It was the simplest of games.
My dad, Dusty, stood at one end of our backyard. I stood at the other end, next to my brother, Steve. My dad threw us grounders, hot choppers, line drives and popups. He was the first baseman, catcher and announcer.
“St. Louis up 3-2 in the ninth … long flyball to Lou Brock in left … he tracks it down. Out! The Cardinals win!”
A perfect ending to a perfect summer evening. The memory lingers and grows sweeter with time.
Baseball’s father-and-son love affair runs deep and the current is strong.