Happy Father’s Day to all you fine folks that answer to the call of “Dad” or whatever brand of call your children have settled on. I spent the first part of my father’s day watching my son play in a tennis tournament in Mitchell, South Dakota. Then around high noon we loaded on the bus and headed back to Rapid City to cover the 275 miles in time to make our 5 o’clock double-header baseball game.

It seemed like a good idea to take up the tennis coach’s offer of riding with him and the team to the tournament on the bus. I thought since I wouldn’t have to drive I’d have some time to nap and read a bit while enjoying a leisurely ride to Mitchell. It has been a few years since I’ve ridden on a school bus, there is nothing leisurely about lumbering down the highway in those grain bins on wheels.

I thought longingly of the comfort of my car as I sat bolt upright, continuously shifting about trying to find comfort, but having to settle on varying levels of discomfort while simmering in a small vat of my own sweat. Thankfully it was loud enough in that rattle trap that I couldn’t hear myself complain. The kids all seemed to find some variation of body positioning that allowed them undisturbed sleep. Apparently, teenage bodies have a wider variety of comfort settings than this later model.

We made it back to Rapid City in time to get our uniforms on and head for the ballpark. My son, Jackson, and I are teammates on the Drillers, an amateur baseball team in the Black Hills Amateur Baseball League. We didn’t have a team last year, and I thought my baseball career had finally come to a close, but here we are…back on the field. The things we do for our kids.

I play right field and Jackson plays second base. Right field is about as far away from the action as I can get without sitting in the stands, which is my plan for next summer.

I’m sure I’ve shared this story with you before, but when I was about 12 I went with my dad to one of his softball games in Columbus. Columbus’s field had those old wooden grandstands, pert near a major league ballpark to me. I always liked going with to dad’s games to chase foul balls, play a little catch, and of course watch my dad play ball. Dad played left field, and he dove for a ball down the left field foul line, and was a bit slow getting up.

He walked back to his position, and as he stood there I remember thinking, “I don’t think his left shoulder normally hangs that much lower than the right.” He waited for Martin Halverson (the barber) to throw a few more pitches, and then called time and slowly came off the field. It ended up being a grade-three shoulder separation, and put him in a brace for the remainder of the summer.

During our game on Father’s Day, I dove for a ball in right field, and when I not so gently descended to the ground, I felt and heard quite a racket from various parts of my body that were voicing their objection to such foolery. As I stood up the vision of my Dad standing in the outfield in Columbus rushed into my mind. Jackson yelled out to me, “Are you all right?” I wanted to shake my head up and down, but left and right seemed much closer to reality.

“Reality”. In reality I am going to be 45 next month. In reality I have no business trying to make a diving catch. In reality I stood alone in right field afraid to take stock of the end results of my stupidity. Thankfully the cosmos decided to just deal me a bit of a warning shot, perhaps a Father’s Day gift. In the end I fared better than my dad, probably a bit less than a grade-one shoulder sprain, nothing a little time won’t heal. Nothing a little acting my age won’t prevent from occurring again.

It’s hard to act your age on a baseball field. Maybe it’s time?