One time while dropping off my daughter at elementary school, I stood and watched an impromptu game of kick ball that some of the kids had started. I was standing in the outfield, along with a bunch of parents and teachers. The kids were taking their kicks quickly so they could beat the morning bell.
One of them kicked the ball flush and it shot into the air. The players instinctively looked up to watch the ball. Parents were chattering among themselves and smaller kids where yelling in the playground but for these older kids, the game was their sole focus.
The ball began its descent and I was directly under it. In a flash, I recalled my own outfield heroics and miscues. I remembered catching a monster fly ball off of one of the better athletes in grade school, but I also recalled botched and misjudged fly balls during my college years playing softball.
I measured the ball in the sky, and shifted a few steps. I raised both my hands and watched the ball come in. When it arrived, I drew it into my chest to secure the catch. The sound returned to the playground. "Here! Here!" I saw a kid waving his hands for ball, and I tossed it to him.
"Out!" he yelled.
I turned around and went to work with a smile on my face.