Playing Catch
There was an evening ritual my brother Paul and I had in the summer when we were in junior high and high school. We could not wait for dinner to be over.
Dinner in our house was not optional. Both of our parents worked, but one of them always made dinner and our family always ate together. Somehow, you just knew what time you were supposed to be home. Nobody called you at the park. Nobody texted you at a friend's house. Dinner was at 5:30 or 6:00, and when that time came, you were sitting at the kitchen table in your spot.
The meals were pretty plain. Lutheran plain, as my wife calls it. Chicken baked to the end of its natural life. Peas or corn. Some kind of bread. My mom was from the South, so a lot of times there was sweet cornbread. I loved cornbread. I still do. That unmistakable smell with butter melting into it.
There was also always dessert, which sounds great until dessert was tapioca pudding. I despised tapioca pudding. I still don't understand it. Do they even sell the stuff anymore? That texture still gives me the willies. This was also the era of, "You're not leaving this table until you have at least one bite," so occasionally dessert became a hostage situation.
But eventually dinner ended, and Paul and I would grab our baseball gloves and a hardball and head out to the front yard.
Our yard was perfect for it. There were bushes on the north side of the house and a sidewalk where I stood. Paul was across our lot and the neighbor's lot on the sidewalk to the south. There was a big pine tree to my left that always seemed to be trying to die. Somehow it survived. It is still there today.
The sun went down to the west, on my right and Paul's left, with this long stretch of grass between us. No cars. No street. Just enough room to really throw the ball. The heat was letting up, the light was changing, and there was still enough daylight left to keep going.
So we threw.
Of course, we occasionally overthrew each other. If I threw it past Paul, he had to shag it because there wasn't much there to stop the ball. If he threw it past me, it might disappear into the bushes, or I would have to run around the front of the house and find it a couple of houses north. Nobody got pissed. Maybe a "what the fuck?" look every once in a while.
Paul was a pitcher. He was tall and lanky and could throw a lot harder than I could. Every once in a while he would put something on one, I'd catch it wrong and feel that sting right through my hand. Whew.
I was built more like a catcher and had actually trained to be one. We played a city Little League together, but this was much different. No coach. No innings. No score. Nobody watching. Nothing to screw up. This was the shit.
Sometimes we talked. I don't remember about what. School. Friends. Something that happened that day. How weird Mom and Dad were. Other times I don't think we said much of anything. Catch it. Take it out of the glove. Step. Throw.
I loved throwing Paul pop-ups. I'd throw them as high as I possibly could and he'd stand there looking straight up into the evening sky waiting for the ball to come down. Sometimes neighborhood kids wandered over and we'd play running bases. Nobody arranged it. Kids appeared, something started, and eventually everybody disappeared again.
Dark was a relative term. Some nights we kept going until you could barely see the ball. Other nights homework probably ended it. I don't remember us ever deciding we were done. At some point, you just were.
Then we got older. Paul got a girlfriend. We got jobs at the court club. He went away to college. Then came careers, marriages, kids, houses and everything else. We played catch less and less until we didn't anymore.
I don't remember the last time we did it. There wasn't some final night when we both knew this was it. One summer evening was simply the last one, and neither of us knew.
I think there is something pretty great about having another guy on the other end of whatever you send over.
Sometimes it's the good stuff. Your kid does something great. Something at work finally goes right. Something happens that is so funny you immediately know who you have to tell. You throw it out there. Somebody catches it, laughs with you, adds something to it and throws it back. The good gets a little bigger.
Then there is the other stuff. Work is a mess. You're worried about your kid. Somebody you love is sick. You screwed something up. You're scared about something or just having a shitty week. That gets thrown out there too.
The guy on the other end doesn't necessarily have an answer. Maybe he says, yeah, that sucks. Maybe he tells you you're full of shit. Maybe he gives you the same look Paul gave me when I sailed a ball 10 feet over his head.
But he catches it. And something comes back.
Sometimes it comes back easy. Sometimes it comes back hard enough to sting a little. Sometimes it's just a laugh or a story that has absolutely nothing to do with what you were talking about five minutes earlier.
The ball never stayed with either one of us for very long. Catch it. Hold it for a second. Throw it back. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Stupid stuff. It all kept moving.
I've been lucky enough to have that with Paul for most of my life, and I've had other guys along the way too. Guys you can sit with over breakfast or stand around with somewhere and talk about absolutely nothing. Then somebody says something. Maybe it's hilarious. Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's something he's been carrying around all week.
Somebody catches it.
I really loved those summer nights. Not the baseball itself. Not whether Paul threw harder or whether I could put a pop-up exactly where I wanted it.
It's the picture of the two of us standing out there as the light disappeared, with something passing back and forth between us.
Catch it.
Throw it back.
Keep it going.
About Greenland Sharks
Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.
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