My son and I are playing catch. At six he can catch it often enough and throw it more or less to me. My wife bought him a starter glove and a hardball (not quite a baseball, but it makes a smack when it lands.) My wife dug my old glove out from somewhere, it hasn't been used in at least 15 years. The signature on it is Robin Yount (great Brewers shortstop back in the 1980s.)
I toss it to him gently, underhanded. Sometimes I forget myself and throw it a little too hard. I cringe, but he surprises me, cooly stopping it before it slams him in the face.
My daughter, for once, has relinquished the soap bubble pipe and is letting my wife create giant spheres. My daughter shrieks with joy as she chases them across our sun-dappled backyard.
Soon my wife and our children, who inherited her sweet blood, will feel the effects of the mosquito assault. Tomorrow I will wake up with tense shoulders and wonder if I need arthroscopic surgery (like Tommy John had back when I was a kid.)
But not quite yet.