It had been about fifteen years since Michael and I last had a catch. I didn’t really miss those sessions. They frequently devolved into an internal parental crisis of patience versus annoyance; the latter usually prevailed.
Michael was always the wild thing and insisted on throwing the ball as hard as he could. “Catch” devolved into an errant throw, a turn to retrieve, a search on hands and knees in the brush, a walk back to the throwing spot, a toss of the ball back to Michael.
Repeat.
****
Now, fifteen years later, my only agenda item for this particular Saturday is to clean out the garage. Four hours into my Herculean task, Michael wanders in, picks up a mitt, and asks if I want to have a catch.
My first thought is something along the lines of, “Are you kidding me?” I just wanted to get done in the garage; I am physically tired. And, lately, I am weary of having my life dictated by Mike’s actions and whims; I am tired of him and his lies.
Mike had been asked to help with the garage cleanout this morning, and he said he would. Next thing I know, his mother is taking him up to get a haircut. She’s back in about an hour. Mike’s not. He’s out with Kevin.
At around two, he comes sauntering down the grassy hill next to the driveway and pops into the garage, where he sees some baseball equipment I am reorganizing, stuff I won’t need since my resignation. Too many distractions at home to continue to coach.
He doesn’t look like he got his hair cut, but I bite my tongue. With a second thought, I intuit a chance to ease our pain. Cue Field of Dreams music. I grab my worn black Ryne Sandberg-model glove from the back shelf and sift through the five-gallon bucket in the corner for some serviceable A1010 baseballs.
I linger over the container. The aroma of the balls is pleasurable and saddening. Michael hefts a couple of mitts, like he is prepping for a duel, before settling on a generic Rawlings basket weave.
We start about fifty feet apart in a backyard still shaking off the effects of winter, tentative green here and there among the bare spots, an occasional teasing warmth under puffy clouds meandering across blue skies. Michael stands where home plate used to be for the Wiffle-ball games. I am positioned near the “second base” bush, scraggly and forlorn, a faded plastic Rite Aid bag caught in the tangle.
We are both accurate with our initial tosses. Michael’s mechanics aren’t very good, but he gets the ball to me in the air. I concentrate on catching in the pocket. A thin margin of error separates the invigorating tingle of impact from the hand-mugging thud of numbness. The rhythm of the catch is established in a quiet, broken only by that thwack of ball meeting leather. The back and forth seems as natural as father and son.
After a while, Michael wants to try a few curves. A couple of them actually spin. When he tries to throw a little harder, the ball is off target, but still catchable. “I get less accurate when I use full range of motion,” he says.
“Try finishing off,” I offer. It is obvious to me that he is choking off his delivery. Over three decades of coaching, I had helped hundreds of kids develop their baseball skills. Michael had not been one of them, quitting baseball after eighth grade. He never listened to me; he was impossible to work with. And, I guess, that was about the time Mike was starting to develop other recreational interests.
There was that hot June Saturday morning when I felt mortified watching him doze off on the bench during a summer league game. No respect for the game, I fumed. Mike had spent the night at a friend’s house. Doing what, I now asked myself. Mike did not look like the rest of the players on his team. His hair was overgrown; his uniform shirt half-tucked; he’d forgotten his hat. Who was he? How had he gotten to this point?
By the middle of the third inning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked behind the bench and called him over. “Pay attention to the game,” I hissed at him. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” I was answered with a halfhearted defiant glare before he wordlessly returned to the bench. I watched the rest of the game from the parking lot. He never got in.
****
“I was always good at throwing,” Michael is saying. “But I couldn’t hit or field.”
“You never worked at it,” I respond.
“I was small and weak.”
“Well, lots of kids are like that until they get to eleventh grade.”
“Throwing a baseball is easier than throwing a softball,” Michael notes, changing the subject.
“That’s true.”
“I couldn’t throw the ball this well when I played softball.”
“When did you play softball?” I asked.
“Last fall, in Doylestown,” he says, somewhat exasperated.
“Oh, yeah. I guess the team’s outlook isn’t as good since you’re not there,” I retort. “Maybe they’ll call you back up.”
“Funny,” he says.
We fall back into our thoughts as we continue to toss. Funny. When was the last time we had joked with each other? There were no light moments anymore. Life had become as serious as, well, heroin addiction. What did it mean that I could actually make light of the fact that my oldest son had spent a couple of months incarcerated? How did I get there?
****
About twenty minutes into the catch, I had moved back a few feet, a compliment to his consistent tosses. But we are both getting a little tired now, and accuracy and concentration are starting to suffer. I chase down a one-hopper I had whiffed on. I should have had it.
“Sorry,” he calls.
“My bad,” I say from the far end of the yard. When I get back, I urge him to keep his shoulder closed longer.
Today, he actually listens and tries to make the adjustment.
“Was Matt good at scooping?” he asks after knocking down a throw I had short-hopped to him.
“Yes, he was,” I tell Michael. “Although he should have been a catcher instead of a first baseman.” Another son who wouldn’t accept advice, until it was too late.
“He has a rocket arm.”
“Yes, he does,” I agree.
By now we had probably made two hundred tosses, and I could tell I was going to be sore. We had been at it for about forty minutes; the temperature had dipped a little as more clouds lingered in front of the sun, and the garage was still waiting for me, but I did not want to stop just yet.
If thirty-seven years of coaching had all led to this moment, every second had been worth it.
“Thanks,” Michael says, a few minutes later, making one last throw before taking off his glove and turning toward the house.
I reply, “Thanks for reminding me what I miss about baseball.”
And being a father.
The Q-View 