when i was a kid, i came home from school one day with a mission: teach my mom how to pitch balls to me so i could play baseball. with the enthusiasm only a child can muster, i explained the game to her, my excitement bubbling over with every word. we spent about an hour in our backyard, me miming pitches and trying to show her how to throw. she tried, but after countless failed attempts, she finally threw in the towel. it just wasn’t clicking for her. not ready to give up my dream, i scavenged around, trying to create a makeshift tee. that attempt failed spectacularly. with a sigh, i moved on to something else—probably obsessing over jason priestley, my pre-teen heartthrob.

flash forward to last father’s day. my bonus dad was outside, his laughter echoing through the yard as he pitched balls to my son. my husband, with a mischievous grin, decided to pitch a couple to me. the moment was light, unexpected. to both our surprise, i CRACKED the ball harder and farther than anyone imagined. there was a stunned silence, then cheers. so, he pitched another. and another. an hour and a half later, i was completely blissed out, lost in the sheer joy of the game. we were all marveling at my raw talent, this hidden skill no one had known about. my mom stood nearby, her eyes sparkling with laughter and nostalgia, reminiscing about the time i tried to make her play with me.

father’s day has been tricky since my dad passed. the day often felt like a wound reopened. but that day, something shifted. the act of hitting those pitches, the laughter of my family around me, the simple joy of the game—it healed a part of me. the little girl who just wanted to play ball, who missed her dad so fiercely, found some peace. it was as if, in that moment, surrounded by love and laughter, i reconnected with a piece of my past, a piece of my dad. and for the first time in a long time, father’s day felt like a celebration again.