Cherry Lifesavers

My father put his gloved hand on his hip.

"You know better than that," he said good-naturedly. "Get in front of the ball!"

I flipped the softball from my glove to my hand and threw it back. Straight shot to the center of his chest. "Give me some credit. I'm out of practice!"

He intentionally threw back to the right, and I exaggerated my motion, stepping squarely in front of the ball. Thwap. The ball nestled itself deep into the leather webbing of my glove.

I'd brought the glove home with the hopes that he would be up for some catch. We hadn't played in at least a couple of years, probably longer than that. But we settled back into the rhythm of it right away. After about every ten throws, I'd take a few steps back, until the stretch of street between us was about where it would have been during high school. Missed catches were few, but they provided the opportunity to unleash an even longer throw.

When he was a new parent, my father promised himself that he would teach his daughter the fundamentals of ball. I was always proud to demonstrate the results.

My daddy don't raise no wussy softball girls. I was a ballplayer who was always willing to take a trip to the batting cage or play some catch. And I still throw like a boy.

"I haven't done this in a long time," he said, making a high catch and tossing it back.

"Me neither, obviously. But it feels good, doesn't it?" I caught the ball, turned and fired it right back. Thwap.

"Yeah." This one was going over my head. I jumped and barely snagged it. "Nice catch!"

"Thanks. Thanks for agreeing to play, I thought it would be fun." Another straight shot back.

"It is. We used to do this for hours." He held the ball for a moment, got the best grip and sent it back. Thwap.

"I'd never get tired of it." Another quick return.

"I wouldn't either. But then we'd get back inside and Tom would look at me and say, 'Hey, can I play?' And then we'd play for hours, too." This one did go over my head. I jogged down the street and called over my shoulder.

"Hey, you said you wanted kids who loved the game! You got your wish." My parents saw both their kids win championships in high school. My senior year softball team, Tom's junior year baseball team. And we saw at least one of our parents watching us play at every game. My father went to every game I played during that one year of college ball.

"That I did. I'm not complaining."

I turned to gauge the distance between us, reached back and sent a long shot back to him. There was one short bounce, but it landed squarely in front of him, landing right in his glove.

"Sorry!" I started to jog back.

"For what?"

"The bounce. I should have put more into it. It was a little wussy."

He laughed. "And here I was, ready to say, 'Nice throw.'"

The sunlight was beginning to dim, but there was still enough light to see the ball, so we kept throwing. If it started to get dark, we still had a neon yellow ball or two in the house.

He threw it back - harder. Thwap.

Oh, if that was how he was going to be, I'd stop holding back. Game on.