Yesterday, my sons and I played an impromptu game of baseball in our backyard. We hit the ball, we ran, we cried, we slid, we tagged people out, and we had temper-tantrums. About halfway through the 3rd quarter of the final round of the game, I was ahead by approximately four goals (I believe in baseball parlance they’re called “touchdowns”). Tall was sulking, as he tends to do when he is not the best at something (I wonder where he gets that from?), when suddenly, out of nowhere, he lunged for an impossible pop-fly.
As if magnetically led by gravity, magic, and Lotto-winning luck, the ball went right into Tall’s little paw where it remained in his Velcro-like grip.
“Mom!” he screamed. “Mom! I caught it!” His face lit up like a thousand gazillion Christmas trees when you are just testing the lights to see if they work. His skills were a remarkable triumph of catching, and even better, not letting go.
And then I heard him say it …
“Does that mean I score an extra point, Mom? Because I thought I remembered something about a point for catching the ball. Because catching is hard.”