SPEAK
Father and son, glove and ball
Five-year-old Asher and his father, Robert, taking a break from playing catch in spring 1992.
How a simple game made all the difference
Contributed photo
What I remember best is the sound the ball made as it tore through the air, growing louder and louder in the milliseconds before the sphere wrapped itself in the webbing of my glove.
There are other snapshots of young life I cling to. I cherish the nights spent sneaking into the same R-rated movie over and over again with friends. I savor the lessons learned from my rudimentary teenage relationships. Nothing can replace the thrill of burning through the streets of Wichita at age 15 with my attention fully devoted to the radio. All the late weekend nights spent playing guitar in a community
Contributed photo
Asher and his father connected with each other through baseball.The two lived together at his father's parents' house and an apartment before moving into a house in 1992.
center or dive bar I still hold close.
But what I remember best are two simple motions; throw and catch.
It started in the fields behind my grandparents' house. In the days that turned to weeks after my parents' divorce, my dad took up residence with his parents and we escaped to the couple of open acres every few days. Most of the time, I stayed with my mom in the house that used to be our family's home. But sometimes my dad would pick me up and we'd spend an afternoon working on the basics. At age 5, I was dead set on the idea that a double occurred when a batted ball ended up anywhere near second base.
Luckily, I was coachable.
My dad isn't a baseball dad. He doesn't battle chronic elbow pain from overuse or bear scars earned turning double plays at second base. He can't recite the rulebook verbatim or critique a pitcher's mechanics.
I got into the game on my own when I started collecting trading cards—the 1991 Topps Atlanta Braves set pulled me in. I spent evenings belly-down on the floor, poring over batting averages and forcing my dad into excruciating rounds of Tom Glavine trivia.
When my dad moved from his parents' house to a two-bedroom apartment on the southeast edge of Wichita, we took the zip of the ball and the crisp pop of the glove to the complex's brown-grass courtyard.
By that time, my family life was scheduled. I spent part of each Tuesday and Thursday evening and every other weekend with my dad. It felt like going on a tiny vacation every time. Or a weekend-long slumber party. We made the most of each minute by staying up late, eating bad food and building my Baseball Tonight addiction.
The weeknights always felt the best because they were so fleeting. We'd play until the sun hid behind the building on the west end of our courtyard. We pulled as many ground balls, pop-ups and pitches as we could from the escaping daylight. When the sun disappeared, my dad drove
me 15 minutes back to my mom's house, which meant bedtime and school were fast approaching.
Later that year, my dad bought a house. I didn't get to see him any more often, but our new and improved venue made Tuesday and Thursday evenings all the more exciting.
Our backyard was just the right size and shape. One side of the yard extended farther than the other, just like Yankee Stadium. Ivy covered the far fence, just like Wrigley Field. My arm eventually outgrew our yard, so we took our games either to a baseball field two blocks east, or to College Hill Park, a vast expanse of rolling green made for chasing fly balls.
Sometimes we let the seams' zip and the leather's snap speak alone for 30 minutes at a time. But sometimes we talked while we threw the ball back and forth. We talked about places we wanted to vacation and which restaurant sounded best for dinner.
We talked about what it would be like if I could see him more often—if visitation could be split equally.
We made it happen. We had to visit a mediator and wade through a legal mess, but in a year's time, I was swapping weeks between my parents' houses.
During the weeks at my mom's house I ate square meals, kept rational hours and did my homework. During the weeks with my dad, I ate fast food, stayed up late and had one hell of a good time by any 14-year-old's standards.
My dad still isn't a baseball fan. He tries to take interest when we talk about my work covering sports, but he's an engineer in heart and mind.
That's what's most special. We didn't play because of his desire to live vicariously through me. We played for the ebb and the flow, the zip and the pop.The feelings and the sounds of togetherness.
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September 11,2008