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Playing Catch
By Jason Greene, Brockport, NY
From Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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“Daddy, do you want to play catch?” my seven-year-old voice called to my dad as he fixed something in the shed. As he wiped the grease off his hands and reached for his glove, I could see frustration and guilt battling with one another inside of him.
Excitedly, I ran to the other end of the yard, turned and focused on his glove. I dug my left foot into the ground and, with one strong motion, I pulled the ball out of my glove, rotated my arm behind my right ear and fired it toward my father. The ball sailed through the air like a swallow. I was thrilled. I felt free! I felt alive!
Then I watched as the ball crashed to the earth like a meteor, landing several feet in front of its intended target. My father flopped his arms to his side, bent over and picked up the ball. He yelled at me to release it higher and throw harder.
I gripped the ball with my stubby fingers, squinted at my dad’s glove, wound up and threw with everything I could muster. The ball zipped high and true through the air only to fall, once again, at his feet. Again, I threw it toward him and again, it thumped to the ground. My dad became more tired and frustrated with me but wouldn’t move toward me, acting as if he was an 80-year-old oak tree with roots 100 feet deep.
“Damnit boy, quit throwing like a sissy!” he yelled.
He began to throw the ball back hard with an intention to cause pain which was his way of telling me to “man up.” All I understood then was that it stung my hand. Tears came to my eyes. The excitement I had minutes before was gone. Now I was scared.
My throws became worse. My father became more agitated. Finally, he threw up his hands in disgust and stomped back to the shed cursing at me under his breath.
I felt like a failure. I hung my head. My shoulders slumped. When I picked up the ball, it felt as hard as the lump developing in my throat. Not only was our game of catch over, but I was sure his frustration with me would turn physical later on as it had many times before.
Fast-forward 30 years.
I was raking leaves when I looked over and saw my seven-year-old son holding a glove and a baseball. The weather forecast called for rain the next day and, with darkness approaching, I was in a hurry to finish. The hopeful look in his eye, however, diverted my attention.
“What’ve you got there?” I asked.
My interest in him brought a smile to his face.
“Daddy, can you play catch with me?”
“Sure,” I said. “If you help me rake these leaves first.”
He grabbed a rake with the determined grip of a pole-vaulter and set about collecting some of the leaves into the pile I was making. After a few vigorous minutes, most of the leaves were picked up. The yard didn’t look as nice as I wanted, but it was good enough.
We grabbed our gloves. My son stood at one end of the yard, and I stood at the other. He reared back and threw the ball towards my glove. It glided through the air like a swallow then fell to the earth like a meteor, landing several feet in front of its intended target. I picked the ball up, gave him some pointers and tossed it back. The next pitch and the one after both landed at my feet. I gave him a few more pointers.
As my back grew sore from bending over, I began to get frustrated. A muscle twitched in my cheek as a feeling of anger rose up in my chest. I wanted to yell at him and tell him to throw it right, to plant his foot down and use the power in his legs to get the ball to me.
As darkness invaded our evening, a memory came back to me. There I was again, standing across from my dad feeling small and insecure. I gripped the ball with my fingers. It was hard, and I remembered the lump in my throat from when I was seven. I spun the ball around in my glove for a few seconds. Then, I looked up. I stared into my son’s eyes. They were my eyes; eyes looking at his dad. Eyes excited to be playing catch with his dad.
I had a choice to make. I turned the outdoor light on, and I smiled. I told my son he was getting better. I told my son my back was sore and he needed to get the ball up to my glove. I then uprooted myself and stepped closer to him. His next throw arced through the air and landed right into my glove.
After we were done, I told him I had fun and that I loved him.
My childhood memories are comprised of moments that echo the story of playing catch with my dad. I try not to dwell on the physical and emotional pain I experienced as a child, but the repressed memories sometimes spring up and catch me off guard.
My father came from a long line of men who didn’t know how to be a loving father, a line of men who took their frustrations out on their kids. It stops with me.
No longer will I make any excuse for being negligent or for failing at fatherhood. My goal is for my son to have a different example of what a dad is and, with God’s help, I’ll be that example.
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Jason Greene is a former actor and playwright living in New York City who now focuses his time on being a stay-at-home dad. He writes about life and raising his three kids at www.OneGoodDad.com.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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