Dad and Softball and Kids and Beer

I have an image

very clear to me

Of dad.

It’s not sunny,

But we are outside

Playing ‘hotbox’ with dad.

He stands in one spot

Because he can throw and catch anything that comes his way

From one us, without moving.

Unless it gets past him

Then he has one of the little ones run after it and get it for him.

And there goes number 8,

Running up to dad to hug him

Despite the fact the rest of us are in a heated round of hotbox,

Running bases and trying to outrun dad’s arm.

We all have to wait on her to be done

But she’s little and dad isn’t in a hurry for her to be done

Being little.

Finally we play again.

Knowing dad cheats to let the little ones win.

And even though he never drops his Mark V beer,

He hugs,

He throws,

He catches.

While wearing his army fatigues,

cuffed above the boot top

with the elastic bands he wore in the army.

Sporting a five o’clock shadow

That we never see allowed to reach it’s full potential of a beard.


I see him


Father and child and softball and beer.