Catch

Sometimes I feel like we are playing a game of catch. Catch requires a minimum of two people working together to create a flow of catch and release. We throw the ball differently each time—although the people that do it for a living have a machine-like precision—which usually requires the other person to adjust. (Now, bear with me as I try explain this silly little metaphor which is actually more of a picture in my head that popped in there a few years ago and some reason had lay dormant until now.)

Suppose we are playing this game with our dad for the first time. He is ever patient with us, encouraging us so that we do not despair and give up. We look stupid as we fumble the ball and drop it the first million times he throws it to us. He says, “Don’t worry about it son, have your hands ready and keep your eye on the ball” as he throws it so that it requires little of us to actually catch it. When kids first learn they have to develop their reflexes—how many of us have seen kids grab at the ball in the air after it’s already landed? Then we learn what to do with our hands, you cannot have them stiff otherwise either your fingers get jammed and hurt for weeks or it just bounces off. They have to be relaxed and yet ready to snap, grab, and cradle at the right moment.

Once we get the hang of it—you know, when we get really good and there is not much that can wipe that huge grin off of our face—he changes it up a little. He starts throwing it at different distances with more or less power and speed. We go, “what am I supposed to do now?” as the ball no longer lands in our hands but five feet in front of us. Soon we begin to figure it out, “oh, I actually have to move to the ball now.” This makes it all the more complex, having to figure out how to factor in all of these things—you know, wind chill factor, not running into trees, not tripping on roots or sprinklers, and so on and so forth. Then to make things worse—or better?—he throws it harder and it comes at you faster than you can say ouch and it hurts more than a dozen bee stings. As your hands swell and throb he then throws so high up that you cannot help but wince as you squint into the sun and can only hope it does not hit you in the face.

Then he says, “Go long!” And off we run.



Why am I so rigid?

Why are my legs so stiff?

Why is it like my feet have buried themselves underneath the grass and have taken root?

Why am I so reticent?

Why can’t you throw the ball right to me where I want it?

You mean I have to run? But I’m tired, my hands sting, my lungs burn, my legs feel like they are going to give out—or rather, they will if I choose to go for it. What do you mean I can do it? How do you know? What? You’ve done it? You’ve been in my place and know how it is? Is that how you are so patient and good at coaching me along in this?



He knows what we are capable of and thus pushes us beyond what we though we could do. It is hard for me to believe that he knows these things, but I have to. I have to just believe that my little legs will take me the distance, the only thing spurring me on is his voice. In the end, I want to know that I ran as hard as I could to try and make the catch to make him happy. He knows how much I can handle and if I do not make it, maybe I did not push hard enough. I do know that when I trip on my own feet or get clothes-lined by a branch or just plain screw it up that he loves me all the same. Then when I am sweaty and thirsty, “hey, good job out there, lets get some lemonade.”