Catch

The ball slides effortlessly gliding through the air as it nestles into my outstretched my glove. There is something delicate in this game, like in dealing with people, it’s a back and forth that simply happens. I grab the ball from my glove, hitting both hands with their cargo, not once, or twice but three times, just enough to think out loud how hard he’s starting to throw it. We’ve been doing this for a few years now, he’s 15 already, just starting to become a sullen teen that will either break hearts or suffer them. I thoughtlessly pull back my arm, as memory takes over, muscles stretch and old pains resurface once again, and I let go. My arm feels lit, and as memory rushes through those muscles I feel alive. It’s so easy…

… The beauty of the game is in its simplicity. I don’t remember where I read that, but it’s true. The ball gives us a line; it’s a space where 2 people can share. The world is so different for this boy, mine was a slow world, this one moves too fast sometimes. He will always have it harder than me.  I can only offer one thing to him, the game, this space between us and a ball. It’s amazing how little effort we put into it, and how much we can get out of it in return. How he grabs the ball right out the air, I envy his youth sometimes, and yet I know I would waste it away. But I can hope, right? That he won’t make the same mistakes, he’ll be smarter and happy. He’s not a tall boy, but he’s cleaver that’s for sure. We all share this gift with people. It might be that people are easy, maybe. It’s amazing to see his motions, the outstretched arm thrown back in full force yet no anger, he just feels it. His young muscles ripple and strain so slightly. He puts his dreams in his throw, his regrets, and yet I cannot see any anger, or even a hint of sadness. That is the beauty of catch, it’s not a game, it’s a conversation. It’s not about winning; it’s means more, it’s about, well, us. We stand feet apart and yet we will never be this close…

… We walk back home together, gloves in hand and glowing faces with a mix of sweat and happiness. There is so little I can offer the kid, and yet with each throw of a ball, he asked even less of me. I can imagine great things for him, a family, wealth, fame, all those thing we aspire for ourselves. Sometimes the greatest happiness doesn’t come from achieving our own goals, but just to see those we care about achieve theirs. Maybe that’s what growing old means, it’s not about losing loved ones, but being front row center to the triumphs of those who follow us. As I put my hand on his tired shoulder, I remember when I could cover his whole back with my hand, and I smile. And I don’t have to look at him to know the kid is smiling right back…