In the years when my father and I couldn’t speak to each other, we always had baseball.
It’s not an uncommon story I suspect. Fathers and sons play catch together. Or they did. Maybe they still do. I can’t say for sure.
But my father and I did.
It carried us through the times when I realized that he was simply human and not super-human, when my secret life pulled me away from the family, and countless other specific times that are mine and his to share.
Whenever I see a game, or listen to a game, or think about a game, my thoughts drift to our time together. Playing in the backyard. The never-ending stream of grounders he would hit to me on the driveway in the summer rain.