A game of catch — our father-son ritual
A youth baseball game. Credit: iStock
There are few things more symbolic of a father-son relationship than a game of catch. It is a Norman Rockwell scene across America.
A year ago this month, our son Scott left home to begin attending Purdue University. West Layfayette, Indiana, is a long way from Sayville, and it was a bittersweet time for my wife, Laura, and me.
Scott played Little League Baseball for 11 years, from T-ball at age 5 to senior league when he was 16. I was an assistant coach for three of those years. Scott was a pretty good outfielder and enjoyed the camaraderie of his teammates. For me, the best part was playing catch on our front lawn. We began when he was 4 or 5. We stood about 15 feet apart, and I’d throw the baseball to him underhand. He had a small glove that I broke in for him by rubbing it with a foamy lubricant and wrapping it around a ball.
Years later, we would both haul out our Rawlings gloves, the kind Scott used all through Little League. We’d stand about 60 feet apart, often under the late-afternoon sun. I would throw him the occasional fly ball or grounder to keep him on his toes, and we would share a laugh when he’d occasionally wing one over my head, forcing me to chase the ball down the street. When he grew, that happened far less as his arm became more accurate. We would trade small talk, and I’d offer tips on squaring up with his target when throwing and on getting his entire body into the motion.
These sessions usually lasted about 20 minutes, and rarely more than a half-hour, the limit for my aging right arm.
As his departure for college loomed, we mentioned having a catch several times, but he was busy working odd jobs at a local marina or making rounds with friends he would not see for a few months. My wife and I were busy making certain he had all the clothes and incidentals he needed for the upcoming semester. Finally, the day before he departed, we got together on the lawn. Under a blue late-summer sky, we tossed the ball to each other.
“Want me to throw you some fly balls?” I asked.
“No, just a routine catch is fine,” he said with a laugh.
We were both quiet. I think I was lost in my own thoughts about his leaving for school. We continued for about 20 minutes until Scott called out, “Five more?”
My arm was beginning to feel it, so I agreed. The point wasn’t how long we played; it was the fact we were out there. This ritual was such a large part of our time together as he grew up. Each time, I felt my special bond with Scott. Having a catch with him was one of those timeless pleasures.
When we concluded, I gave Scott a hug and felt the emotional pull of his almost 18 years under our roof. His older brother, Chris, and I are the sentimental ones in the family, but I know Scott enjoyed the opportunity to have this last catch. The next day, Laura, Scott and I packed up and were off around 3 a.m. for the 14-hour drive to Indiana.
This summer, we have not yet had the opportunity to have our catch before he returns to school in late August, but I’m not concerned. I am sure that before he leaves, we will get our gloves and get out on the front lawn.
Reader Jerry Giammatteo lives in Sayville.
