H.A.C.

With the start of the baseball season, you will find many Dads, Moms, daughters and sons on lawns throughout America doing what I loved to do when I was a kid. Go “have a catch.” (Or as we referred to it, “H.A.C.”)

My brother and I would spend hours each day warming up our arms all with the intent of throwing curves, knucklers, and fastballs to one another. Although we only dreamed of taking it to a higher level, there was not a chance this would happen, we won many World Series games out on our front lawn. This was how we grew up during the springs and summers in St. Louis.

I have many memories of these times, but a few come to mind that I think are worth telling in “Snap.Shot.”

The first was on a Saturday; I was pitching to my Dad, who is really a “lefty” but due to my brother and I being “righty’s,” he used a glove made for a right-handed thrower. Before I wound up, I told my Dad I was going to throw a curve ball. Now, I know my Dad’s hearing is not what it used to be, but this was more than 35 years ago and I think it was in pretty good shape back then.

As I wound up, gripped the ball to place the proper spin on it, it left my hand with beautiful rotation. The ball spun through the air and headed to the catcher’s mitt waiting on my Dad’s left hand. He was following it, and it broke from its height of one level, downward as most curve balls do. However, he was not ready and it smacked him right in the forehead. I heard the thud. As the ball rolled toward me, I knew he had gotten it, and it had to hurt. I ran up asking, “Dad are you okay?” and noticed an “imprint” of the seams of the ball, from where it him, on his forehead. They were literally planted right above the eyebrow and below the hairline. Luckily he was okay, but that was the end of pitching for the day.

One other time, my brother and I were playing catch and “somehow” a throw went from our yard to our neighbor’s yard. Not a big deal of course, but his throw was so wild it broke the glass of our neighbor’s gas lamp located in their front yard. (These were a decorative part of every home where we grew up, however most no longer work.) Of course, since I am the younger brother, I had to go explain what happened. It was my fault according to my brother, because I missed the ball. (He was just as logical back then as he is today.)

The photo above is the first basemen’s “mitt” we used when I was growing up. The big difference is the ball in the glove. This ball was used by my niece who played softball for many years. I have played catch with her, as well as all of my daughters, and it brought back great memories. My son, well, that’s a different story---baseball was not his thing. I am really happy it’s spring, I am not a fan of winter, and when I walked home from the train last night, I saw a Dad and his daughter playing catch. The memories of “H.A.C.” came roaring back---and if my brother were not 300 miles away I am sure we would be out on the lawn playing catch.

Thanks for stopping by.