.
From upstairs came the faint sound of footsteps. Caleb descended slowly, clutching Champ’s collar in his fist. The jingle of the tags rang hollow in the silence.
“Morning, Grandpa,” he said, though his voice cracked on the word.
Gene swallowed. “Morning, son.”
Caleb sat at the table, placing the collar in the center like it was sacred. He didn’t touch his cereal. His shoulders sagged, and though his eyes were dry, Gene saw the storm behind them.
“You don’t have to eat,” Gene said gently.
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither was Gene.
The day stretched long and heavy. Caleb drifted from room to room, always with the collar in hand. He sat on the porch steps, stared into the pasture, wandered to the oak tree where they had buried Champ. Gene followed at a distance, not crowding him, but not letting him drift too far either.
Around mid-afternoon, Caleb finally broke the silence. “Grandpa?”
“Yeah, son.”
“Does the missing part ever stop hurting?”
Gene’s chest tightened. He set aside the hoe he’d been leaning on. “No. It changes, though. The sharp edges wear down. But the hole…that stays.”
Caleb’s eyes filled. “Like with Dad?”
Gene nodded. “Like with Dad.”
The boy kicked at the dirt, silent. Gene wanted to shield him from that truth, but lies only poisoned grief. Better to face it together.
That evening, Gene pulled down the shoebox again—the one filled with Mark’s old things. He set it on the table without a word. Caleb opened it carefully, reverent.
Inside were scraps of a life: Mark’s baseball cap, sun-faded and sweat-stained; the cracked ball signed by teammates long grown; a photo of Champ as a pup beside a boy with the same wide smile Caleb now carried.
Caleb held the picture in both hands, staring at it as though he could will his father back through the paper. “He looks so happy,” he whispered.
“He was,” Gene said softly. “Ball games, summers, Champ at his side—that was enough for him.”
Caleb traced his father’s grin. “I wish I could remember him like this.”
Gene reached across the table, covering the boy’s hand with his own. “That’s what stories are for, son. They carry the pieces we can’t hold.”
That night, Caleb asked to sleep outside by the oak tree. Gene hesitated but agreed. They carried quilts and lay side by side under the stars, the mound of fresh earth nearby.
“Grandpa?” Caleb whispered into the dark.
“Yeah.”
“When Dad died, you still had Champ. But now…” His voice broke. “Now we don’t have him either.”
Gene turned his head toward the boy. The stars glimmered above, the summer air warm. “We still have each other. That’s enough to keep walking.”
Caleb was quiet a long time, then murmured, “I’ll try.”
Gene reached over, squeezed his hand. “That’s all we can do.”
The next week, life pressed forward whether they were ready or not. School supplies appeared in store windows. Baseball practice resumed. The Hawks had another game scheduled, and Caleb laced up his cleats with slow, reluctant hands.
“Don’t have to play if it feels too soon,” Gene told him.
Caleb shook his head. “No. I need to.”
At the field, the absence of Champ was deafening. Parents clapped, kids shouted, but Gene felt only the space where the old retriever should have been sprawled at his feet. Caleb noticed too. He glanced at the empty spot, then back at his grandfather.
When his turn at bat came, Caleb froze. He tapped the plate, shoulders hunched. For a moment Gene thought he might walk away.
Then the boy looked toward the outfield fence—the same spot where his home run had flown weeks before. He set his jaw, adjusted his grip, and nodded once.
The pitch came. Caleb swung hard, connecting with a sharp crack. The ball sailed high, not over the fence but deep into center. Caleb tore around the bases, legs pumping, eyes blazing with something fierce.
When he slid into third, safe by a breath, Gene found himself on his feet, shouting. “Atta boy, Caleb!”
The boy dusted himself off, glancing to the bleachers. His eyes locked with Gene’s, and for the first time since Champ’s death, his smile returned—small, but real.
That night at home, Caleb placed the game ball on the mantle beside Champ’s collar. “That one was for him,” he said.
Gene nodded, throat tight.
The farmhouse felt lighter that evening. Not healed, not whole—but not suffocating either.
As August rolled in, Gene found himself talking more openly about Mark than he had in years. Sitting on the porch swing one humid night, he told Caleb about the time Mark had stolen second base against the best pitcher in the county. About the day he’d taught him to ride a bike on the gravel road, how he’d skinned both knees but gotten up laughing.
Caleb listened wide-eyed, soaking in the stories like water on dry ground. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” he asked.
Gene stared into the dark. “Because it hurt too much. I thought keeping it locked up was safer.”
“Was it?”
Gene shook his head. “No. It just made the hole deeper.”
Caleb leaned against him, quiet. Then he said, “I’ll keep his stories too. And Champ’s. I won’t forget.”
Gene wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “That’s all I could ask, son.”
The next Hawks game came, and this time Gene brought along the photo of Mark and Champ. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, close to his heart. When Caleb stepped to the plate, Gene pressed the photo through the fabric, whispering, “See him, Mark. He’s yours too.”
Caleb swung. A sharp line drive cracked into the gap. He sprinted, helmet bobbing, legs flying. The crowd roared, but Gene heard something else—a phantom cry, memory woven into the summer air.
He closed his eyes, felt the hair rise on his arms, and for one impossible second, he swore Champ was there again, crying out in joy.
That night, when they came home, Caleb asked to see the photo. He held it close, smiling through his tears
“Grandpa,” he whispered, “I think he was there. I think they both were.”
Gene brushed a hand over the boy’s hair. “I believe it too.”
The farmhouse was quiet, but the silence no longer felt empty. It felt full—of memory, of love, of cheers that would never fade.