Early 1960’s. Its evening and dinner is over. The back door opens. Its dark outside and I want to play baseball. Out the back door, my glove in hand I run down to end of the lawn – the hot corner, third base, where the lawn, meets the trees. The lights are on, just like at the real baseball stadium shining bright from the outfield in my eyes. Dad is at the other end with glove in one hand and bat in the other. Crack, the ground balls rocket off Dad’s bat and my throws to his 1940’s first baseman’s glove follow, over and over till I either miss one and the ball gets lost in the trees (even the one signed by Sandy Koufax that Dad got signed at Connie Mack stadium) or the night air gets cold and misty. Game over. Time to go inside and go to bed. Dad, we’ll play again tomorrow? I will be waiting for you. So will I.