I hit fly balls to my son in our backyard. I don’t know how many I’ve hit or how many I have in me.
He could run them down and catch and throw them back all day. He would if he could.
He sprints. He dives. He lays out. He catches most, misses some—business and smiles.
I hit one deep. He catches it backhanded and over the shoulder diving into, and flatting, our lettuce patch—we have plenty.
Watching him, I remember back to being his age and doing same with my own father. It’s a gift to have this time. It’s a gift to live and be a boy—with big league dreams that may or may not come true but are never diminished because it is important, always, to dream and keep living effort and movements toward them.
It’s a blessing to have someone that loves you, that believes in you, and gives you their time, attention, and care—however it’s expressed.
For us, it’s fly balls.
He wants to be a baseball player. I want to be a good dad. Together, hitting fly balls, we are living in our Dream.
