Just a game of catch ~ May 17, 2001

by David Heiller

Noah came out of the house on Sunday evening carrying a baseball and two gloves, and I was reminded once again why spring is my favorite season.

David and the kids.

I got up from weeding the garden and walked over. He tossed me my glove. It was flat and soft and to my vivid imagination, almost eager for my touch. We walked to our favorite spot for playing catch, he at one end of the driveway and me at the other.

We tossed the ball back and forth. I said to keep it high so I could see it against the sky. My right eye is still healing from a cornea transplant, and I can’t see very well from it yet.

We talked about a lot of things, both trivial and profound. It’s funny how doing a familiar activity like playing catch can unplug the conversational sink. It isn’t always that easy getting a 17-year-old boy—or a 47-year-old man—to do that. But give a guy a ball and glove and he will sing like a canary.

She's just his daughter.

And on all kinds of subjects. Simple things like the Twins game. Or important stuff, like one of life’s struggles. They all seem to carry equal weight during a game of catch and they all somehow seem to be more manageable from the effort.

When Noah and I were done, Mollie met me by the deck with her glove. “My turn,” she said, and we had a repeat performance.

When the kids were smaller, we used to play catch before the bus would come. The house was hectic with getting up and dressed and eating breakfast, but there usually seemed to be about five minutes before the school bus would come in the morning, and we would get in a few throws.

Sometimes I wouldn’t get a taker when I asked for this game of catch. In fact, the kids would go through streaks where they seemed to take pleasure in saying no to my request, like I was an idiot for asking. They were too cool. But ask I did, every morning, and sooner or later, maybe just to shut me up, they would relent and grab their gloves.

That’s why seeing Noah walk out with the gloves on Sunday night felt so good. The tables had been turned. He was asking me to play catch, and I tried very hard not to run to him when I saw what he was holding. Be cool, Dad, it’s just a game of catch.

He's just his son.

Just a game of catch. In a sense, that’s right. It hardly warrants a column in the newspaper.

On the other hand, a game of catch is your childhood, your best friend, your brother. It’s your kids, your dad, your neighbors. It’s spring, a fresh breeze, new life. It’s the freedom of summer just around the corner. It’s blackbirds on the highline wires, and kids going to the beach, and baseball games that you wish would never end. It’s Mom and apple pie and the Fourth of July and the World Series.

It’s a part of us all. Strip away Einstein’s brilliant layers, and I bet you’ll find a game of catch.

That pretty girl over there is just your daughter, that handsome young man your son.

That book on the shelf is just the Bible. That woman with the golden smile is just your wife.

And it’s just a game of catch.