I can’t remember if I was 8 or 9 when my dad started playing catch with me. I’m fairly certain I had a hand-me-down glove, even though I’m the oldest. Dad has 7 brothers and sisters.

I remember spending many days and evenings on the front lawn, Dad trying to teach me to pitch windmill. Back and forth, the smack of the glove often stinging my hand from Dad’s heavy throw. He certainly never went easy on me.

I remember playing on a girls’ team, my parents often too busy to stay and watch, but would pick me up later. Once though, they forgot. I walked what seemed like to me, miles home, crying, thinking they didn’t care. It has haunted me for a long time.

Did I mention I was, and still am, a sensitive kid?

And so it went.

I lost interest in the game as I grew up, I realize now, perhaps because of that experience.

Dad still never went easy on me. He is the eldest of 8, and he learned the oldest has to “set the example”. I also got that inheritance.

As an adult, I picked the game up again, on a recreational league. I played on the same co-ed team for a decade. Though relationships would come and go (the rule of the team was, the person who joined the team first, got to stay, if a couple broke up, which sadly happened a few times). I still fondly remember how many laughs and good times we had playing. It was a rec league but as the team gelled with every passing year, our competitive spirit grew. We got to be pretty good.

Life changed. My marriage split and I decided to move, go back to school and start over. It was the 10th year and we had a big celebration and send off. I was an hour away from my team and still managed to make it for about 75 percent of our games but life took over and it wasn’t possible.

My new city had very competitive leagues, rec leagues they wanted you to try out for. I just didn’t have that in me and I had to dedicate time to doing well in school, and putting my life back together.

A few times since, friends have asked me to play on co-ed teams but I lacked confidence after not picking up a ball or glove for almost 15 years now.

But recently, I’ve had a renewed interest in the game.

I’ve attended a few London Majors games and even watched and followed the Jays on TV, the radio and on my phone of all things!

You see, through the years Dad and I grew apart. I guess I was what you might call “Daddy’s Little Girl” although I didn’t feel like it at the time. When Mom and Dad split, I didn’t get the same treatment anymore, and that upset me greatly. Made me sad really. Mostly because as I grew up I realized how many great things I got from my dad.

So on this day, the 175th anniversary of the very first ball game ever played, which took place not far from me in Beachville, Ontario, I got an idea.

I called up my dad, who now lives in New Brunswick with his “other family”, and asked if he will be back in Ontario this summer. To my delight he actually WAS planning a trip west. I asked him if he would like to join me for a Jays game. I think I felt his heart sing, as did mine. I told him I was remembering today about having a catch with him and how much I missed it. He told me what a great player he always thought I was.

We’re going to a game.

He was never easy on me, but that taught me how to get through hard times, times I thought I might give up.

I can’t wait to have a catch with Dad, just he and I, and enjoying a game.