A Game of Catch: A Flash Fiction

Today’s the day.

It’s seven o’clock, and I can see Dad’s black pickup truck kicking up dust along our street. The road is long and curved like an “L,” with tall oak trees lining the sides. He’s at the top of the L, but I can already hear the rickety engine sputtering.

The sun is a burning red apple in the clear evening sky. The earth’s belly is full with spring rain. I dig my bare feet into the wet soil, standing atop the hill of our front yard, fingers wearing out the baseball in my right hand, leather mitt on the other.

Today’s the day, I think. Today will be different. He won’t be so tired after work.

Behind me, my house stands big and blue—bluer than any crayon in my art box, bluer than the slushies from the corner store. The grass is dark green and up to my knees. Dad hasn’t mowed yet this year. I would do it, but I’m only ten. I can’t push the mower.

I toss the ball high in the air. It pauses for a moment, then plummets. I’m not great at catching, and my mitt’s too big, but I’m happy to have one. Some kids don’t.

The ball nips the end of my glove, then thuds to the ground. It’s okay. Dad didn’t see.

Maybe if I stage a diving grab, he’ll remember how fun this game is? That was a stretch—I can barely catch it standing still. But don’t blame me. We don’t play much anymore.

Dad seems to have forgotten how important fun is. Adults do that. They need reminding.

I scoop up the ball and throw it again, hoping he’s watching. He’d be proud if he saw me catch it.

Blast. The ball drops beside me.

I look to the street. He’s closer now. From the rolled-down window, I hear sad music playing—he listens to that a lot lately.

Things haven’t been good at home.

Dad and Mom don’t laugh anymore. They barely talk unless they’re arguing. Last week, he almost left. He had a bag packed in his truck and kissed us kids goodbye. I’d never seen him cry before.

Dad looks different these days, too. His eyes are bloodshot, with dark rings like a raccoon’s. It’s Mom’s fault, I think. She’s gone a lot. Mostly out with new people. When she’s not home, he can’t sleep. That’s what they argue about. That—and us.

When they come to check on us at night, we pretend to be asleep. But we aren’t. We hear everything.

I throw the ball again. Miss it entirely. But I hardly notice.

Because Dad’s home.

I grab the ball and run down the hill to meet him, my curly blonde hair dancing in the wind.

“Today’s the day!” I shout.

But I can already tell it isn’t.

My excitement disappears, like a dream when you wake.

Dad’s crying again.

He doesn’t look up at first, but I see his eyes—murky like mudwater. His tie hangs loose from his collar. He slumps in front of me.

“Dad,” I say, “what’s wrong?”

He swallows. “I need to talk to you, kid. Things are going to change…very soon.”

He tries to keep going but stops, then grows silent for a long while.

“It’ll be alright, Dad,” I say.

He usually says that to me.

He clears his throat. “Your mom and I talked last night. Things just aren’t the way they used to be. And they won’t ever be again. I’m sorry.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I need to ask you something. This weekend I’ll be looking for a new place. I want it to be nice for you guys. Will you come with me? Your sister has dance. Your brother’s too young.”

I hear everything, but my mouth won’t work. I drop the ball and mitt. The ball rolls down the blacktop.

His words topple in my mind. I feel trapped in a blank white room.

This is real. Dad’s really leaving this time.

If he goes, who’ll make us egg sandwiches while we watch cartoons? Who’ll wake us up to go sledding on school nights? Who’ll play catch with me? 

How can two people love each other and then suddenly not?

Dad wraps me in a hug. He is shaking with sobs.

I don’t blink the tears back. He’s crying, so I know I can, too.

After a while, he kneels, brushing his hair from his face.

“You know, I’ve realized something through all this,” he says. “What really matters.”

He stands, a flicker of his old self returning. “Let’s not worry about all this—just for today. One moment, I’ll go change.”

As he heads inside, I feel guilty. I look down at the ball in the driveway, and the mitt at my feet. They seem childish now.

I think of Dad’s tired face. How short his temper has been. I realize he’s been carrying something heavy. Something I didn’t understand. And I’ve been bugging him to play catch.

The sunk sinks. Crickets sing. Fireflies spark in the grass.

The porch light flicks on. Dad steps out in baggy sweats and a T-shirt. In his hand: a mitt.

I grab mine and race for the ball.

I launch it uphill. It lands short, rolling to his feet.

He picks it up.

“Now,” he says, “I’ll reveal the secret of this game. You ready?”

“Yes!” I say. My insides might explode.

“It’s simple,” he says. “You can’t be afraid of the ball. When it comes at you, stand still. Don’t flinch. Don’t stab at it. Let it come to you.”

The thought was scary. I’d always jumped away. Just in case.

Dad winds up and throws.

For a moment, the ball vanishes in the porch light. I can’t see it.

Then—there it is.

I don’t flinch. Don’t stab. I raise the mitt.

It slams into the webbing.

I caught it.

“Yes!” Dad cheers. “Just like that!”

We play catch until my arm aches. I catch it again and again. No fear.

“Hold on,” Dad finally says. “We need to remember this day.”

He runs inside, comes back with a camera, and sets it up on the hill.

“Come stand here,” he says. “Quick. We’ve got ten seconds. Smile big.”

I rush beside him. He puts his arm around me. The camera flashes.

“I blinked!” I laugh.

“You always do,” he says.

Then I blinked again. And again. My vision clearing. And then I blinked once more—and forty years had passed.

I didn’t understand the weight of that day. I was ten. I didn’t know how much would change, or how hard it would be to grow up in a broken family.

I went with Dad that weekend to look at the apartment. It had a pool. A playground. But he never got it. Things got messy. He lost his job, and the bills piled up.

He slept on a blow-up mattress in a friend’s trailer for a while. I didn’t see him for a long time.

But things eventually got better.

We played softball every Sunday under the park lights, until he couldn’t anymore. I was the best outfielder on the team, because he taught me the secret.

Dad’s gone now, but not really.

He’s still in my story.

He lived a good life. Everyone respected him. People loved him.

There’s a photo on my fridge—him and me, mitts on, standing in front of the big blue house.