Grandpa Plays Ball

The weather has recovered somewhat during the past 20 or so hours and climbed into the respectable 70s today. Since we had nothing better to do, Grandpa came over this afternoon. After he got here, I heard him tell Evan, "Let's go take a few swings." So they headed out to the back yard.

Now my father, whom I did not really know until he was in his late 40's, was both quick and athletic. He coached basketball in his earlier years and played any number of sports well. He has continued to participate here and there all through his 70's. But for the last few years, every time I watch him play, I become fearful that it will be the last time.

The last time that I will see my dad throw a ball.
The last time that his glove will scrape the ground.
The last time he will yell something like, "Ah, you put the ol' dark one by him!"
The last time the crack will echo from his bat.

He pitched for a while until it became evident to him that he just wasn't finding the zone, so he handed that off to me and headed for the outfield. Evan was hitting well, and the balls were spraying all over our expansive back yard. Fortunately Toby was out there too, but Grandpa is too independent, too energetic to stand and let Toby run for them. Grandpa got most of them himself.

I remember his run, the quick acceleration of short, wiry legs well into his 50s. Just the barest whisper of that is left, enough to make me remember as he hustled for the ball. It wasn't running, wasn't really even jogging. But it wasn't walking, either.

Grandpa rolled most of the balls to the pitcher's mound to save what is left of his arm. He threw one, and again I saw the beautiful and heartbreaking echo of what had been.

After it was over, we sat in the Adirondack chairs near the fire pit and chatted. It was a precious time for me, with almost all of the people closest to me actually closest to me.

We love you, Dad.