Hitting Fly Balls

For most of my son's life, he's been catching baseballs that I slug to the sky, a sturdy connection even in stormy times that I treasure more than ever.

“Meet at Ridgeland?”

This text from my son, Zach, greets me last Sunday afternoon after I’ve bicycled home from the gym. There, despite a sore back, I’d shot 400 free throws that felt like my physical limit for the day.

Now, these three words are blowing that notion to smithereens.

A few hours earlier, as Zach headed out for some errands, we’d talked about the possibility of my hitting fly balls to him at Ridgeland Common, a multi-purpose athletic field just a block away.

For over half his very nearly 21 years of life, through our relationship’s good times and its stormy, angst-filled periods, hitting (and catching) fly balls has been our rock, our refuge, our retreat. We don’t need those combustible, volatile things known as spoken words; our primary form of communication is bat-meeting-ball and Zach snaring it out of the air.

Seven years ago—almost to the day—Zach and I during a flyball session at the baseball fields where I grew up playing in Marshfield, Mass.

Hitting fly balls wasn’t part of my dad’s repertoire. My brother Andy and I frequently tag-teamed for this bit of Americana—and still do, any chance we get.¹

When I became a dad, I resolved to introduce this activity to Zach and see where it went. At first, I’d hit easy pop-ups that he’d struggle to maneuver under. Just like me, just like any kid, he needed practice.

As he’s grown, he’s expanded his capacity to handle anything I can muster. Now I’m lofting towering fly balls, seemingly well out of his range, and he’s running them down as if he’s got a magnet in his glove. It’s a beautiful thing to behold, really.

Zach re-enacting his over-the-fence sno-cone catch that wrapped up our July 2017 fly balls.

The field where we’ve usually done it for the past 11 years is a quaint quasi-Chicago backdrop, with the “el” or Metra train intermittently rumbling past the field, over Zach’s shoulder. Those moments, I invite passengers into this father-son fly ball moment by trying extra-hard to launch a long one that challenges Zach’s speed and depth perception.

I hope it offers these strangers at least a little entertainment; I know it’s great fun for me. That’s why, after seeing his text, I immediately shrug off my sore back and confirm the meet-up.

Down to the basement I go, retrieving the baseball bat, my weathered glove and a handful of battered baseballs. I trudge to the field, arriving just as Zach pulls up and parks his car.

I mention my back ailment, confess that I don’t know how well I can crank up the fly ball form, and caution him to stay shallow while I warm up. On my first swing, I send the ball soaring well over his head. He takes his usual position about 150 feet away.

On this day, somehow, I’m on top of my fly ball stroke. First to my relief and then to my delight, I bash balls over the next 15 minutes that give Zach the right degree of challenge—not too many easy ones that go straight to him, and only a few that are clearly beyond his reach.

It's my best effort in years. When Zach just misses getting to a line drive, I holler, “Almost!” When he hauls in a distant shot, I proudly shout, “Good catch!” Unspoken is my internal voice: “Great job, Dad. Keep this up!”

Our post-fly balls snapshot. Just on the other side of the scoreboard peeking out between us are the parallel CTA and Metra railroad tracks.

Baseball is a game deeply intertwined with mathematics, one of the core reasons why it has been a lifelong love of mine. Among its seemingly infinite data points is this one: Every fly ball has an apex, that precise point where it reaches its highest point before descending to Earth.

For me and my son, this outing may well have been our Hitting Fly Balls apex. So far, at least.

There’s no telling how many more fly ball outings remain. Being a parent for over two decades has taught me this much: One of these times—and we probably won’t know which one—it’s going to be the last.

So, my outlook is simple: Seize the day, even if it means my back might seize up.

1. Over the past several years, with bat, glove and balls usually stored in my car, I’ve expanded this activity to friends and acquaintances, too. Perhaps my favorite of these excursions was about a decade ago with a then-65-year-old friend who hadn’t caught fly balls in 20 years, the last time with one of his sons.

Having just watched the White Sox at Guaranteed Rate Field one afternoon, we took turns hitting fly balls to one another in a nearby park. We weren’t trying to re-claim our youth—we had forged a blissful pact that this part of our youth wasn’t over until we say it’s over.