Between Innings

The yard was still laughing when the sun went down last night.

It’s funny how a field holds sound. The sharp pop of leather, a ball cutting through the air, the thud of a grounder skipping across grass. Even when the game pauses, those sounds linger in the air like they’re waiting for the next throw.

This morning started warm and foggy.

The kind of fog that softens the edges of everything. Grass damp underfoot. The faint smell of leather and dirt still clinging to yesterday’s work. A quiet haze that makes the world feel smaller for a little while.

Fog like that hides weight that should be there. Something heavy just beyond sight. Like a field before the first pitch, or the calm before something important begins.

So you don’t stare into it too long.

You just keep moving.

Last night the boys and I played catch as the light started fading.

We ran bucket drills first. The kind that build instincts one repetition at a time. Then we drifted into a game I used to play when I was their age.

We called it 200.

It’s the beginner’s version of 500, the game my dad taught my brothers and me on spring and summer nights. The kind of game that stretches long past dinner while a radio hums somewhere in the background and the smell of a barbecue drifts through the yard.

Last night I realized I wasn’t just teaching them a game.

I was handing them a piece of my own childhood.

A piece of the nights spent outside with my dad. The sound of gloves snapping open. The feeling of grass under bare feet. The laughter that came when someone missed a catch and the whole game had to reset.

Some games travel forward through generations.

They move through small moments.

Through throws.

Through stories.

Through kids who don’t even realize they’re holding something that started decades before them.

Jacob and David are very different players.

Jacob thinks through everything. He watches the ball like he’s solving a puzzle in midair. His throws come out straight and precise, like an arrow leaving a bow.

David doesn’t calculate.

He commits.

Every throw from him carries the force of someone who believes the ball should simply arrive where it’s going.

One has the accuracy of a skilled archer.

The other throws like a cannon.

And last night they pushed each other the whole time.

There was one moment that broke the entire yard into laughter.

A ground ball took a bad hop and caught Jacob square in the face.

He barely had time to react.

Before any of us could process it, another ball came screaming back his way while he was still recovering. He dove hard to try and stop it and ended up eating dirt for his effort.

For a split second everything froze.

Then Jacob stood up.

I told him, “Well, I guess we’ve learned something tonight. You’re not afraid to stop a ball with your face.”

He laughed immediately.

David had been sprinting toward him to check if he was hurt, but the moment he saw Jacob laughing he came to a dead stop and started laughing too.

The whole yard followed.

Still, laughter doesn’t cancel fatherhood.

I spent the rest of the night checking on him every few minutes. Making sure he was really okay. Looking in on him long after the lights were out.

Sometimes laughter hides the pain well enough that you have to look closer.

That’s part of the job.

Somewhere between those throws and those quiet checks, something else clicked into place for me.

Learning again feels different when you bring a life with you.

The new semester started this week. Religion, pluralism, anthropology. Soon I’ll be interviewing an archaeologist as part of the work.

One of the things I’m planning to talk about is a documentary that shaped my curiosity years ago.

The Box of Treasures.

It was one of the first times I saw history not as dates and names, but as people whose voices were still waiting to be heard.

That idea stayed with me.

The desire to understand those who came before us. To learn their stories. To figure out the why and the when and the who. To listen carefully enough that we can carry those voices forward.

In some ways, that work is not so different from a game in the yard.

We inherit pieces of the past.

We study them.

We pass them on.

And the story keeps moving.

Lately I’m starting to see this season of life a little differently.

For a long time it felt like everything was uphill. Every step another climb. Another challenge waiting just around the corner.

Now it feels quieter than that.

Not finished.

Not easy.

But aligned.

Much of the hard work is beginning to show its results. The pieces are starting to settle together. School, family, work, the small rhythms of the days.

There are still things to fix. Still kinks to work out. Sometimes the stream refuses to start or the plan shifts unexpectedly.

But we’re not drowning.

We’re practicing.

The fog will lift eventually.

In the meantime, there is work to do.

Gloves to break in.

Balls to throw.

Stories to learn.

And kids in the yard who are becoming something stronger every day.

I’m beginning to realize that not every season of life is about arrival. Some seasons exist for practice. For repetition. For quiet preparation that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. A foggy morning can make the world feel smaller, but it also sharpens your attention to what is right in front of you. The grass. The leather. The laughter of kids chasing a ball into the fading light. Those moments might look small in the moment, but they are the ones that build the strength for whatever game comes next.

No answers yet.
Just attention.

This is where I’m writing from today.

Grounded.
Hopeful.
Still practicing.