Quaint houses painted bland colors surrounded me. Trees shielded the concrete cul de sac from the bright sunshine, and practical family cars lined the shady street.
“Keep your arm inside, and don’t over-rotate when you throw.”
Tucking my elbow under my arm, I hurled the football and examined it soaring through the air. Man, my shoulder hurts. To distract myself from the pain, I focused on catching the perfect spiral toss that came back from the other side of the quiet cul de sac.
“You okay? We can stop,” my dad suggested nervously. This response was no surprise to me. Getting injured and potentially threatening my basketball career was just not an option for my dad.
Despite the pain, my immediate thought was Hell no. This was the first time in months that my father and I had enjoyed each other’s company. No way was I going to ruin it. I mustered up the brightest smile I could, adding two thumbs up for good measure.
“I’m good. Gotta get this spiral down!”
I again went through the routine of tucking my elbow, rotating my shoulder back, and letting the ball fly. It loosely spiraled through the air and plopped onto the street about three feet short of my father. He strolled over and picked it up with one hand, fluidly moving it to his right pointer finger where he tightly spun the ball. It was mesmerizing.
“We get it, Dad; you’re a better football player than I am.”
He laughed his husky, fake laugh. Although the laugh was fake, the smiled that followed was the truest thing I had seen from my father in a long time. A wide grin with a sharp contrast between beaten-up teeth and a splotchy black beard with gray patches. A sincere smile.
Although the agony of an overused shoulder haunted me every time I threw the ball to my dad, I would not allow this moment to end. My dad and I were genuinely happy. Not the pretend kind of happy, where you fake laugh and smile and act like you’re enjoying yourself when really you’d like to be anywhere else. This was genuine, sweaty, painful happiness, and I couldn’t get enough. It was as if we had been stuck under a weight of guilt and pain, and had finally come up for air. The lack of expectations in this game of catch with my dad allowed me to feel that I wasn’t a disappointment in his eyes.
Not every relationship is perfect. Disagreements are inevitable. My father and I often argued about my eating habits and how those translated to my athletic career. Sometimes, he used passive-aggressive guilt tactics.
“How much of that trail mix have you eaten?”
“Um … I don’t know. A couple handfuls.”
“Oh, okay. Just wondering.”
Other times, when he didn’t have the patience to see if I would understand and oblige his demanding hints, he would lay it on me without compassion.
“You shouldn’t be eating that trail mix. It’s only going to hurt your game.”
“Dad, chill out. Trail mix is good for you.”
“There are better things you can eat. You don’t want to be sluggish on the court!”
These petty arguments began to take a toll on us. Eventually, the arguments turned into silence, and the silence turned into distance.
For two years, I allowed distance to grow between my father and me. It felt like I could never do anything right in his eyes, so I stopped trying. However, in this moment of throwing the football with him, I realized that the distance could cost us our relationship. The happiness that radiated from his smile closed the distance and ended the silence that had strangled our relationship.
These rare moments of pure bliss are the sole reason we don’t give up on our relationship. They encourage us to mend things and find our way back to each other. I found my way back to my dad. A worn-down, scuffed-up 1987 Wilson football helped me.