I can remember playing catch with my dad on the sidewalk in front of our house. I had a first baseman’s mitt—the kind with the clamshell-shaped pocket—and I pretended with every catch that I was Steve Garvey, who was then the first baseman for my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers. There was a big tree down near the curb, and this tree was notorious for dropping pea-sized round seedpods. Once in a while, just for a laugh, my dad would throw me a seedpod instead of the baseball and I would whack it with the back of my glove and pretend I’d just hit a home run. We didn’t do it often, but the glee I felt when we did is still fresh in my mind.

My dad was not terribly athletic, nor was he much of a sports fan, and sometimes I wonder if the fact that I am is some twisted form of rebellion. Nevertheless, the fact that he found the motivation to play catch with me from time to time has no doubt contributed to me belief that baseball is a language fathers can use to communicate to their sons some of life’s most important lessons. That shared bond, the give and take of a throw and a catch, the rudimentary form interplay between a boy and his role model is beyond precious. It was to me, and I hope it is to my son, too.

Last night, during the final moments of sunlight, we were playing catch in our backyard. We have this little game we like to play wherein one of us throws the ball and tries to get it to dive or curve or knuckle, and then the other person tries to guess what kind of pitch it was. The funny thing is that neither of us knows the first thing about pitching. Any movement on the ball is purely unintentional.

“What was that?” he asks as my pitch snaps into his glove.

“Four-seamer,” I say.

He throws it back.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Splitter.”

Our throwing sessions usually devolve into him wanting to show me how awesome he thinks he is, but he has nothing to prove to me. He’ll never have a bigger fan. But I acquiesce, throwing pop flies over his head so he can jump up and pretend to rob someone of a home run.

And sometimes, just for laughs, I’ll throw him a Whiffle ball instead of a baseball. Sometimes he hits it with the back of his glove.

Comments

Beautiful, Danny...really beautiful.

LIKE BUTTON.

Love this!

I can totally relate. My dad and I shared that same experience many times. The one I remember most was when we were playing in the final moments of sunlight and I barely missed my dad's last throw. In the beautiful orange glow of the magic hour, the ball hit the tip of my glove, bounced off and smacked me square in the face.

This is kind of the same as how my dad used to make me pull his finger and now I do that with my son. Kidding! I'm a lady! I don't have gas.

Someday, your son will play catch with his child and guess who he will think about? You're making memories, Danny. One throw at a time.

Great Post! I agree that baseball has a power between Father and Son that can be amazing. Sadly less and less kids play it every day. I can't wait until my son can play catch with me. He is already pretty good at hitting off the tee.

sniff

And he's back.

I read things like this and feel a flurry of emotion. At the top is sadness. It kills me that I do not have a single memory of EVER having played with my father at all. Catch, G.I. Joe, cars... nothing. But then I feel happiness that others did get to have their own experiences with their fathers. And then I feel resolute to provide the best life I can for my own son.

Love it. Beautiful.

My Dad was a big Tennis fan. Sometimes I would pretend I was Jimmy Connors. That sucked...

Sniff. I remember playing catch with my dad. I sucked at playing actual softball so catch was fine with me. A nice slow way to spend some time, have some laughs, drop the ball a lot. I miss him. Keep making memories.