Four Square

My dad and I never played ball. When I say "never" I don't mean once a year during the warm sun of the late Spring family reunion or only when a rare sick day kept him away from second or third shift labors at the factory. I mean never. I'm not sure why, except that Dad's favorite place seemed to be his tan recliner with its long wooden arm sticking out its side like the not-quite-right relation of a slot machine. If Dad wasn't working, he was home, and if home he was in his chair, remote in hand; whether asleep or not a more interesting question.

I knew as a child that other fathers played ball with their sons. My cousin Robbie lived a couple streets away, and I'd seen his father and him tossing whiffle balls and swinging large plastic bats in the fields behind the high school. To my knowledge, Robbie's father always initiated these outings. So I was surprised when I was playing with some legos in the family room one afternoon, the professional wrestlers pretending to beat each other on television, when Dad said without turning his head, "Why don't you go outside? You're not like the other boys, Chris. You don't go out and play ball." If I'm weird, I thought, it's because you made me this way.

Now my father lives with me and a few weeks ago as the first pleasant days of Spring arrived he and I stood in the driveway watching Hazel and Gabriel play. I played catch with Hazel and gently tossed the ball to Gabriel as he ambled by, which he caught with surprising ease, and he rushed to Dad with mad giggles and more dropped it to him than threw it. Dad picked it up and said, "This would be a good ball for Four Square." I hadn't heard of that game so I asked, and Dad described: a square with twelve foot sides divided in quarters, played like tennis but with your hands. He used to play it in the Army.

And then we were playing. It was fun, and he needs the exercise, so we'll do more of it. Besides, we've got catching up to do.