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Memories Of Fathers And Their Day

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

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