Father, a lithe figure, who moved with athletic grace and power, son a slender eleven-year-old, brimming with excitement at the opportunity to show his father how well he could catch a baseball.
"Keep your eye on the ball and place the mitt up to catch it," instructed Pa, who then threw a slow ball.
Ron cheered, "I caught it! I caught it!"
"Good," said his father smiling with approval, "Now throw it back to me and get ready for the next one."
Ron threw the baseball back to his father and Pa pitched another slow ball. Ron dropped it but caught the one after. Soon he was catching most of the balls that came his way.
"Alright, now I am going to throw a little harder, a little faster," warned Pa.
"OK, Pa."
As the afternoon progressed, the father began pitching hard, fast balls.
Soon Ron's hand was smarting from the impact of the ball as it hit the glove. Each time he caught a ball he winced.
"Does it hurt, Ron?" Pa asked.
"No, Pa," the boy replied, tossing the ball back at his father.
Soon it was time to go home and by then Ron's hand was tender and bruised.
"Well done, son, I am proud of you," smiled Pa.
Ron's heart filled with happiness at his father's words.
This afternoon would remain in his memory as a special day, a day where he and his father did something together, just the two of them. A day where his father told him he was proud of him.
Such days were indeed rare, for there was a war going on and with nine mouths to feed, Pa did not have the time nor the disposition to play with his seven children. Survival was foremost on his mind.
When Ron became a father, he honoured that memory by taking time to teach his children how to swim, how to play table-tennis, how to kick a soccer ball.
After all, this is what fathers the world over do, play with their children. From one generation to the next.
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