Playing catch

Over the past weekend, we brought our sons to a sporting goods shop and picked out their first baseball gloves. I remember playing little-league baseball as a boy, and playing catch with my dad was something special.  When my sons were born, one of my very first dad feelings was knowing that someday, I would play catch with my boys.  I can only describe it as something in my DNA, like how those little baby turtles know to scurry into the ocean as soon as they hatch.  When I became a dad, that future moment was hard-wired into me.

Seven years later, that moment was here.

Sure, we had played catch before, with whiffle balls, footballs, and frisbees.  But this was the whole package:  my sons and I in the back yard, playing catch with a baseball, wearing our baseball gloves.

Kazuo, being two years older, was a bit better than Eiji, but they both enjoyed it.  I tried my best to give them good throws, and showed them how to squeeze the glove closed.  It was nice.  Kazuo was smiling so much.  It felt nostalgic, as if watching though sepia colored lenses.  It brought back some nice memories too.

One memory was my very first time signing up for Little League.  I was so eager to play!  But my birthday was 10 days past the September 1st cut-off date.  My dad knew that, but it didn't stop him from bringing me to the American Legion Hall on registration day and trying his best to get me on a team.  He wasn't able to convince them to break the rules for me, and I was very sad.  But to this day I remember fondly that he tried.

I recalled another memory as I tucked my sons into bed that night.  I know that I was a fairly average baseball player - I played a lot of second-base and right-field, if you catch my drift.  But I enjoyed the game, and played until I was in the 8th grade.  That year, my team was actually quite decent, and we made it to the championship game.   I told my sons about that game.  Going into our last at-bat, we were trailing 4-1.  We didn't give up - and in fact, we managed to load the bases.   And in one of those moments that seemed to ooze destiny, it was my turn to bat, with two outs in the last inning, the bases loaded, trailing by 3 runs.  I did the math.  A homerun would win the game.  I remember I was holding a red aluminum bat.  It was the smallest and lightest bat available.   I remember having butterflies in my stomach, and sort of wishing one of the better players was up at bat instead of me.  I remember our coach, Mr. Goudreau, having all the confidence in the world as he sent me to the plate.  "Just try your best", he said.

And I remember hitting the ball farther than I had ever hit the ball in my life.

It soared to the right centerfield fence.

The right fielder ran back, all the way to the fence.  He reached up with his glove.  And he caught the ball.

I explained to my sons that daddy's team lost the game.  But the important thing, I tried to make clear, so many years later, is how I played the game.

A few weeks after that game, at the Little League awards night, Mr. Goudreau gave a nice speech about that game, and my hit, and how time stood still as we all watched that ball fly toward the fence.  And then he gave me that red aluminum bat.  And everybody clapped.  Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if that ball did go over that fence.  It seems weird, but looking back as a dad, I'm sort of glad it didn't.