Catch

He waited for the explosion of familiar pain to shoot from his elbow down to his fingertips causing them to tingle. The ball arched through the shadows back through the sun and into his glove with the satisfying thwack of leather on leather. He made the familiar transfer from glove to throwing hand, brought his arm back and sent the ball on a tight line back to the target and waited for the pain. Still, it did not come.

            It had been four years, maybe five, since he had picked up a ball or put on his glove. He’d dreamed of throwing, dreamed of playing, but hadn’t ever found a partner, or the courage to find a league of some sort. 

            He loved the game, would have played it any form; softball, wiffle ball, stick ball, it wouldn’t have mattered, he took so much joy from playing. 

            He’d never been good, but that didn’t matter now. The motion felt natural. It felt right. It felt like a piece of him that had been missing. It wasn’t a behavior or an action he needed to relearn. Every time the ball hit his glove, it was in his hand in an instant, his fingers, crossing the red laces, arm back, body moving forward, fingertips giving the leather a last push as the ball spun towards its recipient.

            They moved back, testing their older bodies, pushing arms that had lain dormant for years. They smiled at one another, at the easy camaraderie, at the familiar ebb and flow as the ball made its way through the air. Everything disappeared around them and it was just the sound of leather on leather.

            When they came together they spoke of the pain.

            “It doesn’t feel bad at all,” he’d said.

            “Wait until tomorrow,” he answered.