* 1 *

Three more," Dad said, stepping off the mound.

"Make 'em count," I told him, wiggling the bat.

We were on one of the eight ball fields that surrounded the grandstand, the small, half-covered stadium that sat in the middle of Boardman Park. Baseball season started next week, and I needed to shake off the winter rust.

"What do you want?" Dad called. He was tall, like me, but heavy. He was wearing jeans and a faded green Pilchuck High School T-shirt. His hair hung over the top of his ears, like it had for as long as I could remember.

"Whatever you got, old-timer," I said, twisting my toe into the dirt, imagining this was the last inning of the biggest game of my life.

"Old-timer?" Dad asked, like he hadn't heard me right.

"That's what I said." I tugged on my ear and pointed to Dad. "Maybe you should adjust that hearing aid."

Dad gripped all three baseballs in his right hand and held them out for me to see. "You know what these are?" he asked.

"What?"

"Strike one, strike two, and strike three."

I shook my head and smiled. "No way, old man."

He stepped back onto the mound. "First pitch," he said, bending forward to start his windup.

"Just make sure it comes with mustard."

Dad smiled. "Order up." He leaned back, then stepped into a breaking ball that curved to the outside corner as it crossed the plate.

I saw the movement on the ball, but swung too late to catch up.

Strike one.

I slid my hands back down the barrel and pointed at Dad. "Another one," I said.

Dad nodded.

Same pitch. This time, I swung earlier but got underneath it, fouling it behind me.

Strike two.

"Time," I sa...