Playing Catch

Baseball has started, which made me think about dad. How old was I when we first played catch? When he taught me to throw and catch a baseball? I know I was young. I also thought about some of the other life lessons that were a part of that process.

 It’s funny, I don’t have any real memory of when he started teaching me about baseball. I remember playing work-up in the neighborhood, along with Minor League and Little League play. Back then, there wasn’t any T-Ball. When did he first start teaching me the necessary skills? 4 years old? 5 years old?

 In the baseball movie “Field of Dreams”, Kevin Costner just wants to play catch with his father one more time. “Build it, and he will come”, and all of that. He and his father had become estranged over the years, and then his father died. He just wishes they could play catch one more time, which of course he does at the end of the movie. It’s great, and emotional, and romantic – playing catch one more time. Returning to our childhood is always good for the soul in its own way. It can also be a little bit of escapism.

 Playing catch wasn’t the only thing my father taught me all those years ago. Some of the other lessons were more subtle. Yes, he taught me how to throw, catch, and hit. But he also taught me how to be me. How to be independent. How to learn by making my own mistakes. He was never one of those hovering parents who were there watching and coaching their child’s every step, whether in baseball, or some other sport or activity. Scouting was another example. My Cub Scout pinewood derby racer looked like a 9-year-old made it, because I made it. It was quite unlike the cool, perfectly sanded models with sleek paint jobs some of the other kids had. How much did the boy do, and how much was dad’s handiwork? What was the lesson in that?

 Today we call those adults helicopter parents. Always hovering about, fretting over something. Keeping their kids from, god forbid, making a mistake. Back then, we didn’t have a word for those parents, but my buddies and I knew who they were. We didn’t think much of them, and we pitied their kids. Today, I am eternally grateful neither dad, nor mom, were helicopter parents.

 Dad taught me the basics of many things, including baseball, but then let me go. Sometimes to win and do well. Sometimes to flounder and fail. And afterwards, no matter whether I won or lost, flourished or floundered, he was still there for me and still dad. The dad who worked hard and worked overtime whenever he could. The dad who made sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. The dad who enjoyed taking mom out to dinner and dancing whenever they could. Just plain old dad.

 Would I like to play catch with him again? Sure. I’d also like to drink a beer with him again and talk about baseball or current politics. I would love to hear another old story about the Depression or WWII. I would give anything to have a good dinner out with him, mom, and Cathy, all of us laughing and loving life.

 As baseball season starts, I thank dad for teaching me to throw and catch and for giving me my lifelong love of baseball. Even more, I thank him for allowing me the independence to experience the good and the bad in life and turn into the person I have become. For allowing me to be me.

Addendum:

 I thought briefly about saving this blog, or a version of it, for Father’s Day. Then I thought again. Isn’t it better to honor those we love when we think about them, rather than waiting for some artificial holiday?