Last weekend, my family and I made our annual pilgrimage to a small community in northwest Connecticut.
When I was 18 months old, my parents had rented a house there for the summer, seeking an escape from the New York City heat.
The next year, we went back. The following, we went again.
Soon, the tiny enclave became like a second home. I met my two best friends there. I caught my first fish there. I had my first crush there.
But perhaps most importantly, I played my first game of catch there.
As I remember it, I was probably about five years old. My dad had a softball and a couple of old baseball gloves. And there, in the tall, overgrown grass, we threw the ball back and forth.
We played catch damn near every single day when I was a kid.
But then, as I got older, my baseball career ended. And with it, our game of catch.
Time goes unnoticed, until it's the only thing you notice.
In this piece, I shared what happened last Sunday when I unlocked one of the old cabinets, pulled out two gloves, and asked my dad if he wanted to have a catch...
It was just a game of catch. But it was so much more...
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