Popcorn, beer, and fans in blue surrounded us. Summer sun was beating down; a cool wind comforted us; and the crowd roared when a homerun soared over the back wall.
His face glowed with hope and joy as we sat: My son and I perched in the Bronx.
He knew that I didn’t like staying for a full game, but he asked me, “Dad, can we stay till the end?”
Usually, I said no, giving a reason like we needed to get home to do something important.
But a realization slapped me, hard. And it was this. The only summer I have with my son as a five-year-old is ending.
“Make the most of it, fool,” I thought to myself.
Making as many happy memories as I could with him became my aim, doing the things he wanted, even if they went against what I preferred.
So we stayed.
The innings were exciting. But witnessing the wonder and excitement in his eyes brought me the greatest joy. My son smiled, cheered, clapped, and laughed. And I couldn’t help but join him.
And I found myself not wanting to leave the game even after the last out.
But we both left satisfied, hand-in-hand—father and son.
John Pa 