My wife has told me on numerous occasions that I should be a writer, but I guess I never saw how one could make a living with writing unless you were covering a story or were some sort of novelist.  I don’t even like to read, so that was out.  I have written for years, all saved away in a binder or now in this blog.  I had never shared anything I’ve written except for a select few until this thing called the internet came about.  I’m one that gets hit with inspiration often, but is rarely at a place I can jot down my thoughts and just run with them.  I’m not one for making notes and then going back and trying to piece my thoughts together. My undiagnosed ADD prevents that from happening.  No, when I get hit with inspiration, I have to stay in that moment for as long as I can. 

Unfortunately, my inspiration usually comes from the happiest of happy moments and the crappiest of crappy moments.  For example, when my son started the process of looking for a ring because he decided he met the love of his life and wanted to ask her to marry him.  The day he proposed, I sat at home while he was on a beach with her and all I could do was pray he was able to find the words he wanted to say, and he did.  Or when my Dad was in his final stage of life, inspiration poured out, which seeing a story this morning brought up more memories of Dad that I will share here in a bit.  Or when I lost my ‘other dad’ who welcomed me as part of his family so many years ago, giving me another brother and two sisters that mean the world to me.  It’s easy to find inspiration if only to get your feelings out.  It’s a version of therapy in my mind, and let’s face it, with the world we live in now, we can use all the help we can get.

So this morning,  I saw a story on social media about a man that has played catch over 1000 days straight.   The kicker is he has played catch with over 1000 different people.  He remembered playing catch with his Dad and how perfect those moments were because it was either peaceful silence, or a moment to share stories and talk about life.  He met one guy and asked him to play.  After a few minutes, they were sharing stories of playing catch with their Dads as kids and how much that meant to both of them.  He didn’t know the guy but twenty minutes, yet a simple act of throwing a ball back and forth broke the ice for both of them.  And that inspired another bystander to become number 1001. 

When I was a kid, my Dad was already in his forties.  After a hard day at work, he usually liked to come home, change out of his suit, have dinner, then read the evening paper (back when we actually had a morning and evening paper).  But if I came in to the room and asked him to play catch, he didn’t hesitate. For years he’d chase my wild pitches, or lose the ball in his new bi-focal glasses, taking more than a few off the shin.  He’d throw me a knuckleball or a hanging curve and I was so impressed.  When one would get past him, it may lead to a ten minute discussion with the neighbor (who liked reading his evening paper on his back patio while listening to a baseball game on the radio), or picking a few weeds as he made his way back to the driveway. 

Playing catch can solve all the world’s problems.  It sparks conversation even if it’s just about how bad the last throw was. It allows you to release anger by throwing the ball as hard as possible. It can make you laugh as you chase a passed ball into the field.  It can bring about the greatest of daydreams, imagining you’re pitching in the World Series, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and it’s up to you to put  the game away.

Playing catch can build relationships.  I never felt as close to my Dad as when we were playing catch.  And for my own sons, only one really enjoyed playing catch, but I loved the times of trying to get comfortable in a catcher’s squat or sitting on a five gallon bucket hoping I can get out of the way if he threw one short.  Watching him try to throw a curve without breaking his arm or how he used his imagination when I threw him a grounder and he would pick it up like an all star short stop that made the perfect throw to first for the out.  He might have stumbled, but in his mind, you could see he was avoiding the baserunner trying to break up a double play.

In college, I remember a few times playing catch with a friend.  Those rounds of catch were moments that helped us both figure out life at that point in time.  We’d bounce ideas around regarding studying, life after graduation, and of course, girls. My friend took up lacrosse and wanted to work on throwing and catching.  He had one stick, so I used my trusty Rawlings glove I’ve had since the beginning of time. Funny how years later, I ended up coaching lacrosse. 

If I have grandchildren, first thing I want to get them is a glove.  I want to oil it up like I was taught, run over it with the car, and make it fit like, well, a glove.  I hope when they come see ‘Pops’, they ask if I’m up for playing catch.  I don’t care if my arm is dangling from my shoulder, I will find a way to make that time if only to create memories that I hope they hold on to forever, just like I have.  A simple game, catch, but oh so powerful!