Last night I had a catch with my middle boy.
He’s 13 now, and we’ve had catches in the spring most years that he’s been able to hold a baseball in one hand. Well, maybe with the exception of those two years we lived in Alaska. I think maybe the weather kept us from having a real catch until technical summer.
We lined up with my back to the grill, where I could sneak over and turn the chops in between throws. He was out toward the southern fence.
The first throw hit my glove right in the palm, where the leather is thin, and your palm can really feel the contours of the ball.
It popped, loudly, with that pleasurable sound of leather on leather that sound equivalent of the smell of fresh-cut-grass or peanuts or cheap beer and hot dogs.
The sound of baseball.
Continue reading A Good Kind of Pain
I stopped in to the bar on my way home from work to finish up a couple of emails.
Bringing work home with me, especially work that stresses me out, is against whatever rules I’ve set up for myself.
I ordered an IPA from Michigan and sat sipping the thick, frothy top off a malty, hoppy bomb of a beer minding my own business.
I know the owner, Dave, well, and we shot the shit for a little while, as we do. I got the lay of the beer board and finished up my emails.
For a few minutes, I sat there, silently, just soaking in the dark wood, the sounds of the pin ball games and Operation Ivy’s “Unity” playing on the sound system.
Continue reading The Blacksmith