Our son shifted his weight in the outfield grass, pounding his leather glove.

When the batter swung and hit a high pop fly, our son backpedaled quickly, raised his glove, and caught the ball for the first out.

Walt clapped his hands together with a loud crack.

“That’s how you track a fly ball right there!” Walt yelled toward the field.

I turned my head slightly to look at my father-in-law.

He was smiling wide, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He looked completely at ease.