It was a Norman Rockwell moment – Americana: A father and son playing catch.
I was young. I had shoved my left hand into a birthday present — a new baseball mitt. I stood there, glove up, ready. How hard could it be to catch a ball?
Well, it was harder than I thought. Even harder was the ball. The spinning cowhide sailed over the top of my mitt, which I held up right in front of my face.
At least I kept my eye on the ball. I think it was the left eye, rapidly swelling shut.
I don't remember the pain of getting a black eye. The agony I felt was shame. I missed the ball. I failed.
And there's the real rub: I let my dad down.
Fathers and sons. I think about these things when Father's Day comes and goes.
I spent many years trying to make my dad proud. Trying to catch that ball.
Fathers and sons. Both grow and learn from each other.
I have three sons. Like most dads, I tried to teach as best I could. It's not always a how-to moment. I think we absorb our fathers.
I find myself fixing things around the house, grabbing a tool because it's the right tool, and it has a name and I know the name. And I wonder, "How do I know this?"
It had to be Dad.
So, on Father's Day, we say, "Thanks Dad." And, if he's no longer there to open the card, we say it anyway … to ourselves.
But it's also a good time to remember to tell our sons -- and daughters -- that we are proud of them.
Especially when they drop the ball.
I’m Lonny Cain, and that’s my perspective