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.
Wow. I did not know that baseball was still a thing with kids anymore. It's like back to the future for me: 1950s - 1960s when baseball WAS the national past time and all my friends and their dads would play catch and then fungo to us kids who - after making "great" catches - thought we were all going to become the second coming of Willie Mays.
Great story, really deep Americana. My dad was from Ireland so we never had that type of bond. We played ball all summer long growing up in the fields of Marshvegas. For me alot of that was playing wiffle ball at St. Theresas church, where there was a stone in the stone wall that was a perfect strike zone for us to use.
With my dad and me, it was throwing the football that filled a void and formed a bond. Seems a similar thing. A way to still get some exercise and be youthful. A natural role both for the thrower (the father) and the runner/catcher (son), just like for the fly ball hitter (the father) and the tracker (the son). Hitting those fly balls, too, also makes one feel good about oneself, because it takes skill. Playing imaginary quarterback also requires skill, in that you need to develop timing, and it certainly helps if you can throw a spiral.
My dad and I did change places on the thrower/catcher wheel occasionally, and we paired up less frequently when I left home. I remember one of the last times, when it had been a couple of years since I had last thrown to him, much less to anybody. I could not hook up with him. I wasn't sure to what extent I was off form, and to what extent he just couldn't run under the ball any more, couldn't make those subtle adjustments to make me look halfway reasonable as a quarterback. I was becoming frustrated, and it was sad. So, when you said there would be a last time, and to appreciate every time, that resonated with me. Apart from the fact that he soon got sick and died, I think our struggles that day signaled we were approaching the inevitable football end, anyway.
That's a great father-son activity. I've never been able to hit fungoes. And my baseball career was forgettable. As I recall, I got two hits in five seasons on my grade-school team in Minneapolis.
Wow. I did not know that baseball was still a thing with kids anymore. It's like back to the future for me: 1950s - 1960s when baseball WAS the national past time and all my friends and their dads would play catch and then fungo to us kids who - after making "great" catches - thought we were all going to become the second coming of Willie Mays.
Great story, really deep Americana. My dad was from Ireland so we never had that type of bond. We played ball all summer long growing up in the fields of Marshvegas. For me alot of that was playing wiffle ball at St. Theresas church, where there was a stone in the stone wall that was a perfect strike zone for us to use.
With my dad and me, it was throwing the football that filled a void and formed a bond. Seems a similar thing. A way to still get some exercise and be youthful. A natural role both for the thrower (the father) and the runner/catcher (son), just like for the fly ball hitter (the father) and the tracker (the son). Hitting those fly balls, too, also makes one feel good about oneself, because it takes skill. Playing imaginary quarterback also requires skill, in that you need to develop timing, and it certainly helps if you can throw a spiral.
My dad and I did change places on the thrower/catcher wheel occasionally, and we paired up less frequently when I left home. I remember one of the last times, when it had been a couple of years since I had last thrown to him, much less to anybody. I could not hook up with him. I wasn't sure to what extent I was off form, and to what extent he just couldn't run under the ball any more, couldn't make those subtle adjustments to make me look halfway reasonable as a quarterback. I was becoming frustrated, and it was sad. So, when you said there would be a last time, and to appreciate every time, that resonated with me. Apart from the fact that he soon got sick and died, I think our struggles that day signaled we were approaching the inevitable football end, anyway.
That's a great father-son activity. I've never been able to hit fungoes. And my baseball career was forgettable. As I recall, I got two hits in five seasons on my grade-school team in Minneapolis.