Nowadays, Even Father-Son Time Has a Catch

Image source: John Wong Photography via AllPosters.com

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t's one of those potentially perfect evenings in the middle of August, a darkening blue blanket chasing the sun toward the horizon, a warm breeze crawling gently through the grass. A father and son play a relaxed game of catch, not exchanging many words, not needing to. The child is perhaps 10 years old -- old enough to keep the ball from slipping out of his brown leather glove, young enough that he still enjoys the simple thrill of throwing a stitched sphere of cork back and forth.

The ball skies overhead in a towering parabola. Soon it will slam with a thud into the boy's well-worn glove. Soon it will zip eagerly back toward the father, each time carrying with it an intangible scrapbook of fond childhood memories. And soon the mosquitoes will have their turn to frolic about in the twilight air, and their would-be victims will sneak off into the night to fetch root beer floats at a nearby parlor.

The youthful father's next toss soars into the air, higher than the one before it. But the ball, not seconds ago a bonding baton, is now a distraction device. As the boy scrambles to get under it, the father reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a small contraption -- one that will put him in touch with people other than his son. The scene is a 21st century twist on a timeless tradition, a modern mangling of an otherwise heart-melting moment.

Words are sprayed calmly and carelessly into the phone, maybe to a wife, maybe to a friend, maybe to a business partner. The father holds out his glove, gesturing that he can still catch with one hand. His child obliges, returning the ball to what might as well be a catch-playing robot. Now, though, the ball lingers in the father's glove, his throwing hand busy holding the phone to his ear.

"Dad!" the boy hollers, at first sounding more eager than upset. He waits a few moments more, becoming slightly less patient with each moment his father's conversation doesn't cease. "Come on!" The father appears to hear his son's plea, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his throwing hand. His mind is still elsewhere.

Even against the beams of man-made light shining from the poles that surround the field, darkness reigns. The phone call ends. So does the game of catch. "Time to go," the father says quietly, not having to compete with many other sounds. "OK," the boy replies, removing his glove and heading toward the car as his father, with the benefit of longer strides, makes up for the distance that existed between the two during their game.

Car doors open and shut. An engine starts. The child is too excited about ice cream and soda to think about it, but somewhere inside he feels let down. Like a runner stranded at third base at the end of an inning, he's almost home, yearning for what could have been, his potentially perfect evening disappearing into a black web of mosquitoes and cellphone signals.