It has often been the tradition,

Of Father and Son,

To play catch with each other,

A simple game that improves,

The easiest of coordinations,

Is achieved through this simple game.

 

The Father is the initiator,

He starts ever so simply,

With a soft underhand toss,

His aim is true,

He does so with an ever practiced hand,

He has fond memories of his father,

His father performed this play with him when he was a boy.

 

The ball sails through the air,

And with a soft whap,

It makes its home in the Son’s glove,

And there it sits in the young boy’s glove,

The Father signals for his son to toss it back.

 

The Son sees how his father has distanced himself,

He tries to emulate the pros on T.v.,

He pulls back for a full wind up,

As his father’s distance seems impossibly far,

And at his full wind,

He released his pitch.

 

The Father sees the act of the wind up,

He thinks that it is cute that his Son wants to be a pro,

It is then that his reflexes are too slow,

The Son releases the ball,

For the seven feet that the ball travels,

The Father’s reflexes fail to protect,

That which is precious to him.

 

And thus another game of catch is ended,

The Father has ended the game,

The same way that his father had ended their games,

With a call to Mom,

And a bag of ice.